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bishopgirl98 · 2 years

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Home Again

Pairing: Dani Miranda x FemReader; Y/N is also goes by Love, a personal nickname for her and Dani only.

Summary: Welcoming Dani home from her mission with Six

Warning: Spoilers for the movie, The Gray Man. Some nudity, kinda smutty, but more so suggestive.

Length: Long as hell, sorry, kinda ;)

A/N: This will be my first MINORS DNI Warning. From here on out, ages need to be in your bios to prevent any blocking from my page. There will be a deadline posted later this week, from the date of that post you will have 7 days to add your age to your bio. More on this in a separate post.

You sat at the kitchen counter of your flat in London. Fingers skating across your keyboard as you read over some documents from work, sipping from your mug, when you heard the lock turning.

Jumping up off of the stool, you knew it could only be one person.

You go to meet her as the door opens, and find her with scars on her face. Still in her tactical gear.

“Dani-” you whimpered. She walked in, closed the door, and hugged you.

“I’m sorry to drop by like-” she gestured at herself, “Like this, I had to see you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and took her hands in yours, “Wh-what happened?”

“It’s a long story, Love,” she said, cupping your face. “Like I said, I just needed to see you after everything that happened.”

You stared into her eyes, as her thumbs began to rub your cheeks. You could smell the gunpowder on her and feel the callouses on her thumbs from the night she had. You laid your hands on top of hers, gently removing them, “Let’s get you into the bath, okay?”

Then she smiled for the first time since walking into your flat. You held her hand as you led her to your bathroom.

There you filled up the tub with bubble bath and epsom salt, leaving Dani to decide how warm she wanted the water to be. While you went through your clothes, finding clothes for Dani and yourself.

“Y/n,” she called. “Will you come join me?” Even after two years, you could still feel heat rush to your cheeks when she asked you.

You scooped up the clothes and walked into the bathroom. Dropping the clothes on the counter, you looked at Dani in the corner. She had stripped down to her bra and underwear. Folding her clothes into a neat pile to deal with later.

You turned to the cabinet, and crouched down to take out anything Dani could need so you could patch her up.

You felt her fingertips push past your layers of clothing to touch your hips, as you continued to lay everything out. “Love, let’s get these off of you.” You followed her hand as she turned you around, gently shrugging off your cardigan, her eyes never leaving yours.

You went to pull your shirt off, she gently moved your hand, doing so for you. Shirt in hand, she cupped your cheek as her eyes flitted over your chest. Your cheeks heated up again. “Don’t be shy, Love. I’ve been gone so long, I’ve almost forgotten how pretty you are. M-may I?”

You knew what she was asking and wordlessly, you nodded. You missed her, and the fact that she missed you made you fall for her again.

She leaned in, and started kissing your neck, causing you to let out a whimper. “Mmm, Love, ” she hummed. “Missed you so much. I’ll take my time later, promise.”

As she kept kissing your neck, her hands made their way to your shorts. Unbuttoning them, she pushed them down your legs taking your underwear with them. You slid off your slippers, and stepped out of the pile of clothes.

Your head rolled back, as Dani’s movements became more wanting. “Dani, let’s clean you up.”

Her lips smacked as she planted one last kiss to your neck. Taking the hair tie off your wrist, you cupped Dani’s rosy cheeks, before reaching back and pulling her hair into a ponytail leaving her bangs out.

Staring at her face, you couldn’t stop your fingers from brushing over the bruises and marks on her face. Being as gentle as possible, to prevent any more pain. “Do they hurt?”

“A little, they were worse earlier.”

“What happened?”

“I got caught up in helping - a friend.”

“Let’s get in and you can tell me more,” you said. She nodded, letting you reach behind her and unclasp her bra as she wrapped her arms around your neck, staring at you as you finished undressing her.

“You’re staring again,” you said as you pushed her underwear down.

“Like I said, I almost forgot how pretty you were. I don’t want to make that mistake again, Love.”

“Alright, in you go,” you said lightly patting her bottom. She smirked and followed your instructions.

You stepped into the tub behind, the water was still very warm. Dani, can practically read your mind. “I made it boiling hot. We’ve never been able to get in and out of a bath on time.” You let out a laugh. She was right, you could only count the number of times you had taken too long getting undressed in the past just for the water to be cold as ice when trying to get in.

“How are you feeling, Hun?”

She hummed, “Good, thank you for this.”

“Let me know if the soap stings.” You took the washcloth adding soap and started to wash her back. She leaned forward, hugging her legs to her chest. You spent minutes on her back. Getting any dried blood off of her and checking for bruises to treat once she was dried off. You passed the washcloth to her, and she unwrapped herself cleaning the rest of her body while you cleaned yours. “Let me know when you’re ready to stand up.”

After some time she responds, “Will you help me up, Love?” Wordlessly, you hoist both of your bodies up, letting the water out of the tub and switching on the shower. You’re holding her under the shower head, watching as the water cascades over her. You reach behind her and grab the shampoo.

“Step towards me, Dani.” She does, her eyes still closed. You turned her around and massaged her hair with the shampoo. The dirt and sweat falling to the tub as you rinsed the day before away.

After shampooing and conditioning her hair, you moved both your bodies under the running water. Finally rinsing yourself off. When you were both clean, you led her out of the shower and wrapped her body in a towel. She jumped on the counter and watched as you wrapped yourself up.

“Love?” You looked at her, and raised an eyebrow silently urging her to go on. “Which one is mine?”

“The stack with the black sweatpants. But, please, let’s put some ointment and icy/hot on you first.”

She laughed, “Okay, Love.” Grabbing the ointment, you walked over to her and stood between her legs. Dani brought her fingers to your face, letting them skate across your features as you patched her up.

When you get to her nose, she flinches a little. “Did I--”

“No, no you’re fine. It hurts from earlier.”

“Please, stop me if that happens again.” She looked as worry crossed your face.

“I will, promise.” You kept working, being as gentle as you could.

“Hun, I need to put some stuff on your back and we’ll be done.”

She jumped off the counter, and dropped the towel. Dani had always been proud of her body, and when it came to your relationship she was never afraid to flaunt it in front of you.

She slightly turned her head, looking back at you, “Now who’s staring, Love?”

“I’m no better than the men you work with.”

She scoffed, “You’re ten times better actually. You see me for more than my body.”

“How could anyone not?” You asked.

“I love that.” You hummed as you rubbed the ointment in. “You don’t think like I do. Most men in my field would hate that, but it’s nice. You're my innocent girl. My innocent, caring, pretty girl.”

You blushed and cleared your throat. “I’m all done here. Are you hungry?” She nodded. “I’ll go make you something.” You kissed her shoulder and moved to dress yourself. “The blow dryer is in the cabinet. Just come to the kitchen when you’re done.”

“Love?” You stopped as you clasped your bra on. “I meant what I said. You're all those things to me.”

You smiled, “I know. I love you, Dani.” You felt her eyes on your chest again. “Dani,” you started to scold her.

She laughed, “Well now, I’m looking just because. Besides, you know I love your tits.” You laughed, you knew a little too well actually.

“I’m going to go cook now.” With that you threw your shirt on, grabbed the dirty laundry, and left Dani to finish getting ready.

You knew of Dani’s line of work, but she never told you explicit details. “The less you know, the better.” That was her motto when it came to you. It was rare that she ever came to you like this. She never wanted you to worry about her, especially when she was on a mission.

You instinctively went into the kitchen and made her a meal you only made on special occasions. She only liked to eat it at your place, because according to her, only you made them right. Warm ham and cheese sandwiches with a side of barley soup.

Thankfully, you made a batch of barley soup yesterday. It was fresh enough to reheat, so you put the leftovers in a pot to warm up properly and heated a skillet to grill the sandwich bread in.

Pieces of butter were melting in the skillet as Dani came out of the bathroom. She moved past you letting her hand linger on your lower back as she grabbed cups and silverware to set up in the living room, leaving two plates and bowls down for you to plate the food.

As you filled the bowls, you heard Dani flicking from channel to channel before settling on “The Nanny”. Grabbing the food, you joined her on the velvet couch. Watching silently as she dug into her food. Her head falling back at the taste of your barley soup. She hummed, “I missed this so much.” You smiled into your bowl as you tucked your legs beneath you and lost yourself in the show and Dani’s quiet company.

It was strange to have her back after so long. The last time you saw her was almost four weeks ago. She stopped by in-between missions to celebrate your birthday. You had her for forty-eight hours all to yourself. She set out to do everything you wanted for your birthday.

You guys had breakfast at a cafe you fell in love with. Curled up under a tree together while you read to her in the park. And that night you were sprawled out under her.

She had rolled off of you and you held each other through the night. Until you woke up and found flowers and a note. Promising her return and to spend more time with you.

It was bittersweet knowing she would most likely be gone in a day’s time. But you pushed those thoughts back as you admired her. Even bruised and beaten, Dani was still stunning and was able to rattle your cage of butterflies.

When the food was gone, Dani was sprawled out over your lap. Holding you down to the couch under her body. Her bruised beautiful face nuzzled against your stomach.

"Dani?" She hummed. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

She looked up at you and moved to straddle your thighs, "Depends, what do you want to know?"

"How bad was it?" You had seen the news, everyone had. Prague on fire was pretty hard to miss after all.

"I have a meeting with some higher-ups, Carmichael, and Brewer. Not sure when, but I'll have to head off to Berlin Station for the meeting, and hope for the best." Her career meant everything to her. She had given up a lot for the agency and now it was hanging in the balance.

Your hands found her hips and rubbed tiny circles there. "They'll give you a heads up?"

"Maybe."

"Will you be back?" She hesitated. Shit.

"Y/n, I have a home and you do too."

"I know that but-" She kisses you to cut you off. Her soft lips molding against yours, gradually throwing you off track.

She leaned back, "Good, now let me finish. How would you like to move to Berlin?"

You tapped her hip, and she continued, "I want to be closer to you in case anything happens. Here, we have a twelve hour distance between us. I figured it'd be better to ask you to move closer than if I could move in." She confessed.

You were awe struck by her. The proposition of moving or even her moving in could only mean a few things. You swallowed and asked, "Where is this all coming from?"

"I come back at all times of the day, when you least expect it and you never fuss or complain. You just take care of me, and we've been doing this back and forth thing for a few years now."

"Wouldn't I just be a distraction?" You asked. She shook her head no.

"I love my job, but you've been my home for so long now that I love you more. You don't have to give me an answer today. Just think about it and we'll go from there." You nodded your head and she took your face in your hands, titling your head back as she placed her lips on yours. Kissing you roughly, she bit your lip to coax your mouth open and you let her lead. Letting out a whimper as she gripped the hair on the back of your neck.

"Now, Love, I hate to break it to you, but we got dressed for no good reason."

#dani miranda x reader #the gray man fanfiction #bishopgirl98 #the gray man #ana de armas #claire fitzroy #sierra six #denny carmichael #suzanne brewer #llyod hansen #donald fitzroy #court gentry #dani miranda #dani miranda x you

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bishopgirl98 · 2 years

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Veronica Mars Master List

Logan Echolls

Meeting Logan (TBD)

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bishopgirl98 · 2 years

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Love Bug

Summary: Follow up to "A Series of Gentle Touches". More details about how this version of the reader met the duo and where they are now.

Pairing: Sierra Six/Court Gentry x F!Reader

Rating: General. Mainly fluff, shirtless Six, and a flustered reader. Honestly, fluff fest, courtesy of yours truly

A/N: I appreciate all the love for "A Series of Gentle Touches"! it has lit a fire for me to keep going and write more in general. As an important note, this won't be on my master list. I am developing a new, cleaner master list that isn't one long post. So, please bear with me on that as I am back in school full time.

Btw, this song plays a part of the story, I feel like listening to it adds on. And if you have not listened to this album, I highly recommend it :)

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Rain begins to clatter against the window, when you find yourself lost in thought. The last time you interacted with Six was almost two months ago. Between you teaching again and Claire getting into a routine, your time with them slipped away as October began. You stand at the sink, washing the dishes as your mind begins to linger on the past few months.

When you first met Claire and Six, you stumbled upon them. They were moving in during the night time, but they were so quiet anyone would’ve missed them. You happened to be restless that night, so, you threw on a matching sweatsuit and grabbed your wallet and keys. Hoping to get a midnight snack to ease your mind.

You locked it from the inside and when you stepped outside your door a roll of film came to a stop at your feet. You had crouched down to pick it up, and when you looked up, he was there. Bent over in front of you with a cap on his head, clad in a tracksuit, and beautiful blue eyes staring into your own. “Sorry,” he muttered and he extended his hand to help you up. You took it and the second you were back on your feet he made some distance between you two.

“No worries, I’m y/n, by the way.” You said, offering a smile. He hummed and nodded his head. He parted his lips to speak, when she came out.

“Six, have you seen…” her voice trailed off as she looked at you and smiled. “Oh, hi.” You smiled shyly and waved to the young girl.

He cleared his throat, “Sorry for interrupting your night, y/n. We were trying not to disturb anyone.” He turned and looked at the young girl who scrunched her nose at him forcing a giggle from you. She’s pretty funny.

“No problem,” you said. “I’m heading out, but I’ll see you around.” You waved to the pair and the girl waved back and he gave you a curt nod while you waited for the elevator. You could hear a light pair of footsteps shuffle back inside. But you were nailed to the spot, while he watched you. Clearly waiting for you to leave before heading into the apartment. The elevator beeped and you rushed inside. You leaned back against the wall and exhaled a bit as questions ran through your mind. Who is the girl? She seems nice. Much nicer than the man she's with. And his name is …Six? You shook your head and hurried to make your trip as quick as possible.

Then three days later you would need help making it to the elevator. You piled up all your groceries into reusable bags, thinking you’d be able to get everything in one go. You almost didn’t. You were balancing them, catching a bag of potatoes before they could tumble, but you weren’t fast enough to catch the apples. You expected them to slam to the ground, but the sound never rang out. “Need help?”

You peered over one of the bags, Six. You chuckled slightly, “I need more help than I thought I did, huh?” He gestured towards one of the bags, and you released your grip as he took the bag from you.

He looked down at the young girl, “Claire, can you get the elevator?”

“On it,” she said, striding over to the elevator. You followed the pair and waited for the elevator to arrive. The girl looked up and smiled at you, “I’m Claire by the way.”

You smiled back and replied, “Y/n, how are you two liking it so far?”

The elevator beeped and you all piled inside, “It’s nice, but we don’t know much about the town.” She paused, pressing the button for the fourth floor, before turning back to you, “Do you know where we could find a record store?” You beamed at her excitement, and chatted the rest of the ride up about her favorite records. While he listened, only humming or nodding in response to Claire’s comments.

Once on your floor, they follow you to your door, waiting until you open your door. Once your things were settled, you turned to them. “Thanks for your help, and the company on the way up.”

Noticing how little time was left Claire blurted out, “Would you want to go to that thrift store you mentioned?” She looked up at Six, who was silently processing the question.

He looked between you two, he strengthened himself out, resting his hands on top of each other “We still have some things to figure out, can we raincheck?” he asked. You nodded.

“Absolutely, take care,” you said.

Then you think back to that last time on your couch. He was … gentle. Kind. He would smile at something you did, when he thought you weren't looking. He took care of you when you were sick and … And now this. Radio silence. You shake your head. I’m overthinking this. They're still getting their bearings. I’m working again. And, I know little about their lives before me.

Three knocks bring you out of your thoughts, then you hear, "Y/n, it's me, open up." Smiling, you drop your dish rag and hurry to the door. When you open it Claire is standing outside with books in hand and gazing up at you. "Hey, can you help me with some homework?"

"Of course, come in," you say, stepping aside to allow her in. Smiling, Claire comes in and sets down at your kitchen table.

While unloading her books she asks, “How’s teaching going?”

“Pretty good. My kids are good so far, but their seventh graders. Much like yourself, but most likely you’re more focused.” You say and quick an eyebrow before asking, “Well, you are right?”

She laughs, before responding, “Well, I’ve got a homeschool teacher and she says I’m doing alright. But I’m doing lessons on my own today.” On her own?

“Why?”

“Six is sick. Doesn’t want me or her to get whatever he’s got. We talked on the phone, went over what I should study for next time.” She’s taking her notebook out and you join her at the table.

“What do you have to do?” Looking over the papers, The Outsiders and The Westing Game. “Ah, this is a great selection. I’m teaching The Westing Game soon.”

Claire perks up, “Ms. Ashlee did say I could pick which one we do first.” Her eyes light up as she says, “You could test run the book with me.”

You pretend to think about it for a moment, before smirking and saying, “Why not.” You sit down and gesture for her to join you. You both read through the first two chapters when you start talking, it is clear Claire is more than interested.

Her face lights up as you guys start talking, “Okay, so, can we agree that Turtle is the best character in the book?” Gee, I wonder why?

Six doesn’t get sick. His body is his temple. Was his job. His way of survival and how he protects Claire. Until now anyway. He lets out a deep groan as he rolls over to check his phone.

Claire: I’m at Y/n’s. She’s helping me with my homework. We’ll come check on you soon :)

At least she’s safe and happy, he thought. And it doesn’t hurt that she’s with Y/n.

He’s filled with unfamiliar sensations that he hadn’t experienced since he was a child. It started out of nowhere three nights ago. He had a headache, but he assumed it was because he hadn’t slept for the past few days. By this morning, he became nauseous. So, not only was he worse, but he was at a loss as to how this happened.

It can’t be -- No that’s silly. There’s no way I can get anything done like this.

Claire needs to be protected, around the clock. He has to be on his toes, and yet, he was more off his game than ever. Without a second thought, he slowly rises from the bed and picks up his phone again. And called Doctor Fetzer to make a house visit. He had been helpful in checking up on Claire.

About thirty minutes later, three knocks get Six out of bed. He grunts with each heavy step towards the door before looking through the peephole. He opens the door and invites Fetzer in, “Hi, Doc.”

He nods before entering, “Hi, Mr. Foster, so, what seems to be the problem?” He follows Six into the living room, setting his bag on the coffee table.

He sighs, taking a seat on the brown couch. “Well, it started with a headache, then some loss of sleep. And now I'm nauseated. But I haven’t had any issues like this before, I don’t usually get sick.”

The doctor nods and takes out a stethoscope and thermometer. “Can you lean forward for me?” Six listens, scooting forward on the couch. “Breathe in and out slowly for me.” A moment passes, before he speaks again. “Everything seems normal here, but let’s check your temp and examine your throat for any illness.”

After about five minutes, Dr. Fetzer sits down on the couch beside Six. “So, nothing physical seems to be wrong with you. While most would associate your symptoms with a cold or another common sickness, I think that this may be more mental or emotional.” Six raises an eyebrow at that response.

Mental? Emotional? No it can’t be.

Dr. Fetzer looks down at his hands before asking, “Is there anything new? Or someone new?”

He lets his guard down, “What are you saying?”

“What’s happening could be stress, mental exhaustion, maybe even,” he pauses, choosing his words wisely. “Longing for someone or something. Either way, you need to resolve the issue. While nothing physical is wrong, the mental and emotional are just as important.”

Six nods, before standing up, “I’ll take your advice, Doc. Thanks for coming to see me.”

He stands up and shakes Six’s hand, “Take care and do call me to set up Claire’s next check in.”

“Of course, take care.” With that the Doctor leaves and Six is left with his thoughts. Head pulsing, stomach clenching as he settles back on the couch. He takes out his phone and calls Claire. She picks up on the second ring.

Her voice chirps through the phone, “Hey, feeling better?”

“A little, how’s the homework going?”

She hums, “Good, Y/n and I got a head start on one of my books for next week. Quick question, when can I come back? I know you’re not feeling well and I couldn’t turn down a game of Mario Kart with Y/n.”

His stomach clenches again and he lets out a quiet groan. Leaning forward he says, “Give me an hour. I’d rather not be -- well, as sick as I am when you come back.”

She’s silent for a moment longer before asking, “You sure you okay?”

He sighs as a smirk pulls at his lips, “Just another Thursday, Kid. Remember, one hour. Oh, Claire?”

She hums again.

“Tell Y/n I said thank you.”

She laughs and Six can tell that her signature smirk is on now, “Will do.” She hangs up and Six slumps back on the couch. The Doctor said to resolve this, so he had to think.

He and Claire have been laying low, but no signs of danger so far. Sure it had him weary, but Claire was safe and healthy. She was going to ease into the idea of going to public school, so long as they were safe.

They lost Fitz. They were healing -- together. Trying to find their footing in this new city. But, Y/n was of huge help. She had provided comfort to Claire, and admittedly, himself too. One neither of them were familiar with. Sure, Claire had a live-in nanny when she lived in Hong Kong, but she was more like a friend and caretaker than motherly to Claire.

Because of you she had a friend that wasn’t him and could get her excited about life, in general. For Six, well she- and that’s when the nausea hit again. Shit.

Six gets up, and against the will of his body, rushes to the bathroom. Groaning, he shrugs off his shirt, tossing it into his room as he goes to his personal bathroom. Stumbling over his own feet, he manages to get to the toilet and flip up the lid.

He silently heaves over the toilet. That was a reaction.

A telling reaction in the fact that. The pieces are falling into place as to what the doctor had mentioned earlier. Six has changed too, not just with Claire, but on his own. He was, as the doctor put it, longing for someone.

She had been a huge help. Not just with Claire, but with Six. He felt more human, normal almost. Especially that night you had been sick. It was natural in the way that he felt he had known you for a thousand years. His hand skimming over your forehead. The amount of tension his body held whenever you passed by him. Or how that left corner of his mouth would twitch up into a genuine, beautiful smile that’d reach his eyes, when you and Claire would dance to records in your living room before she had to go to bed.

But that night. He had given in to those feelings. Nurturing you, the way he hadn’t been taught or experienced. Like it was the air he breathed. Taking comfort in helping you, holding you during movies. The contrast of your soft skin compared to his marred skin and calloused hands. He is enamored by you so much that he’s been driven to sickness as a bodily response.

He lets out a deep sigh and slumps against the wall. Pushing his hair back, for the first time in his life, free to feel confused about his own feelings. What now?

“Oh no, you look worse than when I left you.” His eyes shot up at Claire in shock, to see her face painted with worry over him. Has it been an hour already?

He rubs his eyes, trying his best to focus, “Aren’t you supposed to be at Y/n’s?”

She slightly grits her teeth and that when he knows. Before he can have time to react you are walking into the bathroom. “Is everything -- oh sorry.” You cover your eyes and step back. Confused, Six looks at Claire. Who is pointing to chest and mouthing, “Shirt.”

Six clears his throat and turns his attention to Claire, “Hey, why don’t you go order some pizza for dinner tonight?”

Claire smiles at that, “Do you need anything else?”

He notices her smile and responds, “A moment, with Y/n, alone.” Claire is still sporting her smile as she walks out of Six’s room without so much as a glance towards Y/n. Who has her eyes covered to give Six some -- privacy. He smirks at this kink in her armor. She can teach young kids all day, but can’t handle him being shirtless. He sits up, quickly, and holds his head. But, it doesn’t.

Still shirtless, Six gets up and walks past you to his dresser. Where he can feel your eyes scanning over his back. No doubt noticing the scars there. “They don’t hurt. They're old and healed.”

Your voice is soft as you finally speak up, “You feeling better?.”

He hums in response, “Much better.” Now that you’re here. “Thank you for taking Claire earlier.” He grabs a gray shirt and shrugs it on. He’s about to turn back to you when he sputters out, “Stay for dinner?”

Your mouth hangs open for a moment and you turn to face him. Relief floods your body at him wearing a shirt, you clamp your mouth shut and push a strand of hair back. “Yeah, I’d like that. Thanks.” He nods, and for a moment, you think you notice the corner of his mouth twitch up. No, stop that.

“Claire says you two got a lot done, will you show me while we wait?” he asks. You knew he was heavily involved in Claire’s progress, but not enough to ask.

“Of course, we put everything at the table when we came in.”

He gestures towards the door with his sun painted hand, “Lead the way.”

All you can muster up is a meek okay, before walking past Six, his hand ghosting the lower half of your back, but never fully touching you. The feeling of his eyes raking over you making your cheeks tingle.

When you enter the kitchen you hear a quick shuffling sound and notice Claire on the couch. Body leaned over the arm on the opposite side of the couch, her face hidden from you and Six. The sound of a chair moving across the floor brings you back to him. His broad frame is settled behind a chair waiting for you to sit down. Your footsteps are quiet as you pad over to the wooden table. “Thank you.” Wordlessly, he pushes your chair in, and takes the seat beside you.

You flip open Claire’s notebook and your copy of The Westing Game. “So, we talked about the mystery genre, worked on the first three chapters, and started clue gathering.”

He smiles at that last bit, so much that it reaches his eyes. And for once, he’s the one asking questions. For the next forty minutes you fill Six in on the wonders of The Westing Game and, well, fuck. He is completely entranced by everything you’re saying. He leans in every few minutes, closer, and closer to you. Being less glib, holding his side of the conversation, engaging with the text. And that sun painted hand, just maneuvers across the table each time you get ready to turn the page, always just grazing your fingers, never touching.

You’re both resting on your forearms, turned towards each other, as you talk about some of the character’s. He sighs, “Grace, ugh where do I start?” You let out a chuckle, and wave a hand for him to continue. “I have worked for some miserable people, Y/n.”

You lean in, a twinkle in your eye, “Please, count the ways.” He cocks an eyebrow up at that, but the knock on the door pulls him away. He grunts slightly, and pats your hand as he gets up to answer the door.

Claire is on the couch reading her copy of the book. Glancing over at you and Six. Smiling every so often at the closeness and the happiness on Six’s face. It was the first time she saw anything like it on him. Normally, he would keep someone like Y/n at a distance, but he was different. Maybe -- She smiles, he’s got the love bug.

“Claire, Y/n, pizza’s here.” Six calls. Claire sticks her bookmark in and hurries to make her plate. “What’s the rush, Claire?”

“I want to finish this book, and I don’t see myself doing so out here,” she explains in a taunting tone. You gasp and turn to the girl.

“Are you saying we’re disruptive?”

There’s a glimmer in her eye as she says, “In fact, I am.”

Six scoffs at that. “Says the girl with the record player.”

“Calm down, gum chewer, and don’t pretend you don’t hum along every now and then.”

You hum, “Please tell me more.”

Claire laughs, “He won’t say it, but I’m certain he loves Imagine Dragons. Alright, I’m in my room.” She tucks her book under her arm and takes the plate and glass of water to her room.

You turn to Six and laugh, “The nerve of that one.”

He playfully rolls his eyes, “Unbelievable that kid. I was going to cut on a film and eat. Do you want to join me?”

Maybe- “I’d like that, what movie?” His mouth twitches again. Did I see that right?

He hums for a moment, thinking while making you a plate. “I don’t really have any ideas. I uh- I didn’t grow up watching many films. Any ideas?”

“How do you feel about classic films?” You turn your body towards him as he fills up your favorite mug with water. The water lily mug. Claire insisted on keeping for when you watched over her at their place. He remembered? It was a beautiful blue, with a light green curved handle. Inside was a water lily in the center of the mug.

“Are there any with Bogart?” he questions as he walks to the living room balancing the two mugs and singular plate.

You join him on the small couch, sparing him some space. You think you know what’s going on, but it’d be easier to let him fill in the gaps. Picking up the remote, you flip through the guide for TCM and find one. “You’re in luck. “The Big Sleep” is about to come on.” Grinning, you turn to him, “So, why Bogart?”

He picks up his mug, shrugging his shoulders slightly, “I relate to him, his characters anyway.”

You pick up your mug and adjust so you’re facing him, “How so?”

He chuckles a bit, “I’m a bit of a fixer. All his characters seem to help others before they help themselves.”

You try to give him a small smile, “Even in life, love?”

He nods his head, “Even then.”

“It’s a good thing you have Claie then, even Bogart wasn’t lucky enough to have a plucky sidekick.”

He chuckles and nods, “You got me there. What about you?”

“I can’t relate to Lauren’s character at all. I mean, I have my kids at school and they make me want to come in for work everyday. I live away from my family. My mom is a single parent, and my sister is in college. I have no kids of my own.” And no one to come home to. “But I’m not half as feisty as this character is.” You chuckle out.

The tv rings out with the opening theme of the movie, causing you and Six to adjust your attention. Once the film gets going, you dig into the lukewarm pizza until it’s gone, slowly burrowing yourself further into the couch.

As the movie goes on, you cast small glances over at Six. He’s moved a bit closer since the movie started. He seems better than when you first came over. You nudge him, and he hums, shifting his eyes between you and the screen. You whisper, “Are you feeling better?’

“Much, thanks for asking.” He looks at you and winks. You simply nod your head and let out a little cough as you turn back to the movie. He didn’t hear the squeak you almost let out at that and rub your arms. Get it together, Y/n. It’s just him. “Are you cold?” Not wanting to make him notice your reaction, you nod. Wordlessly, he walks over to the kitchen with your dishes from earlier.

A moment later, he’s back to you with a soft knit sweater, holding it out to you. It’s army green, with multicolored boxes, and smells of , well, you can’t put your finger on it at first.

“Thanks,” you mumble. He sits back down, closer this time making the previous gap nonexistent as he knee sways back and forth towards your own. You’re watching the movie - fuk it. Spontaneously, you snuggle your head in his shoulder, just like you did months ago. He slightly flinches and stops swaying his knee at the sudden action. Slowly, he resumes swaying his knee, and rests his hand on yours as you lean into him. He tilts his head up, the scruff of his bread lightly brushing your hair as he allows you to bury yourself deeper into his touch.

The swirling in your stomach from all that time ago returns in full force. Almost affirming that night. Almost. The man is so glib that having him verbally confirm something would be more than helpful. But, right now, you guys are in the final scenes of the movie. And watching Bacall and Bogart sends a lightness through your chest that can only be described as a sense of longing for something like love.

While the credits roll, you stay tucked in the crook of Six’s neck. And for a few moments, you can feel his eyes flick between you and the screen. And he lets out a low hum, as if to communicate how content he is in this moment and maybe he’ll find the words, but first -- “Thanks for this, Y/n.”

You move your head to look at him, “Of course, you’re not feeling sick though?”

He shakes his head, knocking a few strands of dirty blonde hair loose, “No.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what was wrong?”

He grunts, “I uh, hadn’t been eating or sleeping. Caused some nausea and headaches on my part, but really, I’m better.”

You chuckle. “Of course, I mean it could be worse. You could have been love sick,” you joke. He nods his head, and the wheels seem to be turning. “We didn’t make much of a mess this time, but I have to do the dishes.” You lean forward to let him move.

“You wash, I’ll dry?” You offer. He nods his head and leads the way back to the kitchen. You push up the long sleeves of the sweater, putting away the previous dishes from earlier in the day. You both work in silence. The sound of the water filling the sink and the light clatter of dishes filling the room as you think. Does he feel what I feel? And -- more importantly -- was he love sick? Was that even possible for someone like him?

You didn’t know, but it was and it was so much more than you thought or knew for that fact. The sound of light piano sounds and dull voice slowly stream out from the back of the apartment. Claire’s playing her records again. You grin, thankful for a little music to your evening. You join Six at the sink, and start rinsing the dishes. Taking them from his painted, calloused hands into your own.

As you're drying the dishes, your elbows slightly brushing Six’s, you hear Claire’s record player as it begins growing in volume, the lead voice and backing vocals becoming clearer. And in a moment, he’s humming along with the song. He doesn’t break his stride, it’s clearly a favorite. A smile rises upon your face as you watch him, suddenly he looks at you as he hums. And he smiles for the first time, while holding eye contact. You smile back, biting your lip as you break eye contact. The words become clearer.

So take my word, I promise you, I’ll come through

The humming has stopped, Six puts his hand on your shoulder. Turning you towards him, his hands out, hand open for yours. You push the sleeves of the sweater back down and take his hands. He wraps his arms around you and starts humming again as the song picks up and sways you with him in a tiny circle.

Do, pray, tell. Of beauty that inspires you. It’s something of a miracle, when you do what you do. Give me faith again. I’ll follow you blindly. Pray you don;t deceive me.

You take a deep breath and close the gap between you as the song intensifies with meaning. Bringing you and Six closer in this moment, burrowing your way into his arms as his hands grip you tighter.

I promise you, I’ll come through. I’m your continual truth.

Six reaches down, and gently pulls you from the comfort of his chest. His eyes searching your own as you look at him. He brings one his hands up to cup your face, running a thumb across your cheek as his bright blue orbs flick between your eyes and your lips. "May I?"

You push up on your toes to meet him halfway as his hand cradles your face. His lips leading yours in a slow rhythm, that could knock you off your feet. You move your hands to wrap around his neck, when he breaks the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. "Dove, I've been sick about you.”

As usual, let me know what you think. And any feedback is helpful, especially with dividers and how some stuff comes off.

Another reminder, my master list, will be deleted in the next week or so. There will be a new one. If you saved it, I may tag you in a new post letting you know that the new one is up. But only those who have it saved as of today (9/19/22). Also, my tag list is still open, the link is in my bio :)

Tag List: @bval-1 @danielle143 @uwiuwi

#sierra six imagine #sierra six x reader #court gentry x reader #court gentry imagine #the gray man fanfiction #court gentry #bishopgirl98 #sierra six #sierra six x you #the gray man #claire fitzroy #sierra six x y/n #courtland gentry #court gentry x female reader #court gentry x y/n #court gentry x you #sierra six x female reader

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bishopgirl98 · 2 years

Text

The Gray Man Master List

Sierra Six

Headcanons

A Series of Gentle Touches Part One Part Two

Imagines

Love Bug (9/19/22 🤗)

Series

Afterglow

Sneak Peek (Full Version Coming Soon) September 1995

Blurbs

Sunday Crossword (TBD)

First Time (TBD)

Dani Miranda

Blurbs

Basic Training (TBD)

Touch (TBD)

Home Again (9/23/22)

#sierra six x reader #sierra six imagine #court gentry imagine #court gentry x reader #the gray man fanfiction #sierra six x you #claire fitzroy #bishopgirl98

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bishopgirl98 · 2 years

Text

Knives Out Master List

Ransom Drysdale

Marta Cabrera (COMING SOON)

Detective Benoit Blanc (COMING SOON)

#knives out fanfiction #ransom drysdale x reader #detective benoit blanc x reader #marta cabrera x reader #bishopgirl98

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bishopgirl98 · 2 years

Text

Ransom Drysdale

Deadly Association Series

Part One Part Two

Ransom and Robbins

The Meeting (Prequel) TBD

#ransom drysdale x reader #knives out fanfiction #ransom thrombey imagine #ransom thrombey x reader #ransom drysdale

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bishopgirl98 · 2 years

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Quick PSA

As a heads up, my master list, will be deleted in the next week or so. the one I have now is helpful, but it's messy, I don't like it.

So, there will be a new one. If you saved it, I may tag you in a new post letting you know that the new one is up. But only those who have it saved as of 9/18/22 Also, my tag list is still open :)

P.S, there will be new HCs and Drabbles to introduce new characters. And a full length Sierra Six Imagine following the events of "A Series of Gentle Touches", real soon, and day now really.

Later,

#sierra six x reader #court gentry x reader #peeta mellark x reader #logan echolls x reader #holland march x reader #marta cabrera x reader #dani miranda x reader #kate bishop x reader

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bishopgirl98 · 2 years

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I couldn't not spread the wealth

to my court gentry lovers… YALL I FOUND WHAT WE’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR

just 15 seconds of six grunting 🫣

#court gentry #sierra six #courtland gentry #the gray man #started hearing six’s grunts out of nowhere

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bishopgirl98 · 2 years

Text

Full disclosure. I will be looking for a sweater similar to this for Fall. There's something about having a piece of clothing connected to a comfort film/show that just lifts my mood. But if anyone has any recs drop them 👀👀

The Gray Man (2022): “Good news is he missed the liver and the kidney.”

#sierra six #the gray man

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bishopgirl98 · 2 years

Text

This prequel is everything to me right now, I've revisited it so many times over the last few days. Definitely recommend this one💖

Streetwise Hercules - Sierra Six x F!Reader

Sierra Six is paid to safeguard you. Too bad he's bossy and sarcastic and hot as shit.

This was supposed to be a 3k blurb and it is ... not. I'm so sorry lmao. I love this man and I want to hold him and never shut up about him.

This is a prequel, but - like Part I - I think you can read it alone. I think it's best to read Parts I and II first since I wrote this last lol.

Shoutout to @crownofdecit for hyping me up 🥹

TAGS: Angst, Fluff, Lead Up To 👉👌, Snark, Six Being a Sassy Sexy Bitch, Idiots to (Eventual) Lovers

WARNINGS: None. Curse words? Sheer horniness without relief?

WORD COUNT: oh god I don't even want to tell you guys (it's 9.9k. I'm adding lil dividers and breaks because I know it's long)

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

How exactly was this place designed to be a “safe” house?

The house was a single story with more glass than wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the east side, while trees guarded both sides. The lot sits on a downward slope, a valley in the background.

The amount of glass made it look insecure if anything. But, you had no say in it - if you wanted to be paid, you’d work here. You’d not given your employers a timetable on your project, and you had hoped they wouldn’t request one. They hadn’t. Unfortunately, that meant your stay here would be indefinite.

After a long ride across a border you hadn't been able to read, a mysterious driver had dropped you off in the gravel driveway. A single custodian had been sweeping when you pulled up, and he had been less than welcoming. You’d said, “Hello,” but the young man had simply inclined his head at you and continued his task.

In less than half an hour, you had found your room and unpacked most of your belongings into the rattan dresser. It was evident the money spent on this secluded hide-out was in its design and the protection detail, not the furniture. You notice there is no en-suite bathroom, and the nearest one is down the hall.

That’s annoying.

The only other room along this hallway must be the bodyguard’s room. It’s at the opposite end, facing yours. You suppose that’s so he can keep an eye on you, and you sigh. It’s hard to believe you could need all of this fuss. You’ve worked in high-security locations and needed top-tier clearances before, but having to leave your apartment to live in this place while an unknown man supervised you? That was not something you’d get used to quickly.

It was Sunday, so, seeing as you preferred to keep a regular work week, you decided you’d survey your workstation tomorrow. You tour the kitchen and find a decanter.

Don’t mind if I do.

The whiskey flows smoothly into your glass, the amber liquid enticing. You then take a seat at the island bar. The late afternoon light comes through the glass patio door, heating the space. Your head cranes to the right to study the view, mentally wandering through the hills, the trees, and the city far below. The whiskey is excellent, burning your throat pleasantly.

The hinged squeak of the front door opening rings through the house. You swivel counterclockwise on your barstool. A man in a dark gray suit steps over the threshold and into the living room, shutting the door behind him. It’s darker in that section of the house, so he flips the switch to his right. A ceiling fan blinks to life above him, and his blonde hair is highlighted.

“Oh, hi,” you smile.

You hop off the stool gracefully and stroll through the large, open doorway between the living room and kitchen. He meets you between the couch and the flat-screen television. You extend your hand.

You’re stunned by how handsome he is. His eyes are kind and brilliantly blue. His hair is parted to the side and lightly gelled, and his suit barely covers the fact that he is rather muscular. That last part you had expected given his job title.

“Hello,” he says simply, shaking your hand with the slightest grip.

His jaw is working, and you realize he's chewing gum. When he drops his hand to clasp them together, as if he’s at ease, you notice a tattoo of a palm tree and a sunrise on his left hand.

“You weren’t supposed to be here yet. I haven’t had a chance to look around.” He chides.

“Oh,” you’re taken aback by his directness. “I was just given the address and told to be here today. They didn’t give me a time. I wasn’t told anything, actually. Didn’t even tell me who I’d be meeting.” You laugh, hoping he’ll tell you his name without you needing to ask.

“They didn’t tell you -?” He’s frustrated by the poor organization. Anyone could’ve met you here and you’d have believed anything they said. He decides to make further progress in his planning than he’d originally intended for tonight. “Alright. I’ll get to work. I’ll stay out of your way.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you insist in reactive politeness. Taking into account his brusque, business-like manner, you amend quietly, “I’ll stay out of yours.”

He nods once in agreement.

Taking the hint that the conversation is over, you turn around and head back toward your barstool. The kitchen is dimmed in the growing dark, so as you walk through the doorway, you reach out for the light switch.

From behind you, you hear steps, firm and determined, which make you instinctively turn your head to face him.

“Actually, can you sit here on the couch while I…?” He trails off and makes a circling motion with his index finger.

“Sure, yeah.” You’re getting nervous about how seriously he’s taking his job, so you sit as he requested.

Is there an actual threat to me? Am I actually in danger? You eye your whiskey glass on the counter.

As he steps into the kitchen, he sees the alcohol and quizzes, “Did you bring that yourself?”

“No,” you answer, already knowing he’s about to tell you that you can't drink it.

“Don’t drink it.”

“I believe it was courtesy of my employer. I’ve already had several sips - it’s fine.” You assure, a touch annoyed.

You know caution is his job, so you’re mindful of your tone. His impersonal manners are disappointing given how long you'll be around him.

He doesn't reply. Instead, he looks blankly at you before grabbing the drink and delivering it to you. Your fingers close around his as you take the glass, and you smile in gratitude.

Something tells him this is going to be a frustrating assignment; you don’t seem to feel at risk. And truthfully, you don’t. He’s here as an extreme precaution on part of your company. But this man appreciated better than anyone that life could change in an instant.

The next morning you’re awoken by your alarm. You silence the phone and grab a change of clothes. You crack open your bedroom door, hoping the bathroom is free so you can shower. Luckily, the man from last night is nowhere to be found.

He never told me his name; that’s so weird, you realize.

He had checked the house and found nothing of interest, then returned to the living room, motioning to you that you were free to go. He'd spoken no further, and you'd kept your word about staying out of his way.

After getting ready for your day, you walk into the living room to find your workspace. You open the only door you’d not been through: a nondescript wood-paneled barrier beside the kitchen. Sure enough, inside is an array of equipment and a desktop computer. Everything you’d need to perform your job is located in this garage-sized space.

You march into the kitchen to make yourself a pot of coffee. In a cabinet, you’re drawn to a mug with an artist-rendering of the sun. It’s a cloudy morning, so you find it appropriate.

You stand in front of the coffee maker, waiting patiently for it to stop brewing, drumming your fingers on the counter in time with the song stuck in your head. The hair on the back of your neck prickles, so you turn your head to look around. Seated at the bar behind you is the man, dressed now in a bright blue suit, focused on his laptop.

“Oh, my god!” You exclaim, nearly dropping the empty mug. “When did you get in here?”

“You didn’t hear me sit down?” The man queries, his eyes jumping from the mug in your hands to your face.

“Obviously not,” one hand presses over your heart. You can't help but notice that his eyes match the color of his suit.

He snorts once in levity at your misplaced distress and returns to his computer.

“I’m glad you find it funny, Mr. - ?” You prompt.

"You don't need to call me ‘mister,’” he says politely without looking up.

“Okay, well, what do I call you? 'Chatterbox'?” You’re irritated by his lack of apology for scaring you and poor conversational skills.

He looks up sharply, but his eyes are entertained. "I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot,” he states. “You can refer to me as Six.”

Given that this man is your only source of human interaction for an unknown length of time, you're willing to take the second chance.

You reply, “Okay, Six. The right foot sounds good. We’re stuck in this house together. Let's not make it weird.”

“We’re on the same page, then,” Six observes drily, his eyes returning to his laptop.

The coffee maker audibly spits out the last few drops into the pot, and you quickly pour yourself a cup; without speaking another word to the man, you disappear into your workspace to begin.

Four weeks later, you’ve established a routine: each morning, you’d pull out the same mug, make your coffee, and wait for Six to make an entrance somehow. He was generally unable to form routines due to his lifestyle, but each morning he would enter the room from a new direction, laptop in hand, and sit.

The first week, Six’s stealthy entrances had caused you to jump in alarm. He would be standing around the corner or appear behind you when you least expected it. On mornings when you’d slept well, you’d laugh. After that first time, Six started to kindly apologize when he scared you.

He didn’t speak much outside of a “Good morning,” unless you spoke first. Forcing an intimidatingly attractive man who doesn’t want to speak to do so was nerve-wracking. Sometimes you felt too shy to talk to him, but some mornings you were brave enough to ask him how he slept, or what he had planned for the day. He'd always respond with the fewest words in a courteous tone, but you found his patience in indulging your questions somehow charming.

Six started to find the morning routine oddly compelling. He enjoyed watching you drink from the same mug, the same amount of coffee, and make the same well-mannered smile at him. Technically, it was something mundane, calm, and normal - but not to him. To Six, this was fascinating. He knew that letting himself enjoy the company of another person, however silent he remained, was dangerous for his psyche, but this wasn’t a permanent job - he could be reckless short term.

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

One Friday evening, you send out a week’s-end report to your company then wonder what you’ll do for the next two days. You’d spent the past three weekends working. It’s not a major problem considering your average time off was spent reading or watching your favorite movies on rotation, but you could go for a normal conversation with normal people tonight.

Unfortunately, you’re not able to leave the house unless approved by Six, and you’re pretty certain that will never happen. He had been nice, but distant and a touch paranoid. Maybe you’d work for a couple of hours to get ahead instead - then you’d be able to go home sooner.

You stand from the computer in your lab, powering it off. Exiting the room, you’re nearly run into by Six as he leaves the kitchen.

“Oh!” You exclaim. “I’m sorry.”

You’re not surprised by the sudden butterflies in your stomach. He may be reserved, but his physical appeal was impossible to ignore.

"It’s okay,” his arms had gone up automatically to grab your shoulders, but he drops them before touching you. “I’m sorry, I normally hear you.”

“Hmm?”

“I usually know exactly where you are because I can hear you. You’re not very quiet.” He speaks without a hint of scorn, but the accusation offends you.

“Of course you can hear me. This is a small house and we’re the only two people in it.”

“You don’t seem to hear me,” Six argues, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He pulls out a stick of gum and pops it in his mouth.

“Because you do your best to scare me to death at every opportunity,” you chastise.

“Scaring you to death would defeat the purpose of my being here."

You have no retort to that, so you brush past his sizable shape and laugh, “Touche.”

You squat in front of the shelf beside the TV. If the only person you’ll get to be around is Six, you might as well try to make friends.

“Want to watch a movie?” After passing little pleasantries for a month, you figure it’s a normal enough thing to ask him.

You hear him question from behind you: “It’s Friday night; you don’t want to go somewhere?”

“Am I allowed to?” You don’t look at him.

“Not without me.”

“As much as I’d love to go on a date with you, Six, I think I’ll just sit here.” You’re stunned at your boldness, but something in you wants to push him beyond the polite chatter.

He doesn’t respond, and you hear nothing, despite straining to make out his footsteps. If he is still there, you refuse to turn around and give him the satisfaction of knowing you regret your words, so you try to focus on the movie. It becomes obvious that he did leave at some point as you hear the water running in the hallway bathroom to your right. You feel your body relax.

When the movie ends, you pick up a book and retire to your room. As you close the door, Six leaves the bathroom in only a towel. He doesn't see you as he walks toward his own room. His bare back fills your vision despite the distance, and you find yourself staring. He's built powerfully. His smooth skin is broken on his left arm by a jagged, discolored scar.

You inhale sharply at the visual representation of the kind of life he lives, and his head whips around at the sound. You slam your door shut, praying in vain he didn't perceive you.

He stares at your now-closed door, one eyebrow raised. Did you just gasp at him being half-naked? Maybe you weren't expecting him to be there and he scared you again. Six decides to ignore it. Or to try to.

Trying to forget the moment yourself, you pull up some music on your phone and lay across your bed, your hands rubbing your eyes. Your phone’s low-quality speakers mean the Bonnie Tyler song you choose isn't loud enough for your liking, but it's so nice to hear something other than silence that you sing along. You sit up and start folding some of the clothes you'd washed the previous night, still singing along.

A quick knock startles you into standing. He never talks to me after I shut my door, you're curious as to what he wants and you hope it's not to tell you to stop ogling him. You move to the door and pull it open cautiously. He's fully dressed in a gray t-shirt and sweatpants. You focus your eyes above his neck, but that doesn't help the blushing, either.

"What's up?" You successfully sound casual.

"I can't hear."

"Can't hear what?"

"Myself think," he gestures toward your phone as the last notes of the eight-minute song begin to fade.

He just can't let me have a single shred of pleasure. Your embarrassment abruptly changes to frustration.

"Can't imagine there's much to hear," you snort. Then you grimace, reminding yourself again it's his job to be alert. You cover your eyes with one hand, "I'm sorry. That was not nice."

But he laughs one, short chuckle. He actually laughs, and the shock of it has you drop your hand to gawk at him. He has a nice laugh; it's soft, ironic-sounding. But he isn't explicitly smiling. It's almost as though the sound escaped him at gunpoint.

"Alright. Continue," he allows with an impassive wink, turning away from you. He leaves you standing there gaping after him.

A wink? What the fuck? This man's getting off on flustering me. When he shuts his door, you swear he's hiding a smile.

God, this is such a bizarre situation.

You can’t quite pin down your feelings. You’re not afraid of him, but he makes you nervous. Though he’s unsociable, you can see there's something soft behind his professional mask. Maybe it was the gentleness of his eyes or the warmth he unwillingly emanated, but it was impossible not to like him.

Periodically, if he felt secure enough, Six would sleep during the night. He was able to get by with five hours' sleep, and he often took that around lunchtime, but tonight he'd let himself rest. After all, this contract was a farce. There'd been no credible intelligence; your company was paranoid. Six could get behind that, but after a full month with no issues, he was confident he'd be able to sleep.

Of course, he kept his laptop on, flipped multiple alarms, and set a timer for every hour. His reputation wasn't for nothing.

He sits on his bed, wondering why he knocked on your door. Yes, he could hear you - you honestly were not quiet - but it wasn't bothersome. Six found himself relaxing at the noise, at the knowledge that another person was nearby, untroubled. Your openness, even your petty irritation at him, was fun. You were genuine, natural around him. Most everyone treated Six only two ways: with respect or fear. You treated him as if he were an average person. Was that why he found himself paying attention to you?

Six decides that he doesn't want to know why he sought you out, and he lies back, falling asleep nearly immediately.

You spend the weekend alternating between watching movies on the couch and walking laps around the acre of land. It's boring, so you start working again late Sunday evening. While bent over your desk, you hear a rap at the door.

"Yeah?" You call, unwilling to walk away from your task.

"Are you staying in there much longer? You're typically in bed by now."

"Oh, shit, what time is it?" You ask rhetorically as you pick up your phone to check. Eleven-thirty. "Uh, yeah, I'll head to bed."

You organize your materials for tomorrow, then open the door to see Six, arms folded, waiting for you.

"Are you gonna escort me to my room safely?" You tease him, offering a conspiratorial eyebrow raise.

"Would you rather I got you there unsafely?" He rejoins, his brow imitating yours.

"I'd rather not need anyone to get to my room, but I guess I don't have a choice."

You traipse through the living room. You make it just past the couch before it hits you that he hasn’t done this before.

"Why tonight?"

"Sunday Special," he deflects. It's no answer, but he’s the expert, so you trust him.

As he walks you the few paces down the hallway to your bedroom, you feel faint heat against your lower back, then a tingling sensation at the base of your spine. It feels almost like someone is touching your skin. Brushing it off as anxiety, you slip into your room and away from Six.

"Okay, job well done. Goodnight, Six,” you remark, shutting your door without looking at him. He makes no noise, but you can almost feel the nod of his head.

One of the cameras had failed. The other four were fine, but Six was nothing if not proactive. If someone was sneaking around, he needed you in your room. As soon as you are out of harm’s potential way, he pulls his weapon.

Six carefully sweeps through the building, checking corners. All clear, he steps out the back door, utterly silent. The malfunctioning camera was the one overlooking the driveway, but if someone had knocked out only one camera, they likely expected him to check there first. He tediously makes his way to the front of the house.

Above the front door, pointed at the ground, was the camera. A small feather clung to the broken piece of tech. Six looks around for the poor bird who must’ve smacked into it, but finds nothing. He reaches up and unhooks the camera. He’d need to either repair it or find a new one.

Satisfied you and he were not under attack, he returns inside. He won’t be going to sleep tonight; his body will remain alert. He begins to tinker with the camera, already looking forward to his afternoon nap.

Several days later, after having had to stop exactly zero intruders, Six feels comfortable enough to continue sleeping overnight. It’s a treat he enjoys too infrequently, and he wakes early Friday morning with energy to spare. He ventures out into the kitchen, enjoying the sun’s rays creeping over the trees. He retrieves his laptop and sits at his usual spot.

Having slept badly, when you walk into the dim room, you're startled by the shape of a man at the bar. Then you notice his profile silhouetted by the sun, and you exhale in recognition.

"I should really just expect you around every corner, shouldn't I?"

He raises his eyebrows at you in jest and shrugs, “Might be best.”

His elevated mood lifts your own. If only he could be this relaxed all the time. You walk past him to your coffee pot to continue the morning ritual.

Waiting for the machine to brew, you turn and tilt your head toward the window, observing, "It's not a bad view, huh?"

"I have noticed," he says honestly. Though that sounds nearly sarcastic to you, to Six it's another slip in his exterior. He doesn't often get the chance to enjoy something for its beauty, but he has been taking full advantage lately.

Your workday is long, but you take a break near lunchtime to find Six seated where you'd left him. You grab an apple from the stocked fridge, then pull a clear glass from the cabinet. In the reflection of the stainless-steel fridge, you notice Six's head tilt to look at you. You fill the glass with water from the tap, then turn and set both items in front of the curious blonde.

"What's that for?"

"You. This is food and water." You grin. More seriously, you wonder, "Have you eaten? I don't think you have."

Six was typically excellent about fueling his body, it was his livelihood as well as his life, but you were right, he had neglected it this morning.

He blinks for a moment, unsure what your angle is. "Why… are you giving it to me?"

"Because I can," you state. "I didn't poison it." You smirk at him and make a face like maybe you should have.

"A poisoned apple would be cliche. I'm sure you have something more creative in mind for me." He examines you, his eyes shining. You can see his lips fighting a smile. It makes you want to try harder - you need to make this man lighten up.

"Nah, I need you, Six. Who else would I not talk to every day?"

Six licks his lip and shakes his head in defeat. He huffs a short laugh, and you chalk up a victory.

You slap the counter and cheesily announce, "Alright, see you around."

The weight of his eyes on you as you leave the room makes you feel giddy.

Been a while since I've had a crush, you laugh to yourself. From his wit to his patience, his profound eyes to his muscular build, Six makes your stomach twist.

Six is left sitting in turmoil. Why did you care? Do people normally look out for each other like that? He'd done it for his brother, often making him meals, but that was a close familial bond. Six is essentially a stranger to you, despite the month of small talk and close quarters. Worse than a stranger, he was a tool, a product… wasn’t he? Six feels something shift in his chest. A tiny pull, like a bond creating itself. He does his best to push the thought away.

You wake the next day much later than usual. After showering, you leave your room ready to spend the day similarly to last Saturday. As you exit the hallway into the living room, however, the housekeeper is walking out the front doorway.

"Hey! Good morning," you call, excited to see another person. "How are you?"

The youthful-looking man acts flustered, but answers in an accent you don’t recognize, "I'm fine, thanks. You?"

"I'm great. Do you mind me asking your name?"

"Ma'am, I was told not to speak to the residents here. I hope you understand."

"Oh! I'm sorry to have put you on the spot, then." You feel deflated.

"I restocked the pantry and the fridge, and the kitchen is clean," the kid reports.

"Thank you. Can I offer you anything?"

"No, ma'am, I'm on my way out for today."

You thank him again and let him go. You're hidden away so thoroughly that you're not even allowed to speak to other people. The depressing thought makes you seek out your only source of relief.

You find him in the garage, messing with a black, foreign-looking car. He’s wearing a dark t-shirt and tactical pants today, and he makes your heart spasm when he looks up to greet you.

Goddamn him, you swear internally like it’s his fault you’re attracted to him.

“Morning,” his voice is rough as though he hadn’t spoken in a while.

“Morning. Is this yours?”

“It’s technically the house’s. ‘In case of emergency.’” He explains, disappearing from view as he leans into the trunk.

“Oh. Is it bulletproof?” You joke.

“Yeah,” his voice is muffled.

Your brow shoots up. Is he serious?

His head rises from behind the trunk lid, his eyes full of amusement.

“You’re fucking with me,” you accuse.

Laughing, you walk around the car, knocking on the windows. You can’t tell.

He chuckles once, then slams the lid. It echoes in the closed space. Six walks around the opposite side of the car, so tall that the vehicle barely comes up to his ribs. He leans his forearms on the roof, looking at you.

“The windows in the house aren’t normal glass, either,” he smirks at your innocence. He doesn’t tell you they’re not completely bulletproof. He figures they’re close enough.

For your own health, you’re ignoring how seductive he looks propped against the car.

Changing the subject, you tell him, “The housekeeper was here a moment ago.”

“He’s not just a housekeeper,” he corrects but doesn’t expound.

“Ah. Okay. Is anything around here exactly what it looks like?”

“You are,” he says. “I am.”

You tilt your head, "You know what - that's absolutely true."

"I have a question. Can we quit listening to 80s music?" He taunts. He must've heard you again last night.

"We don't. I listen to it, and you invade my privacy." You whip back.

"Once you're singing over sixty-five decibels, it stops being private and starts being a neighborhood nuisance." His left cheek pulls upward, and he leans further onto the roof. The movement causes a lock of hair to fall onto his forehead, and you're disarmed - unable to form the scathing rebuttal you want.

Smiling, you do your best, "Well, the neighbors can fuck off. I've got to do something to stay sane."

You know you're barely loud enough to be heard. He was just hellbent on giving you shit for it and you had to admit, it was kind of funny.

Your stomach growls. "Are you hungry? I’ll make breakfast.”

“It’s 11a.m.”

“... and I’m going to make breakfast.” You walk inside, directly into the far side of the kitchen.

Six follows a few minutes later, shutting the garage door with a click. You’re in the middle of breaking eggs into a mixing bowl when he sits at the table - a rare move for him. He can’t see you well from this seat, and that’s intentional. He keeps his focus on the acre outside.

“Do you want any?” You call to him.

“No, thank you. I'll eat later.”

You wonder why he’s sitting in here with you. You make extra, just in case. When you’re finished cooking, you sit at the bar to eat, feeling on edge about sitting at the table with him.

Six takes the hint and gets up to leave the room. As he passes the stovetop, he sees you’ve made him some anyway. His heart tugs at him once more. He changes direction and picks up the plate.

Without looking at you, he murmurs, “Thank you.”

You smile. “Anytime.”

He takes the plate to his room.

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

That evening, as you curl up in a couch corner watching a mindless TV show, Six sits on the opposite end. You're cold but feel too awkward to grab the blanket from Six's end of the furniture. Feeling his mood, you wait for him to say something first. He never does. After several minutes, you break.

"Were you lonely in your room?" You rib him.

He looks over at you, and you meet his eyes with a quick grin. He shrugs.

"You get used to it," you tell him. You look back at the TV.

He scoffs. You? Lonely? Compared to him? Then he thinks about it for a moment and realizes you haven't contacted anyone since you've been here.

"You don't have people waiting for you to come home?" He means family, friends, anyone.

"Nope. I got nobody." You say it with lightheartedness, though it makes you sad.

"I got nobody, too." He mimics your phrasing with a frown.

You turn to him again with a smile and offer, "Well, we can be nobodies to each other."

Six's mouth twitches and his eyebrow quirks up. You feel a rush of heat, embarrassment.

But then he makes a soft, pleased grunt and he hands you the blanket.

That next weekend, in the kitchen, you find Six shuffling a deck of cards. Curious, you make a face at him.

"This was how you passed the time in prison." He begins laying out a game of solitaire. There's so much about his statement that makes you sad, but you ask the obvious question:

"Prison?"

"I was in prison, yes."

"Violent offense, I assume?"

"Yes."

"Was it deserved?"

"The crime or the punishment?"

"What you did," you clarify.

"I thought so. Still think so."

Needing nothing else answered, you climb up on the barstool next to him and take the cards. You pick up the few he'd already laid out for solitaire. You weren’t letting him play cards alone.

"Have you ever played 'War'?" You shuffle the deck and begin to deal.

He hides his astonishment at your nonchalance. He'd never told anyone who didn't already know. But to you, it wasn’t a surprise. Your employers had been sure to tell you they’d hired one of the most elite assassins. You’d never expected that person to have lived a privileged, easy life. And you'd always been an excellent judge of character - Six's character was as solid as they come. Whatever his crime had been, it was justified.

"Yes, I've played War. Good way to get into a fistfight." He says, still thinking of his long, terrible eight years.

"I could take you," you lie.

Your challenging look is met by his intense eyes, and he grabs his cards.

"Loser has to make dinner."

"Deal," he agrees.

Later that evening, you stand at the stove top, cooking dinner for the both of you. After he beat you soundly in War, you'd insisted on a rematch, but he'd won a second time. Losing graciously, you told him you hoped he liked poorly made food. You weren't a good cook. He'd done a perimeter check after that last game, but he was back in his favorite spot now. As you flitted between the cabinets, the stove, and the pantry, he watched in near-awe. He didn't care how bad this food tasted. Watching you make it was enough. He didn't think he'd ever get used to how pleasant domesticity was.

As you walk past the stainless steel microwave, you realize it's reflective enough to see behind you, and Six is currently hyper-focused on you. The fierce look in his eyes sends butterflies soaring in your stomach.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Six is just bored. The poor man hasn't seen another woman in over a month, so of course he’s going to look at the only available one.

You plate the food, setting one in front of him, for which he thanks you sincerely. You take your own into the living room to escape the air between you two. You flip the TV on, hoping for some background noise to distract you from Six. It works as he remains in the kitchen. After finishing his food, he washes his dish, then retrieves yours and does the same.

"Thank you, Six." You swallow thickly.

"Mhm," he grunts.

Why does the energy between us keep changing?

"I have some things to do outside," he reports.

Oddly relieved, you cheerfully tell him, "Okay, have fun."

He glances at you with a look you can’t identify, then exits through the patio door.

We're both going stir-crazy.

You figure the decanter had been left lonely for too long. You down a couple of shots and put a movie on. This time you pick something you're only vaguely interested in, knowing the alcohol will do the work for you.

You hadn't seen Six since he walked out, but you know he's somewhere nearby. You'd love to offer him a shot, but it's hard to imagine him being willingly impaired. After a few hours, another glass, and a consecutive movie, you stretch out on the comfy, tan couch. As you lay there, you feel the waves of drunkenness rocking you to sleep.

You're awoken by a voice calling your name. Your eyes crack open to see Six standing over you.

"Six! You wanna shot?" You propose despite having stopped drinking yourself hours earlier.

His voice is decisive, "No, thank you. Are you planning on sleeping out here?"

"Maybe. 'm I allowed?"

"No," he asserts.

"I thought we were friends, now," you grumble.

"We're nobodies, remember? And I'm not sitting out here all night making sure you don’t puke," he clears his throat to disguise a laugh.

"Why not? It'd be like a sleepover." You snuggle down into your blanket and try to find unconsciousness again, but you feel his hand on your shoulder. Your stomach lurches - not from the alcohol, you're barely tipsy now - and your eyes fly up to his face. He's not touched you before.

He attributes the blush spreading across your face to the alcohol.

"Don't make me carry you," he tries to threaten, but the idea sparks a grin on your face, so he repeats himself, "Don't make me do that." His jaw clenches with the knowledge he wants you to make him.

You sigh dramatically. "Why can't you leave me alone out here? Is it really any less safe than my room?"

"Yes, actually." He doesn't elaborate. "Am I going to get to sleep myself or am I gonna stand here arguing with you until dawn?"

"Okay. Fine. So demanding," you sit up and fold your blanket as his hand retreats.

He sighs.

“You really can’t stand me, can you, Six?” Your voice is sultrier than you intended. You look up at him through your eyelashes.

You watch with confusion as he swallows hard. He doesn't move or look away from your pouting face. His body heats up as he fights the temptation to look at the tank top you're wearing.

Shaking off his lack of response, you stand, then bend over to turn off the TV. When the screen blackens, you see Six’s head cock to the side, then twist away from you.

Was he just checking out my ass? No way. I'm drunker than I thought. God, I'm a lightweight now.

Since you’re inebriated, you decide to push your luck, so you turn and brush your fingertips across Six's forearm as you walk by him, murmuring, "Goodnight." You’re almost to the hallway when you hear his husky voice.

"’Night, sweetheart."

Your theory is confirmed. You must be absolutely black-out drunk without realizing because there was no possibility Six called you a nickname. You curl up and pass out almost instantly on your bed, wondering why your brain wanted him to say that.

Was he drunk? Six's jaw clamps shut as soon as the word leaves his mouth. He'd never called anyone a pet name, he didn't even know he knew any. He had been about to go to bed, but now he couldn't face laying there in the dark with his thoughts. Six walks out the front door, intent on performing unnecessary checks. His thoughts follow him anyway.

He's not sure what's happening to him. Six isn't going soft, he's still hyper-alert, still deadly. But he is softer, somehow. When he looks at you or thinks of you, he feels a protectiveness that has nothing to do with his paycheck. He feels like he could be happy if he could just keep looking at you.

The next morning, you keep your ritual. You have no hangover despite being sure you’d drank too heavily the night before. As you reach for your mug, you find it's missing from its place in the cabinet. Groggy, you take a better look around you, and you see the mug next to the coffee pot.

And really what was the point of being freed from prison if he didn't take every opportunity he could to live before he died? He could allow himself to feel an attraction to you, as long as he didn't name it. As long as he didn't act on it. Six decided he wouldn't fight it, but he also wouldn't encourage it from you. He wouldn’t drag you into this. He would let himself have a friend - no more - if only for a little while.

Weird - did I leave it out yesterday? Hm. Must have.

The telltale squeak of the barstool echoes in the quiet room.

Without turning, you greet him, "Morning, Six. I hope you slept well."

"Oh, you can hear me now?" is his fond response. His tone makes your heart skip.

"I'm sure you're just being louder for my benefit."

A chuckle leaves his lips. You aren't wrong.

Six finds himself watching you brew the coffee, imagining what it’d be like to have this view forever. He knows that’s a concerning thought, and he knows he’s torturing himself. That knowledge doesn’t stop him. It felt too good to let himself believe this could be his life, just for a moment. In some alternate universe, he could have a wife who loved him, a home, simple mornings, and peace. Six wants to imbibe as much of this as possible.

You finally turn after filling your mug. You peer out the window, but it's still relatively dark outside. Instead, your eyes trail over Six as much as possible while you stir your drink. A white t-shirt clings to him just enough to make your eyes widen. Since he's seated, you can't see his lower half, but you're sure it's some slacks that fit him perfectly. His hair is gelled as usual, but his facial hair is scruffy. He looks good. If you were honest with yourself - which you weren't out of self-preservation - you'd fuck him right there on the counter.

Six didn’t notice every single time you looked at him, but it was close. He didn't know why, but he marked each glance he caught. The pleasure it gave him was addictive. These base desires were easier to understand than the others you made him face, and he felt more comfortable imagining them. Those could be partially alleviated.

Six would never act on them with you, though. You were under his authority, his protection. You had seen only one other man in over a month. He was new to these feelings, but he wasn't stupid. You were bored and lonely. He was more lonely, and he'd already let you in further than anyone else. That would be a problem. No, he would be content to let himself bask in your skin-deep attentions and your kindness, but he wouldn't torture either of you with physical complications.

During the silence, while the two of you thought about the same thing, the sun rose, casting you in a golden light. Six's back was to the window, but the sunshine catches his blonde hair, illuminating it. At the same time, both of you smile at each other - yours much larger than his, but no less genuine. He watches as your smile fades into your eyes, and you wet your lips. Nerves tighten in your stomach. Despite the distance between you, your eyes fall to his mouth. His do the same.

Registering the spark in the room, Six abruptly stands to avoid ignition.

"Have a good day," he offers quietly. He heads toward his room, toting his laptop.

Too shocked to reply, you stand there staring after him in the morning sun.

What. The. Fuck. Just happened?

Over the next month, your morning routine is kept mostly the same, except your coffee mug is nearly always next to the machine when you wake. Six is civil, friendlier than he was at first, but you feel a wall returning. It's clear he's keeping some kind of boundary and you respect that. You could use a friend, and he does his best to be just that.

Throughout the month, there are times he finds you seated on the couch and he joins you. He doesn’t speak much, only answering your questions or agreeing with a comment you make about a movie or TV show. It’s the bare minimum that you both need, but it’s not fully satisfying for either of you. He supposed these moments made him feel real, like a normal man, and not one living out a lifelong death sentence.

It settles in your mind that you want to tell him you care about him. Platonically and in the most casual way possible, of course. You get the feeling he’s never had someone to look out for him, and that makes you sad.

On the last Friday of the month, you find the courage to say something. He’s seated on the opposite end of the couch, as far as he can be, in companionable silence as you let a comedy play.

“Six,” you begin, your heart already racing. But as you look at his profile, you fizzle out. “Are you hungry?”

He turns to you, face grave. “As long as it’s not the rubber chicken you made yesterday, yeah.”

“Well, maybe you should cook for a change.” Would you ever not be trading jabs at each other?

“I do cook,” he argues.

You roll your eyes. “Mac and cheese from a box for a week straight does not qualify as cooking.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you? That’s all I’m paid for. Special cuisine is extra.”

He’s joking, but the reminder of the nature of your relationship makes you cringe. You’ve let yourself grow far too attached to the handsome, quietly witty man, and knowing there was an expiration date on your friendship causes you more sorrow than you thought you’d feel.

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

One sunny morning, as you sit on a patio step, your ever-present coffee mug on the ground next to you, Six joins you. He doesn’t sit, instead, he stands behind you. Overlooking the valley, you ask him random questions that pop into your mind. You’re putting pieces of him together while trying not to pry any further than you know he'd like.

"Favorite candy? Besides gum," you add at the same time he answers.

"Gum. Just gum. Oh, Skittles," he edits.

“Shoe size?”

His lips twitch, “Eleven. You gonna buy me a birthday present?”

“When is your birthday, Six?”

He hesitates before responding, and when he does, you’re not sure it’s the truth.

“November 12th.”

You nod once and move on. "Ideal vacation?"

"A quiet beach."

“Favorite song?"

He's stumped on that one, "I don't think I have one."

"What about a favorite band? Or a singer?" You ask more generally.

"Hm, Bonnie Tyler." He declares, a gleam in his eye.

You laugh, "You're trying to rile me up, but I bet you probably are a fan of 'Holding Out for a Hero,' aren't you?"

He quirks an eyebrow at you so you explain, "She mentions Greek mythology," you gesture at his left arm, "and I know you love the Greeks."

You pause, then sing your own version of the lyrics to him, markedly offkey, "You're my streetwise Hercules -” Breaking off quickly in laughter at yourself, you bend forward to hug your knees.

You're no longer looking at him, so you miss out on the way his cheeks fight a brilliant smile. You miss the way he loses and has to turn away from you to let the adoration color his face. And he misses the triumphant shutter of a camera in the distance.

The following day, Six is surprised to feel his phone vibrate. Few people had his current number.

Heard you got that cushy contract? I suppose you deserve it after saving my ass so many times.

Ah, it’s Denver, Six knows immediately. Not one for texting, Six leaves the message alone. The less he says about you the better - even to someone Six could nearly call a friend.

He mulls over the phase ‘cushy contract’ and frowns. Six was now two and half months into this job, and he knew it would be coming to an end soon. Apparently, you were making good progress because your employer had notified Six they’d be terminating his services shortly - probably at the end of the month.

Two weeks until you were gone. Now that he understood exactly what he was missing, Six wasn’t sure how he would go back to his isolated murderous-errand-boy status. But what he felt didn’t matter - he would be going back to the existence he’d known for nearly twenty years.

You stroll into the common area one afternoon to see Six standing on the patio, contemplating the horizon. His gray suit is bright in the daylight, and you watch as the wind tosses a lock of hair. You take the opportunity to soak him in, to think about how much you care for him.

You open the door and walk out to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. You follow his eye line to see fluffy white clouds amidst a deep blue sky. Curious to know what he’s thinking, you clear your throat.

“You see something?”

“The same thing you do,” he gives you a tiny smirk. A breeze wafts the scent of his gum and you relish the essence of him.

He slides his gaze along the tree line. You can hardly take your eyes off him, though. Six fascinates you. The CIA’s deadliest ex-asset was standing out here, looking like that, enjoying the countryside. He was quiet and closed-off, but he was also incredibly funny and warm.

God, what I wouldn't do for him. A surge of attraction consumes you for a moment, and it leaves you feeling unsteady.

Oh, he probably came out here to be alone. I’m interrupting.

“I’ll leave you be,” you say, your voice catching. You turn to go.

Six’s jaw clenches, and his lips part to tell you not to go, to tell you he prefers your presence to anything else on earth, but he doesn’t speak. Honestly, he doesn’t know how to say it - and he hears the door click shut behind him.

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

Two weeks later, Six is anticipating a text from your company telling him to stand down. He’s on edge all day, reigning in his thoughts. Trying to learn how to pack the pieces of humanity you’d given him into something he could carry with him. He can’t decide if it’s best to spend time around you or avoid you.

Six’s phone vibrates for the third time since he’d been here. Fully expecting another text from Denver or your employer, he’s stunned by what he does see.

Three photos have been sent to him by a blocked number. Each one depicts the two of you; each one shows Six exactly how fucked he is. He stares at the last one and the mixed emotions he feels almost make his knees weak.

Six had never seen happiness on his own face, but there it is. You’d sang to him, made a joke as only a friend could, you’d reminded him he was a man with choices and desires. It had struck him then, hardest of all. Six wanted you. He wanted you in every way a man could want a woman, and in that moment he knew he’d never be the same.

But seeing that moment now through the lens of a threat? Six’s body kicks back into the high-alert state he’d been in for two decades. He springs off his bed, grabs his weapon, and sprints out to find you.

Because these photos are mostly of Six’s reactions to you, he knows this isn’t about your work. Six knows exactly who this is and why. He also knows his adversary is probably running on fumes and therefore probably weak in resources. That means Six had some time.

He knocks on your lab door, and you call out, “Yes?”

“Just checking,” he assures.

He moves off to scan his cameras, then the grounds. He finds nothing, so he retreats into the kitchen, half-facing the direction that last photo had come from. Six works at his laptop until the sun sets. Through connections and rumors, he figures out someone (he needed no guesses as to whom) had placed a decent sum of money on his head. His theory had been right, his foe was broke. It was obvious that whatever the man did have had been put into the reward. Six estimated he had roughly three weeks until a team could be expected. At least he wouldn’t be saying goodbye to you just yet.

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

The end of the third month comes and goes, and another week goes by, and no word arrives from your employer. Going home had become something you no longer wanted, so your research had intentionally slowed. You spent more time outside of your lab than in. As time wore on, your mornings with Six became longer. Instead of standing across the kitchen from him, you found yourself seated next to him at the bar more often than not.

But Six had been strange lately. His brow furrowed constantly, he was as uptight as he was when you met him. Six became strict about knowing where you were at all times. And for the past two weeks, he had walked you directly to your room at night, hand hovering over your lower back. It was a weird mixture of familiarity and distance between the two of you.

This morning, you’re both sitting at the bar in comfortable silence. You're reading while he does god-only-knows-what on his computer. You both jump when his phone buzzes. He pulls it from his pocket and he grunts.

“Next week, some extra people are going to be hanging around.”

“What?” You’re dismayed. The private bubble that had been suspending the two of you bursts.

He has to tell you. If not the whole truth, then part of it.

“There's been a- a threat. It’s not a definite thing, but it could be a problem,” he hedges.

The world drops out beneath you. Not only is the intoxicating time you’d had with Six coming to an end, but it’s doing so because you could be hurt. You take a deep breath, willing your nerves to go away. Your eyes close and you place your palms flat on the bar.

Six suddenly remembers that this isn’t your life, you’re not used to life-threatening events. He slowly covers your hand with his own. It’s rough and warm; your internal monologue gets derailed. It’s terrifying to learn that someone will try to assault you. It’s something you never thought would truly happen. However, you know your work has led you into some high-risk areas, and you’re strong enough to hold the information, to accept it. And the appreciation that the person protecting you is Six? He was all you could ask for in a man.

“You’ll be okay,” he promises, his voice aimed at your heart. It’s the one thing he believes he can give you, and he feels wildly territorial. He was damned if he let anyone near you.

He removes his hand, and you take a second breath. You’re facing straight ahead, but you can feel his eyes reading your face.

“I know. I trust you, Six,” turning to look up at him, you find the courage to tamp down your fear. You give him a sad smile.

Your eyes water, and Six begs them not to spill over. He won’t be able to stop himself from wiping away your tears - it’s his fault they’re there.

Your childlike faith in him jolts him with a realization: he would do anything for you. If you asked, he would do it. His heart swells. And, for the first time in his adult life since his grueling training, he's overcome.

You spend the next week anticipating the arrival of the anonymous men. Six had warned you that - like the housekeeper - these men were not supposed to speak to you.

At the same time, Six divested himself of you as best he could. Once this immediate situation was dealt with, and the contract terminated, he wouldn't see you again. Six's lifestyle would not allow him to have you, and he couldn't change it. As badly as he wanted you, Six would never ask you to leave your career, your home, your life to be with him.

He wrestled with it, though. Six often found himself thinking of scenarios in which he could show you how he felt. Maybe after he killed Lloyd he could come back for you. Maybe after the contract ended you would realize it wasn't boredom, it was real. Maybe you felt the same. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The return of Six's coldness confuses you. You miss him despite him being in the next room. You knew why (or you thought you did), you knew he was being paid to be here for this exact situation. It didn't stop you from feeling rejected.

The day comes and a van pulls up in the driveway. Four large, armed men pile out. They all look similar, terrifying. You retreat to your room before they come inside.

Six greets them, instructing them in what he's had planned. He walks the grounds with them but doesn't divulge his personal plans in regards to you. Six wanted everything compartmentalized and separated. No one could know who you were or why Six was there. These are Denver's men, but Six trusts no one completely.

When you get too hungry to stay in your room any longer, you tiptoe to the kitchen. Your heart sinks at the empty room; you'd been subconsciously hoping Six would be at his spot.

As you reach the sink, you hear footsteps enter the room. You turn to greet Six, but you're visibly shocked by a stocky man standing there instead.

"Is everything okay?" You ask when the man doesn't say anything.

"Yeah, sorry. I didn't realize there was a woman here."

"Oh," you laugh, "Well, here I am."

Forgetting that this is not actually your home, and you didn't need to play hostess, you offer the man a drink.

"Water? I have some whiskey, but you're probably like Six with that, huh?"

"Yeah, naw, I can't drink on the job. Thanks though, honey. You been up here a while? You seem happy to see me." The man laughs good-naturedly.

You continue, "Anything to eat? We've got plenty." You wince at the way you use 'we' as if you and Six had been playing house. You don't answer his question.

"I appr-" the man is interrupted by Six flinging open the garage door.

"Why are you in here?" His question is authoritative yet calm, and both you and the man start to answer at the same time.

"No, you." He nods at the man.

"Sorry, man. Should've known." The man quickly retreats outside. The patio door slams shut.

"He didn't even know a woman was here?" You put the query to Six. "Why? What'd he mean by 'should've known'?"

"His job is to watch that direction." Six indicates outward, toward the perimeter. "Not what goes on inside. I don't want anyone knowing anything unnecessary." He doesn't address your third question.

"I'm unnecessary now?" You already know it's a catty remark.

He throws you a withering look. "They're not supposed to be inside at all. If you see them, tell me. I'll take care of it."

"I mean, okay. But that guy was nice. At least he talked to me." You mutter the last bit.

Six has never felt jealousy, so when it flares in his stomach at your words, it burns. His eyes narrow and he strides over, stopping close enough to touch you.

"My job is to protect you. My job is not to entertain you. I'm not paid to be your friend." He sounds frustrated; like he's been trying to tell you something.

Six is overwhelmed and conflicted. He wasn't paid to be your friend - that came naturally. And he wasn't even being paid at all anymore. The deposits have stopped and Six is still here. He can't find a way to tell you that fact, though.

Abashed, you duck your head so he doesn't see the tears that well up. Gravity works against you, so you look up to the ceiling, fighting the tears back. You feel lonely despite the best friend you'd had in a long while standing in front of you.

Six's mouth goes slack. He's horrified. He just made you cry. Six had made new-widows cry, sure. But never had his words caused the tears of a woman he cared about. He feels unbalanced. Six has no idea how to process anything going on inside him.

You sigh. I'm the one who's pushed this friendship. He's always been honest about what this was. I can't very well be mad at him when he does his job.

"Okay, Six. I'll stay out of your way." You walk away as he stands staring into space, fists clenched.

A few days later, you leave your lab to find an apple and a glass of water waiting for you. A faint smile pulls at your lips. You realize you've not eaten today. On the countertop is your favorite mug. Peering inside, you see whiskey. Your small laugh breaks the silence in the house.

After eating, you take the mug and sink down onto the couch. The gaming console makes an electronic jingle as you turn it on for the first time. You'd been working hard, again, but your motivation was poor. You were miserable without Six's easy humor.

You pick up a game controller and start to scroll through the downloaded games when you hear Six's footsteps enter the house from the garage. Your heart twinges at the discovery that you have his footsteps memorized. He trudges through the kitchen and stops in the entryway to the living room. You stop yourself from fully appreciating him in his gray suit, but it's hard as you can see your favorite black t-shirt underneath. He sees the mug in your hand and his face becomes hopeful.

"I haven't played a video game since 1995." He confesses, now staring at the TV.

"You want to play?" Your voice cracks embarrassingly.

He almost smiles at you, "Loser makes dinner?"

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