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feral-fae-writes · 2 years

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As the World Caves In || Putting the Priest Inside the Jam Jar

A/N: This is my first, multi-chaptered piece. It will be a slow burn. The way I wrote it is fragmented because the reader is traumatised, lol. Y'all also probably have a lot (and I mean a lot) of questions, and there are probably a lot of plot holes, but things will unfold in time, I promise. Hopefully, this will be the start of a masterlist for this work, and a bunch of others. Each chapter will have a song associated with it (the title is a link) and, by the end of this, I should have a Sierra Six playlist! I hope y'all like this first chapter; I loved writing it. Please let me know what you think. 🥺 I am down bad in the rabbit hole for this gum-chewing Ken Doll.

Fandom: The Gray Man

Pairing: Courtland Gentry x Gender Neutral!Reader, Sierra Six x Gender Neutral!Reader

Wordcount: 4,498

Type: Multi-Chaptered

Chapter Summary: Our reader is saved by Sierra Six, who is determined to stay an enigma, no matter what. There are more questions than answers, but no one said catching bugs was going to be easy.

Chapter 1: Putting the Priest Inside the Jam Jar

You had no idea how long you'd been tied up -- just that it’d been enough time for you to begin to feel restless, confused, and severely dehydrated. A few days, at the very least. You’d been kidnapped from your apartment in London, just having gotten home. The last thing you remembered was taking off your shoes, in the dark, too exhausted and half-drunk to change into your pyjamas. But you never got the chance. The next thing you knew, you were bound and gagged in someone’s basement. You found out later, through muffled conversation, that you were ransom for your parents. Problem was, your parents didn’t give a shit about you.

In fact, they actively made your life a living hell.

Ricki, your best friend, had told you to be careful, because you’d just moved entire countries, but no one told her about being wary of people inside your apartment. You were going to die here, completely alone. And that was terrifying as shit.

The slam of a door made you jerk up in fear. You let out a few muffled, frustrated screams for help. You hoped whoever it was would and could help you. If it was your captor, or someone equally horrible, you wouldn’t be in a worse position than you were in now, as far as you figured. Yelling and grunting echoed from above, and you soon realised whoever it was, was fighting. Someone had found you. Holy shit, someone was going to save you. You felt tears run down her face, unbidden, and you couldn’t wipe them away. Fuck. A whimper slipped out, hit the wall of your gag, and you slumped back against the basement wall. You didn’t want anyoneto see you like this; you also had no choice.

A heavy thump, silence, then the sound of two quick gunshots: a double-tap, to make sure whoever it was stayed dead.

You threw yourself against the opposite wall, again and again. You needed to make enough noise to be heard, regardless of who it was up there, regardless of the absolute pain you felt doing it. You heard movement, from the stairs leading upwards across the room, and fell still, eyes warily on the locked door. A grunt, the padlock fell to the floor with a clang, and then the door opened. A stranger walked downstairs, dressed in black -- black boots, black pants, black tee… Black eye. You stared at him, eyes wide, tears streaming down your face, back against the wall. His brown hair stuck to his face, and his lip was split and bleeding. You made eye contact, and then he crouched down to your level, still holding your gaze. You couldn’t move, and you weren't sure if you wanted to.

“You okay?” He asked, voice soft. “All things considered.”

You nodded. It’s not like you could do much else.

“I’m going to untie you now.”

You nodded again. He set about untying you, making a conscious effort not to touch you or hurt you, from what you could tell. You sat there in thought, cold and tired, but warmed by his non-hostile presence. His eyes were kind, and somehow like a kicked puppy’s. He was also really, really damn attractive. Maybe it was delirium, or the black outfit, but either way, you couldn’t deny it. You imagined no one could; the man was objectively sexy. And he had just saved your life.

As he untied the ropes, his fingers brushed your skin, and you shivered. He immediately drew back, appraising with those kicked-puppy eyes, and then removed the duct-tape. You didn’t trust yourself to speak just yet, glancing back to your bindings, and he took the hint. He began to work on the ropes again, and you were free. He offered out a hand, kneeling. You took it, staring up at him. You were shell-shocked.

It was probably some sort of fucked up survivor’s syndrome, but you wanted to make him cum right then and there. Instead of getting down on her knees, you felt yourself begin to cry more, thin reactive tears escaping down your cheeks. You opened your mouth to speak, but could only manage a croak of a word as you got to your feet. You were going to faint. Your own voice sounded weird to your ears, after such a long time in silence, but it was surprisingly steady. All things considered.

“Thanks.”

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Your saviour was a hard man to read. You’re also pretty sure you don’t even know his name. Claire -- his niece, though you could tell they weren’t related -- called him Six. And he never corrected her, so you called him the same.

He had asked you if you had anywhere to go. You shook your head no, voice still hoarse from disuse. After saying that one word, you erupted into violent coughs. He held you steady as you shook like a leaf.

“What about your parents?” He had asked, once you were back upstairs, a glass of water in hand (pilfered from the cupboard) and a small dish of fruit that remained untouched (scrounged from the fridge, what little food that was there). A dead body laid not ten feet away from you, two gunshot wounds securely between its eyes.

Like shooting a zombie, you thought distantly. You couldn’t see Six’s gun on his person.

Your captor’s home was very nice, barring the blood on the rug, and the strong scent of smoking gunfire. You had no idea why you were taken for ransom, and, frankly, you didn’t care. The fact that your parents allowed you to stay in that basement for more than an hour told you everything you needed to know. As far as you were concerned, you were an orphan, alone in Italy. You shrugged your shoulders, to tell him that it didn’t matter. You were an adult, after all -- freshly 23 (no one likes you when you’re 23), and wanting to live your own life, separate from their money.

He leaned back in thought at your answer that was a non-answer, then leaned forward again, closer than you expected, looking you in the eyes. God, he wasa kicked puppy. You fought the desire to flinch -- for a moment, having a flashback to your captor, despite the fact that the man in front of you wasn’t threatening you in demeanour or tone -- as he let out a breath. When he spoke, his voice was ever-so-soft, as if he knew what you were feeling. Not a millisecond later, you realised that he did.

“I get it. You’re feeling betrayed. I don’t blame you. You need rest, and somewhere safe to stay.”

You couldn’t escape the corpse in the corner of your eyes. His gaze followed your own.

“I’ll clean up. Promise. I’m guessing you’re alone in Italy?”

Your focus snapped back to him and his inescapably puppy-like eyes. His eyes were a blue-grey, like a stormy sea. You nodded. He let out a sigh, breaking eye contact. Then, out of what seemed like nowhere (but you logically knew it came out of his pants pocket), appeared a silvery stick of gum, which he unwrapped. He paused, noticing your eyes, then offered out the stick, half in its packaging.

“Want one?” He asked.

You shook your head. He shrugged, just slightly, then popped it in his mouth, rising up from the table, as he crumpled up the used wrapper and slipped it into his pocket. “Suit yourself.”

You sat there, following him with bleary eyes as he cleaned his mess. The corpse disappeared, too, and it was as if nothing had ever happened at all. Later, you’d come to understand that for him, it was “just another Thursday,” as he and Claire liked to put it. And, gradually, you began to accept that, even not mind it, because it was the truth.

After he had finished his work, he took you to a hotel. It was clear he didn’t quite trust you yet, but it was also clear you didn’t have anywhere to go. Your parents would soon realise that you’d been saved and scorn you for getting kidnapped in the first place, or they’d think you died. Regardless, they’d freeze everything. You effectively had no apartment, no money, and no place to call home. They were very hands-off “parents” -- that was the whole reason you were in London. They hoped you’d eventually make your own life there, and then they’d cut you off. It made you wonder why they didn’t just put you up for adoption. In any case, it didn’t matter. You couldn’t go back to that apartment, but you would use whatever money you could. That is, you’d withdraw everything possible.

You came away with a few hundred and five thousand dollars off the card, and another two hundred thousand from the joint bank accounts, skimmed off the top. They wouldn’t miss either sum. You’d wanted to use some of it to return the favour to your knight in black armour. When you tried, however, he refused it for himself, but did take a small (to you) amount for Claire. And that was how you found out she existed, how you met her, and how you put a name to his face.

Now, a week later, you were curled up, hands around your knees on the bed, in the hotel room he had arranged with your money. They hadn’t been staying there until you came along with a handy alibi -- with you, they could pretend the three of you were a family: husband, wife, and daughter. It helped that you resembled Claire. It didn’t seem weird to Six, though he didn’t indulge in it at all (much to your disappointment): not in public, not behind closed doors. Six was in the shower, and Claire was asleep on the small couch across the room. She looked so peaceful, whereas your thoughts wouldn’t stop racing.

She woke up. Goddamnit, based on her reaction, she could tell you had been and were staring at her.

“What?” She asked bluntly, still half-asleep.

“Nothing,” you replied.

“Where’s Six?”

“In the shower.”

Both of you fell silent. Truth be told, you hadn’t spoken to Claire often yet. It had only been a week. Claire spoke up again.

“Six gave me vinyls. Was that you?”

So that was what he had spent his saviour-stipend on. But you didn’t mind. You wanted to get to know Claire better. And if that took Six spending money that you didn’t really need or exactly want, that was fine with you.

“Do you like them?” You asked.

Claire nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Thanks. Six told me how he found you. Were you really down there for an entire month?”

“I don’t know how long I was in that basement for.”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s… it’s fine. I feel weird about-- sticking around with you two, when you clearly already have things figured out.” You replied. “I’m assuming you know about--”

“It’s-- it’s just another Thursday.” Claire cut you off, bristling in discomfort. She knew what Six did for a living -- what he had to do for a living. She remembered the note he wrote her, to play Silver Bird, and play it loud over the gunshots as he headed her way. How she had covered her ears and focused on the music. She didn’t like thinking about the events that led to that bittersweet, terrifying moment. Didn’t like thinking about her uncle Don, or the fact that he was dead.

“Right.” You replied, falling silent. The two of you had come to a mutual agreement.

“I’m glad-- that he saved you. And not just because of the vinyls.” Claire murmured after a moment, voice quiet. And with that, she, presumably, went back to sleep.

You heard the sound of the shower shutting off. A few minutes later, Six stepped out, hair wet, wearing black pants and a wrinkled white shirt. His attention was immediately on Claire. It was as if you didn’t exist. Watching him watch her warmed your heart. He was her protector, and yours, too, but it was obvious he’d do anything for her. All of his snark and dry demeanour melted away, all because of her... Part of you wished it would be because of you, too. Instead, you spoke up, this time to Six.

“She likes the vinyls.”

“She told me.” He replied. “Gave me a hug. Which I guess belongs to you.” He turned around to face you, eyes lighting up in a muted realisation. “I never thanked you for the room.” He said.

“I hardly think it’s worth thanking me for when you saved my life,” you quipped.

“That’s fair enough.”

Just before Six turned away, you caught the smallest of smiles on his face.

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“Why Bubblicious Watermelon Wave?” You asked, amused, seeing the bulk package of gum hidden away in a new hotel’s room closet, this time in France. It peeked out behind shirts and pants, jackets, white tees, hung suits, and a red blazer paired with red pants. His side of the closet. You wondered what he would look like in a tux.

“There is no other kind.”

You rolled your eyes at Six’s quip, muffled behind chewing gum. He, for his part, sounded slightly as if you had ruffled his feathers. Apparently, the quip made him remember… something. You decided not to press. Your gaze drifted over to your side of the closet. It was sparse and minimalist in comparison: a few dresses, two sweaters, a pair of pants, a graphic tee to go with it, and pyjamas -- all brand-new, because, again, you couldn’t go back to London. All three of you had duffel bags; it came with the territory of having to keep moving. You didn’t mind. Not like you slept much. Or like Six slept much, for that matter -- too many painful thoughts and unanswered questions. You shut the closet door, but not before sneaking a few sticks of gum into your pocket for later. Not for yourself, no. For Six.

Okay, maybe one for yourself. One for yourself, the rest for him. You had read somewhere that gum stimulates the brain towards focus. No wonder Six is always chewing gum, you thought. You knew he was an intelligent man; he had to be, given what you knew about him already. You also knew he knew a lot more (and thought a lot more, and felt a lot more) than he let on. One of those things was that you were kept awake by paranoia and nightmares. Your leverage was that you knew he was kept awake by his own vigilance and desire to protect. It became a running joke between you two, keeping each other company through your mutual silence.

That night, the silence wasn’t broken. But you came to an understanding.

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You sat out on the balcony, unable to sleep. Again. You knew it was dangerous, being out in the open, alone, but you didn’t care. You were wondering why Six and Claire kept you around -- you knew you were a liability, so there had to be a reason. You were wondering about Ricki, and how Six found you in the first place, though, in hindsight, finding you would be easy for someone like him. Finding anyone would be easy for someone like him. Finding someone like him, though? He was terrifyingly proficient at what he did, but had a moral compass; there was gentleness under his glib demeanour, you could feel it.

The gentle opening of the balcony door stirred you from your thoughts. You jumped out of your skin.

You heard Six chuckle in amusement: a ghost of a laugh, just like he was a ghost of man. He sat beside you, but kept his eyes on the night sky -- you took no offence, it was par for the course for you both -- and you did the same. It wasn’t awkward. Neither of you were much for words.

Because of that, it was doubly surprising when he reached over a hand, just to place it over your own. You froze, but he didn’t remove his, only gently intertwined your fingers together, as if to reassure you. And it worked. You gradually, steadily relaxed. These were the hands of a trained killer, but you relaxed.

There were so many things you wanted to say to him in that moment, but it didn’t feel right. You were sure he knew your thoughts, anyway. So, you merely held on, as if for dear life. You didn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. When you stole a glance his way, he wasn’t looking at the sky; he was looking down at your hands, puppy eyes glistening.

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It was inevitable: you had to go out for supplies. You didn’t mind it much, except for the fact that the three of you were constantly on the run. Six had explained the situation to you in bits and pieces over breakfast, and only what you absolutely needed to know. He and Claire were on the run from the CIA, after Lloyd Hansen took the fall for everything he and Claire had been through; he spared you the grisly details. His explanation made you feel even more like a liability, but he explained, through thin lips and a grim demeanour, that they’d be looking for a pair, not three people. You had asked him if you could contact Ricki, but he said it was too much of a risk. It pained you that you couldn’t let Ricki know you were alive, but it was best to let her think you were missing for now, Six said. He explained that if you called, even from a burner phone, they could track you through her and your parents, given she’d made her number known through your ‘Missing Person’ posters. Ricki had written a small description about how she’d dropped you home, and that you hadn’t responded to anything, which was unlike you. That was how he knew you were in trouble.

You realised that you were simply a detour: Six and Claire were just saving people while on the run across the world.

You’d like to say you didn’t care, but it did sting your ego a little bit that the reason he kept you with them was the fact that you were an asset. You were a person. Sure, you may have been a trust fund bitch, but you were a person. Six, thankfully, was polite enough to offer to contact Ricki on your behalf, on a secure line. But he wouldn’t let you speak to her yourself. Word of mouth travelled fast, after all. That much was clear by the bustling café you sat in, across from Claire. You understood, but that didn’t mean you had to like it.

Claire was scanning the people in the café, a small toy-looking camera in her hands. It made you wary, because if Claire was watching others, it probably meant others were watching you. But Six seemed to take it in stride and as a given. As Claire began taking polaroid pictures of the people around you, laying the pictures on the café table, you felt yourself grow uneasy. Six casually began inspecting them, noticing your apprehension.

“We should go. Now.” He commanded, already getting to his feet, taking up the photos, and positioning himself in front of you and Claire, you noticed.

So your intuition was right. When he took you by the hand, you felt yourself begin to panic. You felt claustrophobic, and the world was caving in. You swallowed nothing, and tore your hand away, pushing yourself past Six and leaving him behind with Claire. You had to get away. You couldn’t be the reason either of them got hurt. His eyes went wide, and he yelled your name, but his voice fell into the rush and accented noise of the crowd around you as you ran. You knew he’d be running after you, Claire in tow, but you couldn’t turn around. You had to find somewhere you could calm down, which happened to be a concrete bench in a courtyard a few yards away. You held onto it, keeping your eyes on the ground, trying to come back to yourself, trying to focus on a distant sound of burbling water.

Of course, Six caught up to you. You saw Claire out of the corner of your eye, hovering close like a ghost, blatant worry in her eyes. A sudden, paralysing thought struck -- someone is going to steal her, too -- and Six took the opportunity to pull you in along with him, fingers gripped around your wrists as he guided you away from the bench. A panicking deer in headlights, you looked up to see where you were going, Claire in wait. But he stopped, halfway between bench and fountain, turning to face you. Following his lead, you stopped, too. His stormy blue-grey eyes were on yours, and he spoke softly -- a cool, calming tone that you’d never heard from him before. He was almost whispering.

“Hey, hey, hey, love. You’re safe, promise.”

“I-- I panicked, I’m sorry. I thought--” You stammered in reply, in shame, taking in a slow breath. “Too many people,” you lied, knowing whoever may have been following you would hear, knowing he would know the truth. On some level, you were aware you were still spiralling. But you felt calmer with Six there. He was a walking secret, and so, of course, it followed that he was intimately acquainted with everything true. He had to be; he had called you love.

“I know. Look at me,” he said. And you did. And you couldn’t look away. His fingers fell from your wrists, and then one hand appeared around your waist, holding you securely. The other cupped your jaw in his palm; his skin was calloused and scarred from old wounds. From fighting. You promised yourself at that moment that you’d never let him get hurt ever again, even though you knew you had no control over keeping it. He seemed to lean in then, tilting his head, perhaps seeing the thanks and promise in your eyes -- and he kissed you.

His breath was warm, and his lips were soft, and his beard tickled against your skin. It was a strange sensation, but you didn’t mind it. He tasted like watermelon. Like sugar. He tasted so sweet. Your widened eyes fluttered closed, and you melted, arms tangling themselves around his neck as you kissed him back, but whether it was for the alibi or because you wanted to, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was that you were falling in love, and, now, your heart was buried with him.

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You did get the supplies, in the end. Food, water, ammunition, snacks, more vinyls. But three months later, that kiss lived rent-free in your head. That, and Claire didn’t let either of you live it down. Six, however, acted like the kiss didn’t happen. To top it off, your card and bank accounts had since been frozen -- took them long enough. Lately, anything and everything was making you feel frustrated. Maybe it was being stuck in hotel rooms most of the time, despite Claire’s company, or the fact that you, essentially, no longer existed. No, it wasn’t either of those things.

It was the fact that there was something entirely wrong with what had happened, your panicking aside. Six hadn’t explained why he had rushed the three of you out of the café. He hadn’t told you that nothing was wrong, after all. He had said, “you’re safe.” Which meant, in fact, that you were not safe. It meant that whoever had been following you was a threat -- a threat that Six believed he could take care of.

You didn’t say anything when he came back that night bruised. He was bleeding, too. You saw a gash on his forehead, (one of many, hidden ones, you later found out) and you weren’t sure if he even knew it was there. If he did, it was clear he didn’t much mind it. You merely appraised it, and the dark blood trailing down his left temple. When he finally acknowledged your eye, you raised a brow in question. A ghost of an amused smile appeared on his face.

“Nah, I’m good. You’re not getting an answer.” He replied, letting out a pained sound as he knelt to remove his boots.

You got a very good look of his ass before he straightened back up, but that was information you’d address later. Six was hurt, and hurt like a bitch. Maybe now was time to ask other questions, if he wouldn’t answer unspoken ones.

“Who was it that was following us?” You asked.

“Someone who wanted to use you to get to me.” Six replied. “If they even confirmed your identity. Dead now.”

Your mind started racing, through explanations and reasoning and emotions all at once. Stopped.

“Wait, so, you kissed me--”

“So that if they did, they would focus on you, instead of Claire. If they didn’t, they’d just think you were my panicking partner.”

“I’m bait?!” In spite of yourself, your voice rose in pitch and volume. You hated falling into the trope of emotional bitch, even if it was justified. Claire was asleep.

“Claire has a heart condition.” Six replied, tone deadpan, if not for the slight, buried reproach.

“I know that, thanks,” you replied sarcastically, turning away. “I’ll let you lick your wounds alone, then.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Six chirped. “Glad to see you care.”

Unconsciously, you let out a small, catty growl. You saw a gentle upturn of the lips; he’d heard it. Hadn’t you been through enough, already having been a target for once?

Six strode (stumbled) past you, only to let himself literally fall onto the couch with a groan, closing his eyes in exhaustion.

“Take off your shirt.”

“What?”

You said nothing, just disappeared into the bathroom, mind’s eye already searching for the hydrogen peroxide. When you reappeared in front of him, hydrogen peroxide and cotton swabs in hand, he raised a thin, blood-caked brow. It didn’t escape your sight that he hadn’t followed your instructions and removed his shirt, and, to be fair, you could reason why.

“You sure you know how to use those?”

You stood your ground in silence; you didn’t trust yourself to speak. You just wanted him to know you cared. He must’ve seen something in your eyes, because he shifted slightly.

“Alright.” He let out a sigh, and then removed his shirt. As the black fabric peeled off, revealing tanned, honeyed skin, you bit your lip. He had abs. And scars. And tattoos. You took note of the Sisyphus one -- you knew he liked mythology; he and Claire had in-depth discussions about various myths every road trip you’d taken, which you listened to with muted, but vested interest. Again, you wondered why Six kept you around, as you knelt down to dab at his wounds.

“Because I, surprisingly, like your company.”

You’d said that out loud? Shit. He let out a hiss of pain, glancing down as you swiped at his wounds. “‘Lotta blood. Looks like more than it is, really.”

“Shut up and let me focus.”

“What happened to letting me lick my wounds on my own?”

“You’ve basically collapsed onto the couch, I can’t just…” You trailed off, gesturing at his present state to finish your sentence. Leave you here, like this.

Six rolled his eyes. “Yes, you can. All you have to do is give me some puppy mouthwash and a rag; I can take care of myself.”

You blinked at that. “Oddly specific.”

“Because it happened. Stabbed with a pair of surgical scissors. Good thing is, he missed the liver and the kidney.”

“Ah.” You didn’t know what else to say, so you just kept disinfecting his wounds. Eventually, his torso glistened with peroxide, shining with the wonders of modern medicine. The gashes had relatively stopped bleeding, and all that was left to be done was bandage him back to health, which you finished soon enough. As you got to your feet, looking over your handiwork, he opened one stormy, blue-grey eye.

“Mind getting me a blanket?”

“No,” you replied, turning away to find something he could cover up with, hopefully hiding the blush you felt creeping into your skin. “You’re going to sleep on the couch?”

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

“Right…” You tossed the blanket his way, and he nimbly caught it with one hand. You noticed he winced, just slightly. “Sorry, I should’ve just given it to you.” Six didn’t respond, already adjusting the cover and his eyes closed again. You watched the rise and fall of his wounded torso, and let out a small sigh. You continued, feeling awkward. “Hey. I know I’ve been acting like a bitch, and I-- I’m sorry. I’m just… in over my head. Try to get some sleep.”

You let out an exhale, feeling a huge weight slide off your shoulders, turning to leave towards the bedroom. You weren’t sure he heard you. He probably did; he was a light sleeper, as far as you knew. You weren’t sure if you wanted an answer, but he spoke up -- voice gravelly, edging sleep and unconsciousness -- killing your indecision.

“I meant what I said: You’re safe. Promise.”

#sierra six #fae writes #sierra six x reader #courtland gentry #i love this man #the gray man 2022 #the gray man #court x reader #my fic #my writing #down bad for this man #working on chapter 2 now #if the formatting gets botched i will cry #chapter 1

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