#noa writes

nsfw

⤷I don’t think he has a whole lot of experience, he went to prison at fifteen and was recruited at twenty three. So I think he’s had a sex maybe a handful of times before you two get together.

⤷would say he would talk you through it as is the type but with his lack of experience you’re are going to be the one talking him through it at the beginning. He trusts you, the relationship you guys made was forged on trust, and trust is a huge thing for Court as he’s only ever really had a handful of people in his life he he can truly trust.

⤷is generally pretty quiet when you two are have sex, grunts and groans along with a few whispered “good girl” or a gentle “that’s it”. But when you’re giving him oral? He can’t shut up, he’s moaning, soft chants of your name along with “please” and “don’t stop”. If you had neighbours you’d be worried about noise complaints because boy is he loud.

⤷ really quite gentle and attentive during sex, he doesn’t want to hurt you, he knows his own strength. He’s expected to be rough, hard and ruthless during work but with you? He would never dream of hurting you. but if you ask very nicely he might put his big hands around your neck

⤷ extremely touchy and clingy when he gets back from being away for a long mission, wants to spend meaningful time with you, snuggle together on the sofa and go for walks, but on the other hand m, he doesn’t know when he’s going to be shipped off again and he needs to be in between your thighs and deep inside right now and preferably in that order, but honestly hes not fussy.

nsfw

⤷ he absolutely melts in to any praise uttered to him from your lips, a ‘yes Court’ when he’s fingering you has his fingers moving with pin point accuracy to keep stroking that spot inside you.

A mewled out ‘keep going baby, please’ has him hammering in to you, setting a relentless pace, his fingers finding your nipples and rolling them between him fingers.

A teasing ‘you can hold on a little bit longer for me, yeah?’ As your stroking his cock, looking up at him with deceivingly doe like eyes, has him clenching his fists at his sides, and trying his best to steady his breathing.

⤷ You can edge Court a little, as treat. It takes him a while to trust especially so intimately but when he does he loves giving over control to you sometimes. Laying back watching you through his fluttering lashes. You moving your hand up and down, watching for his tells, bringing him right to the edge, blood buzzing in his ears as he gets close, only to bring your hand away again. And his stamina is off the charts, so you know this can be dragged out for ages, you’re not too cruel though. After a few times your movements get a little faster, your head dips down lips parting to take him in your mouth. He comes hard, coming back to you breathless and dazed as you pepper kisses on his face telling him how good he did.

⤷ loves when you scratch him up, ranking your nails down his back, leaving red streaks there, catching on his shoulder blades as another roll of his hips has you throwing your head back, trying and ultimately falling to bite back a moan. His hand comes to lace through your hair, moving up from the nape of your neck, pulling your head forward to lean against his own. Half lidded eyes looking at you, a small smile pulling at his lips “my girl” he’ll whisper, in a tone that seems entirely too soft for the situation you’re in right now. Before he brushes his lips against yours, burying himself in you again and again.

You’ll see him later on, catching a glimpse of his back in the bathroom mirror, the light skin covered in red blotches. What you miss is the small smirk tugging at his lips before he pulls the shirt over his head and crawls back in to bed with you.

⤷I said it last time but I’m going in to more detail, the oral fixation this man has is lethal. He’ll lift you up, putting you down on the edge of the bed, legs dangling off of it, sinking to his knees as he kiss’ his way down your chest, stomach thighs, he’s really becoming such a tease. Hooking his fingers around your trousers and underwear pulling them off in one motion, leaving them discarded on the floor. He’ll press soft kisses to the inside of your thighs, with a dark expression glinting in his eyes.

One hand comes up to hook a knee over his shoulder the other splaying out over your lower stomach, and pushing down gently before he delves in between your thighs. Tonge lapping at your folds like a man possessed. His mouth sealing around your clit, alternating between sucking and flicking his tongue against it. Having you chanting his name as you grind against his face.

⤷ and honestly you aren’t much better, as soon as your mouth wraps around him he’s already seeing stars. You pull his foreskin back to expose the head of his cock, your tongue swirls over his tip before you sink your mouth down around him, hollowing your cheeks. Moving up and down so that soon he can’t form any coherent thought, half formed words come out in choked growls, you manage to catch a ‘please’ and ‘god yes’ before you take him in your mouth entirely, sucking him in before he finishes in your mouth, hips sputtering against your lips.

Court is not a head pusher! He may rest his hands on either side of your head, raking his nails through your hair, guiding you slightly but never pushing.

⤷most of the time when he comes home he’ll greet you and almost immediately strip off and get in the shower, washing off the dirt, blood, grime and god knows what else off of him. But sometimes, he’ll get home late, long after the house has gone dim, you’re curled up in bed, tv playing repeats of some show you’ve already seen. He strips off and crawls in to bed as he is, bone tired after being on the go for days on end.

You wake up to him pressed against you, you bury your nose in to his hair picking up the scent of gunpowder and sweat. Once he rouses awake, he tries to get away, to clean himself up but you don’t relent so easily. You know he doesn’t really want that shower now anyway, you can feel him, his thickness pressed against your leg twitching and hard, you cant yours hips against his and, yeah maybe that shower can wait until later.

⤷other times when he’s gotten back from being away for a long while he’s almost the opposite. Adrenaline still coursing through his veins, mind swimming with thoughts of you, needy for you after being away from you for an extended period of time. He comes through the door, slipping on his wedding ring and dropping his bags before finding you sat on the sofa. His hands slide up the sides of your face, his tongue tracing along your bottom lip.

He slept a lot when he got back, mostly due to his body being completely exhausted and the medications asking a lot of him. You felt awful watching him, he was behind glass, it felt like he was some animal in a cage, he would be pacing if his body allowed him too. You didn't know him before he launched, no one here did. But you had heard plenty about him. 

Everyone had. 

Earth's saving Grace.

And now it is down to your team to make what he has to live with at least manageable. This team had kind of been haphazardly thrown together, you're heading most of it along with a few other scientists, there to come up with medical miracles that you couldn't quite manage.

The best they could get in the short notice they had. Given the circumstances, you all worked effectively together and after all, he wasn't meant to come back. There was a blip that got bigger and bigger, hurtling towards earth. It was only a few days out when they realised what it was. As soon as he landed a team of fifteen people were on him, he was hooked up to machines, iv's catheters the whole works. 

He was transferred to a small medical facility just outside of San fransisco, home turf for you both apparently. Although with how long he's been gone you're not sure how 'at home' he will feel if he wakes up long enough to be coherent enough for someone to tell him where he is and what's going on.  

 A few days of tests confirmed that he was in the late stages of renal failure, and would need a transplant soon, but he was on dialysis to try and get some of the fluid off of his organs. His legs, femur and hip bones have multiple hair line fractures, you and the other doctors are currently trying to figure out if you need to do a hip replacement for him or if multiple small pieces of metal will do the trick, the running theory is both would be preferable. 

Multiple blood tests show extremely heavy levels of metal in his blood. 

Mercury to be exact.

This is why you had ordered multiple tests, because the levels were nothing like you or anyone had ever seen before. Even text book high didn't cover this, the renal failure and exhaustion make a lot more sense after finding this out. He's started treatment, but the dialysis is cleaning up his blood quite effectively, so it's not on the top of his list of issues. Along with the blood poisoning his white blood cells were absolutely shot and the fact he's alive at all is, frankly, a miracle. 

With his white blood cell count and none of you really knowing how fragile his immune system was, he was being kept in a clean room. Small speakers placed on either side so you can communicate, when he is more conscious. 

You're sure there are issues that are being masked by the more glaringly obvious medical problems, but for now he's stable, which is more than what you could say a few days ago. 

And you weren't worried about him. Not really.

You were worried about the data.

A man surviving sixteen years in deep space was unprecedented. The physiological effects alone would fill journals for decades.

The fact that you checked on him before you checked the latest blood work every morning didn't mean much of anything. It was routine, one that you fell into easily. 

You're a doctor by name, not particularly by nature. Most of your work before this was based around species, petri dishes and test tubes. Having a real tangible human in front of you made you itch, it made you worry. The way bacteria on a slide never could quite manage. 

You had never really fit the mould that the medical field seemed to push. Your bedside manner was never quite up to it. 

You had been marked as "gifted," "promising," "has potential" and "talented in her field" and many other words to avoid the words they really wanted to use. "Obsessive," "challenging to work with" and generally "odd."

It didn't bother you as much any more, your skin got thicker with age. 

"Our boy's really been through the wringer, huh?" a doctor adds next to you. Dr Robert Michales, an expert in rehabilitation sciences. He was here to help with Ryland's recovery plans, he must have written pages and pages worth, and he was still nowhere near finishing. 

His voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You were standing worrying the nail on your thumb as you stare at his resting body through the glass, the lights in there dimmed, you thought the fluorescent light would be too much for him when he wakes up, if he wakes up. 

"Huh? Oh yeah…" you trail off, he certainly had.

 What you wanted to know is where he had been for the sixteen years that he has been gone. You know pods were sent back, that's how the sun is still shining. But on the other hand you know how tight lipped Eva Stratt has been about those pods, apart from the taumoeba, which was shipped off to every continent around the world. And if she wasn't a fugitive you are sure she would have visited your little compound the moment he was shipped here. 

What you've heard from before, he was brilliant. You'd read his paper, and it was absolutely brilliant. Proven wrong by him before he was sent off. But his points were solid and if you didn't know any better you would have believed him that water based life is not the only valid form of evolution. But unfortunately none of that mattered at this present point. 

Currently it was week two since he had gotten back to earth, and Ryland had woken up a total of three times, all extremely brief. His eyes opening for a few moments and then closing again, a slight stir, nothing to write home about. But the general consensus was that he was stable and moods were high that, in time, he would wake. The disagreements around the centre mostly stirred for when the medical procedures should be done.

He needed a new kidney a year ago, and some doctors urged you to do it now. Get it over and done with. Your argument is that he is nowhere near strong enough to survive that level of surgery, and you want to be ethical and explain to him what's going on, he's not stupid, he probably already knows some of the extent of what's going on, but you want to be sure. And you didn't want to be the one who put earth's saviour in the ground because you wanted to jump the gun, and push his body before it was ready. 

______________________

You find yourself fiddling with the sleeve of your cardigan, as you sit in front of the glass of Ryland's room.

Other doctors say that they're never sure if people in this state are aware of others being around them, if they can hear people talking to them, but we should assume that they can. 

So you're choosing to believe that he knows you're there, you're not sure anymore who's benefiting more from the exercise. 

It was late Saturday, or maybe early Sunday. You weren't too sure if it made much of a difference. The building had become dim hours ago. 

The only people that remained on the premises were security and their dogs.  

Your laptop sits on your thighs, eyes occasionally drifting back to the scientist's unconscious form. The machines that whir in here keep a kind of stable white noise that you're able to sink into. Your fingers moved along the keys, typing out yet another update to the American government's elites. Every email you had sent out over the past fifteen days read much along the same lines with the key points being:

Improving.

Not conscious.

Stabilizing.

Not coherent.

They want to be in the know, to be informed, and you can't blame them. But you know why they want him up. They're going to bombard him with questions and interviews from the moment he's able to speak. 

If they can get past you, that is. 

You're in charge of this, you've already had to dodge some press to get back to your apartment. You would stay here if it wasn't for your cat, who you have recently had to hire a pet sitter for. Although he seems less than impressed by the imitation of an owner that they provide. But if you think Ryland isn't stable enough to answer questions then you can skim the state of his coherence, and you will if the time and need arises. 

Your eyes dragged to the digital clock on your computer screen.

Two fifty AM.

You bring the sleeves of your cardigan to wipe the tears that had collected in your eyes, and let out another small yawn. You pulled the laptop screen towards you. Snuffing out the light source.

Your head rests against the cool metal table behind you letting out a heavy breath, pushing yourself up, grabbing your bag from the coat hook and shrugging on your jacket, your hand fishes for your keys.

"Goodnight Ryland" 

______________________

The next week continues much the same. Ryland has dialysis every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. 

He has Chelation therapy on the other remaining days. His blood work is improving, slowly climbing up. 

His bandages on his legs are checked, and then rechecked. Kept elevated to a thirty degree angle, immobilised. Ice applied twice daily to help with the swelling. His hip is less than stable, the question of a replacement becomes less so if, and more when. 

Leading you to be sat in a room, with a laminated 'DO NOT DISTURB' sign quickly tacked to the door. Discussing whether a hip replacement trumps a kidney transplant. 

You look down at the table, and try to focus on anything except the medical professionals surrounding you arguing, again. 

This carries on without any consensus for what feels like forever, but in reality is somewhere near the fifteen minute mark, pushing you to get involved. 

"Enough." 

You say with a more than exasperated sigh.

"He will have the transplant when he is ready" your fingers come up to pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes screwing shut. They're restless, you understand and try to empathise. 

Try.

"He can live without a hip for a few months" you say, voice staying as steady as you can manage. "if we manage his pain correctly then-" 

"No"

Your head shoots towards the sound, and a scowl unintentionally appears on your face. The interruption comes from a Dr Thomas Shepard, one of the senior doctors leading the surgery team. 

Your eye twitches at the interruption. 

"What?" 

"A hip replacement is standard surgery" he states, shoulders set back, hands already motioning as if to emphasize his point. His mouth pulls taut as he finishes his words with a huff that lands somewhere between a sigh and a humourless laugh. 

"And the recovery is not standard, I'm not arguing with you about this" you state, as you stare at him. 

He looks back apathetically.

Your cheeks heat up slightly, you feel it travel down the back of your neck, the silence rolls off the walls. 

He's not done.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head.

"Do you understand what happens if he loses a hip and a kidney?" he persists and you can't fault his vigor.

"Do you understand what happens if he dies on the table?" you ask, willing your voice to stay measured.

"He's dying now." he states, with a pointed glare. "Youre going against my medical judgement, because you can't see anything that doesn't align with the way you want this to go" Thomas' voice raises this time. His hands coming down on to the desk in front of him.  "If you keep sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, his life won't be the only thing on the line" He continues, and you continue to stare.

"He is my patient as much as he is yours, I want him to survive and I want-" 

"Stop, you don't run this place you're only in charge due to technicalities-"

"He has been unconscious for the better part of a month, I'm not putting him under for eight hours to perform two surgeries, that's the end of this conversation" you say, making the effort to form every word fully, cutting him off before he can go on anymore. You try to open your mouth to continue but your throat tightens.

This isn't about Ryland. 

He doesn't like that you are thinking about recovery time.

He doesn't like that you are treating Ryland as a human. Not some guinea pig that he can see how many surgeries he can do within the space of one scrub in before he's nominated for honorary doctorate or whatever angle he is peddling for. 

You push yourself up away from the table, walking towards the door, feeling eyes scorching down your back you open the door and leave. 

______________________

You sit in an unoccupied lab, running tests, running Rylands blood through the centrifuge again and again. 

Busying yourself until the building goes quiet again, and you can go back downstairs without feeling like an outsider. 

Your notes sit sprawled out in front of you, laid out in a quiet chaos between the microscope and a collection of beakers and funnels.  

The far away lights of San Francisco filter through the small windows. Your hair is tied back, the feeling of it on the back of your neck feels wrong, aggravating you more than it should. Your gloved hands push the button and the centrifuge whirs to life again. 

Last one. You promise yourself. 

You're not sure what you're looking for really.

Any abnormalities? He's been off planet for sixteen years. Every test you've taken has been abnormal. 

Anything more abnormal?

You're reasoning with yourself now, maybe it is time to cut your losses and go home.

You know why you're really here. You got rattled earlier and you're going back to what you know.

Going back to what's safe. 

You shake your glove clad hands out, a small breath making its way past your pursed lips. This is silly, you're being silly.

You start tidying the lab up, slipping off your gloves and discard them into the metal bin. Bundle up your notes, placing them into your note book, bagging up the slim few normalites you found and dispensing the other samples. You gather your apron, placing it in the wash bin as you shut the lights off, the door closes behind you and you instinctively wait for the small click of the lock before making your way through the corridors and down toward the front door.

Grab your bag, grab your coat and leave. 

The lights spark to life around you as you walk towards the viewing lab. You reach down, pulling your jumper sleeve back to check your watch, eleven forty one PM. 

You let out a huff and lace your fingers together, stretching them out in front of you, rolling your neck. 

Your eyes glance over to Grace's room, more out of habit than anything else. Flitting away almost as quickly as they had moved before you stop in your tracks and fully turn.

He's sat up. 

Eyes open, hand spread out over the back of his neck. 

Your eyes widen and you freeze, letting out a small "Ryland?" it sits somewhere between a question and a choke. 

Your body freezes, you don't know what to do. You've imagined this moment, everyone would be here, he would rouse slowly, people would be there to help. In those scenes you are calm, collected. 

Here you are anything but.

Your movements feel sloppy. Your body is not quite catching up with what your brain wants it to do. 

His eyes meet yours, squinting at the lights illuminating the room you're occupying. 

You move quickly to dim them. You fumble with the console on the wall, your fingers finding the dial and rolling it to the left and the bright fluorescents are brought down to a small glow.

You meet his frame again, scanning him by instinct.

Your brain comes up blank, words caught in your throat as he looks at you as though you are some alien creature, and to him you probably are. White lab coat thrown over your arm, messy hair pulled back from your face, tired eyes widening at him. His eyebrows pull together in a mixture of confusion and fear, you think, you can't entirely place it. 

You move forward slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. Your breaths are intentional, coming out in a measured rhythm. 

"Youve been unconscious for twenty three days" 

You pause, biting the inside of your cheek and shaking your head.

"Sorry, thats probably not-" you cut yourself off, straightening your shoulders.

"How are you feeling?" you ask dumbly, placing your note book on the desk. 

He stares at you as a small scoff comes from his lips and his hand moves to comb through his hair "I've been better." 

His voice comes out with a slight slur, his words jumble together but you can make it out, just about.

You nod curtly. Of course he has. Your hands find your lanyard, fingers tangling around the thin fabric that is attached securely at your hip. 

You can see him thinking. Looking around, movements muted but not quite sluggish, 

Your hand raises, fingers spreading out of your chest. You introduce yourself, starting with your name. You explain what's happening and how he got here. 

Pausing.

And then continuing. 

You do this often, you want him to be able to digest what you're telling him, not just hear you.  

He nods every so often, looking at you and urging you to continue. Some of what you're saying seems to surprise him, but most he just nods with a dejected look playing on his features. 

"You have renal failure, neither of your kidneys are working" you mutter out softly, eyes watching him through the glass. 

He nods, a small huff and a "okay." Giving you what you need to continue.

"Mercury poisoning." you add, leaning on the side of one of the rows of elevated desks, hip bumping against it slightly.

"Makes sense" 

His eyes moving to meet yours.

"Does it?" you ask too quickly, leaning forward. "You have enough mercury in your bloodstream to concern several toxicologists, and it 'makes sense'?"  

"Long story" he says, trying to stand, a flash of worry strikes your features. 

"Don't!" it comes out too harshly, too loud. You bring your hand up to your mouth, covering it as you step forward quickly. 

"Don't stand up please, you have fourteen fractures through your legs" you say slow and measured. Hand pressed against the glass, urging him not to move, as a shuddered breath escapes your lips. 

"I don't feel anything" he remarks, moving his legs back onto the bed. You do your best to hide a wince seeing him move so easily.

"Good, that's the point" you say, head nodding towards the infusion pump. 

You peel your fingers away from the glass. Trying not to stare, you don't want him to feel like he's on display, even though for all intents and purposes, he technically is. You only really realise now that the room gives no where for him to go, no where for him to hide from the prying eyes that will undoubtedly be on him tomorrow. You put a mental note to try and do something about that, although until he's able to move around more reliably by himself, you doubt much will come of your endeavour. 

A small breath leaves you after a small beat of silence. 

"I can show you your charts, if you'd like?" 

A tentative question. It might be too much for him right now. But you want him to know what's going on. Or at least have a small idea before the chaos of tomorrow begins when everyone else finds out he's awake. 

He lets out a small nod, eyes searching the room. 

"Are there more people here?" he asks, as you move swiftly around the lab. Picking up his report, the most recent reading, pulling up his charts on your laptop. 

You nod, looking over your shoulder at him "I may be good Dr. Grace, but I'm not that good" you hum, and start rattling off the teams of people in the hospital. 

"Tommorow is going to be a lot, but you'll get through it" you offer with a smile, you see a look you can't decipher play across his features, as you lay out his charts across the floor "I'll be here, if you want anything to stop, just say, and it will stop, promise."

You sit on the floor, legs crossed beneath you, you look up at him to find him peering down, eyes focused on you. 

You begin going through everything. It's more to give him something he can see, something tangible to everything that you've already told him.

Ultra sounds.

X-rays. 

Blood work. 

Toxicology reports. 

You explain everything. Absolutely everything, maybe in too much detail but he doesn't stop you. He sits. He nods, he interrupts every now and then with questions. You answer them earnestly, telling him what plans are in the works, the operations, the tests, the medications, but ensuring to keep reminding him that he is coming on every day and his outcome looks good. But you can see the flicker of doubt flash across his eyes. 

You don't blame him.

 He got sent off to space, a mission he was supposed to die on.

Only to come back sixteen years later, to a world he doesn't know. 

"You're a good teacher" he mutters, almost mindlessly,  his hand resting on his chin, legs crossed as you continue going through his charts. 

You stop to glance at him, a smile crossing your face, not quite reaching your eyes. You stare at him for a beat too long, before your eyes rest back on the laptop sitting to the side of you, facing towards Ryland. 

"Thank you" your voice lowers slightly when you say it. 

You take a breath in before speaking again "should we leave it there tonight?" you ask. 

What you really mean is "I can stay, but I don't want to overload you with medical talk." 

You can also see the yawns he's been trying to suppress whilst you've been talking.  

He nods with a sleepy expression "Can you stay?" 

"Yeah, for a little while longer, sure" you mumble, closing the laptop screen and pulling your knees up to your chest. 

You feel your lips press together when you see the way he's looking at you. He's fighting to stay awake, like a child trying to prove they can stay up past their bedtime. The sleepy look on his face only makes your chest swell more, you've been trying to keep his humanity in mind, waiting for him to be able to have his say in the things that will permanently impact his life but when he's in front of you like this it all becomes very real.

He looked so vulnerable sitting there, behind the glass. Needles sticking out from the sleeves of his hospital gown, some attached to small bags of different coloured liquid, others laying flat against his skin. Bruises litter his arms and the back of his hands. 

"Were you on your own?" you ask, almost regretting it as soon as it leaves your mouth "up there?" your head gesturing up. You can't imagine how lonely he must have been. His crew dying before he even woke up, and carrying on despite it. 

With all the eyes on him tomorrow, he won't be feeling lonely anymore. 

So for tonight you can keep him company. 

He shakes his head "no." 

"No?" you repeat, trying to urge him to continue, but with the small conversation you've already had you don't think he's going to let much on. He doesn't trust you, of course. He's woken up in an unusual place with an unusual woman, telling him he's going to be sick for the rest of his life. 

"She didn't share them?" he asks, a flash of worry crosses his face and your head cocks to the side, it's been a long day and it takes you a little longer to clock on than it should. 

"Stratt?" you question, not completely confident in your answer, but luckily enough, he nods. "Oh no, she did" you raise your hand to run a hand through your hair, pulling out your pony tail "The Taumoeba was shipped off to everyone, the sun's still shining" you smile. You expect him to return it, but the look on his face eludes that there's more to this, that you didn't really answer his question. 

His eyes dart to the corner of the room, you can see him rolling the idea around in his head. The idea of telling you a small fraction of what happened up there. Once it's out he can't take it back, and he knows that as well as you do. His eyes go anywhere but to meet yours. From your knowledge of space travel, which is limited, you know he did not spend sixteen years on the Hail Mary.

The space craft itself is a marvel, built to go further than any man made object had before. It was built to last, but there had very obviously been some improvements, some modifications done whilst he was out there. The material looked normal enough at a glance but you'd heard whispers that it was something extraterrestrial. The ship was shipped off almost as quickly as Ryland was. But there must have been something out there, someone intelligent enough to have materials to help fix a space craft. 

"You don't have to tell me" you quip quietly, 

 "I wouldn't trust me either." you say, the humour evident in your voice, looking up at him, chin resting on your knees. 

He throws you a look, "it's not that I don't want to, I don't know where I'd start" he huffs, hands motioning mindlessly. A half truth you think, but you don't want to push him. Not anymore than you already have. 

"Tell you what" you say, pushing yourself up, brushing yourself off before walking up closer towards the glass again. "Get some sleep, if you're still feeling up for it tomorrow, you can tell me then." 

Ryland looks at you with a timid smile "Okay" he replies. You turn to grab your bag, throwing your coat over your arm, the idea of your bed now sounding less appealing. Although you know you'll need your rest for tomorrow. As much of it as you can get, but with the way your head is swimming now you don't know how easily sleep will come. 

"Ill see you tomorrow" he calls to you, as you finish clearing away his paperwork, storing it back in the cabinet. 

At least, that's how your superiors had presented it. Naturally, they neglected to mention that Sierra Six was less an agent and more of a highly trained assassin, you'd manage to discover that little detail all by yourself. There was nothing official, of course. Sierra operatives were ghosts on paper, off the books, unacknowledged. Still, after some digging, you'd managed to piece together enough information to know exactly what kind of man you'd been partnered with.

The CIA wanted their money back quietly and MI6 wanted Treasury oversight to ensure every penny was accounted for. Personally, you suspected neither side wanted to waste one of their own agents babysitting financial records, but you weren't paid to think, you were paid to count. Which is how you've ended up sharing a hotel suite with Sierra Six, sporting matching wedding bands and preparing to perform the role of devoted newlyweds.

The fake marriage had been the CIA's idea, of course. It felt aggressively American.

Both of you had been issued a summary of your fabricated history together: where you'd met, where you'd supposedly lived, the dates of fake holidays and anniversaries, even small details designed to make the lie convincing. You shake your head before your thoughts are interrupted when Six appears behind you in the mirror.

He's carrying a garment bag draped over one shoulder.

"What's that?" you ask, turning around to face him.

He hangs it on the back of the bathroom door. "Your dress," his answer is so matter-of-fact that you blink.

"I brought my own," you say with a huff, a small smile tugs at your lips as you turn back to your makeup.

"This one matches my suit," his voice carries the familiar edge of irritation you've come to recognise very quickly.

"I didn't exactly get a say in that either, if it makes you feel any better," he continues, the small grumble ever present in his tone. 

You glance at him through the mirror and he plants his hands on his hips, head facing downward before turning toward the door.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he mutters: "Besides, we need them looking at you, not me." Your eyebrows draw together at that and curiosity wins. You cross the bathroom and pull down the zipper of the garment bag. Inside hangs a stunning red satin gown, the fabric catching the light like liquid fire. The skirt falls in elegant folds, expensive enough that you're suddenly afraid to touch it.

You stare at it for a moment before looking back towards where he stood, before you can retort he's already gone. You let out a small frustrated huff, before you move back towards the mirror, kicking the door closed behind you. You finish off your make up with the dress sitting on the door behind you, mocking you. You move towards it again pulling out of the bag, you tilt your head to the side, trying to size it up.

It's fitted.

The CIA knowing your dress size should be less of a surprise than it is, but it still sends a small shiver down your spine, you push it down. There's no time to worry about what the CIA does or doesn't know about you, knowing that the list of things they don't know probably rounds out to a solid zero. 

You slide into the dress with ease, smoothing down the fabric taking in one last look at your reflection and with a soft sigh. You open the door, finding Six standing next to the bed. 

"What is your name, anyway?" you ask, slipping out of the bathroom as you move closer towards him, the question makes him pause. You sit on the edge of the bed, slipping on your heels as he finishes adjusting his tie. You swiftly stand up towards him, your hands replacing his.

"Or should I call you Six all evening?" you smile as you lean over towards him, a teasing smirk playing on your lips. He shoots a look your way that you can't quite decipher it.  

"Six is fine," he says, eyes casting over the mirror, giving you both one last look, making sure you both look the part, that you look believable enough. His arm slips around your waist and drops his voice "lets go" as he leads you towards the door. 

There is little small talk in the lift on the way down, mostly keeping each other in check. He quizzes you on your anniversary and other important dates, quietly in your ear aware of the cameras that decorate almost every inch of this place, you answer him with ease, leaning your head closer towards his, keeping your voice low. You try to keep your breathing steady, you haven't had the chance to really appreciate it until now but he is extremely handsome. 

The sharp curve of his jaw, those blue eyes that have you sussed out before you even get a look in, and the way he's looking at you, even though you know it's the job, playing the role of the doting husband, the look he's giving you makes your chest swell. You drag your eyes away from him, you need to get a grip, Focus, do your job and go home, that's it, that's the job. 

The lift dings as the doors slowly pull open, you can hear the throb of conversation filling the room even before the doors fully open, "here's where the fun begins" he breathes out. 

Your eyes scan across the room, Fitzroy is sat at the bar, he's here as a precaution, another measure, another pair, of eyes to make sure everything goes smoothly, or so you've been told, you think it's just in case Six goes rogue and Fitzroy is the only person he listens to. You start moving through the crowds of people, Six's hand sliding from your waist on to your lower back, behind you helping guide you through the party-goers. You slip into a bar stool next to Fitzroy as he throws you both a small smile. 

"You got anything for us?" Six questions, elbows leaning on the bar next to you, as he tries to flag down one of the bartenders, who seemed to be coasting through the chaos, just about. 

"A few whispers," Fitzroy says lowly, as he takes a sip of his drink "I would keep an eye on those three" angling his head slightly towards a darker corner in the ball room. The Three men were standing together, one was holding a brief case as the other two stood around him. To your untrained eyes, apart from looking a little twitchy, looking over their shoulders and talking in low whispers they didn't seem to look extremely guilty, but seeing the way Six was now watching them made you question your prior judgments. 

You know all the money won't be in there, not with the amount you've been told about. That is probably a biometric key or another kind of passkey that, when you get your hands  on it, will be handed over to MI6 for their great minds to crack open, and you can find something to occupy yourself until they get the money up and you can count through it. 

Your gaze briefly returns to the mahogany table of the bar, fingers drawing small mindless patterns there, only half listening to what Six and Donlad are talking about. You send a smile towards the bartender as he meets your gaze and mirrors your smile. 

"What can I get for you?"  he asks, voice drifting above the thrum of conversation surrounding you. He dressed smartly, put together and collected among the moving bodies behind the bar, you rolled off some expensive sounding fruity cocktail.

Before you can finish your order you feel a hand slip on to the small of your back, weight resting there, Six. His gentle voice rattles out behind you requesting some strong sounding spirit, placing a small kiss on the top of your head. You feel a small sigh slip out, plastering a smile onto your lips. 

Six continues his conversation with Fitzroy as the bartender slips your drinks over to the both of you. You throw him 'thank you' as Six taps his card into the reader. Your head drifts up at the mention of your name.

"You got that?" Six asks with a look, you nod without looking up, shooting him a small thumbs up. It's all becoming real now, you let out a shaky breath, trying your best to conceal it by taking a sip of your drink. 

The drink barely reaches your lips before everything begins to move, at first it's subtle.

One of the men in the corner separates from the others, briefcase still securely in his hand, weaving through the crowd with practiced sort of ease, the other two linger behind, pretending to admire a sculpture positioned near the ballroom doors, too still and far too aware.

Six catches it before anyone else.

"Come on" he whispers.

You don't react beyond taking another sip of your cocktail. Fitzroy downs the last of his whisky and rises from his stool with a tired groan, looking every bit the ageing businessman who'd had enough of networking for one evening. He wanders off in the opposite direction without another glance your way.

The operation had started. You and Six drift onto the ballroom floor together as another waltz begins. Couples move around you in slow circles beneath glittering chandeliers, conversation blending with the orchestra until every sound becomes one continuous hum, his hand settles at your waist.

"Smile" he says through half gritted teeth.

"I am smiling." you reply, with slightly narrowed eyes.

"It looks painful" he says with a sly smile pulling at his lips.

"It is"

For the first time that evening, the corner of his mouth twitches.

"You wound me" he murmurs softly, as you continue to spin softly to the music. 

"Oh no, for that I'd need something considerably sharper" you say with a disarming smile.

He huffs a quiet laugh that almost catches you off guard, the movement of the dance carries you naturally around the room. Every few seconds he subtly adjusts your direction, steering the two of you closer to the exchange without anyone noticing.

"Blue tie," he murmurs, chin barely moving, you glance past his shoulder.

"By the pillars?" you ask, voice low as you move in time with the music.

Your eyes flick briefly towards him before returning to Six.

"Security?" you question, you think its a reasonable suggestion, this party is swimming with people who have more money than they know what to do with and-

"No" Six responds, cutting off your train of thought. 

"How can you tell?" 

"He keeps checking exits" Six replies, eyes meeting yours.

You swallow, the more you look, the more it becomes obvious. Another man stood beside a champagne tower with an earpiece almost hidden beneath his neatly combed hair, and a woman in an emerald gown hadn't touched the drink she'd been carrying for nearly ten minutes. They weren't guests, they were waiting.

"You CIA are incredibly paranoid" you murmur, giving his hand a small squeeze, you're not sure if the action is more to comfort you or him, although apart from looking a little tense this close, he doesn't look worried. Maybe you shouldn't be surprised, you know the sort of things he does, not explicitly, of course, but through rumors, gossip. It's difficult to imagine when the man behind those larger than life tales has done nothing but try to guide you through all of this since the beginning of the evening.

"We're usually right" he says with a huff as the song comes to a close. 

Applause scatters politely around the ballroom before conversations resume and without missing a beat, Six leans down, pressing his lips briefly against your temple.

Anyone watching would see nothing more than an affectionate husband.

"You've got lipstick on me," he mutters.

"I absolutely did not" you mumble, eyebrows pulling together as you look towards him.

"My collar says otherwise," his eyes meet yours for the briefest second "fix it."

You sigh dramatically before reaching up, smoothing an imaginary mark from his collar while straightening his tie.

"You nearly strangled me" he says, a knowing grin, falling across his features. 

You scoff at his words "Oh I'm considering it."

"I'm touched" he smiles, a hand coming up to push hair off of your shoulder, the action sending a small shiver through you as his finger tips brush against the bare skin of your shoulder. 

"You won't be if you keep complaining" you sneer, before you stiffen slightly, feeling someone approach you from behind. 

"You two are adorable" the voice rings out, an elegantly dressed older woman smiles warmly, champagne flute balanced delicately in her manicured fingers.

"How long have you been married?"she asks as you turn to face her, feeling your skin run hot as you almost freeze.

Shit. 

Then your training, or rather, several frantic hours of memorising CIA paperwork, takes over.

"Three years" you answer with an easy smile.

"Four in September" Six corrects gently, slipping an arm around your waist, looking down at you with a quirked eyebrow.

You glance up at him with mock offence, "I was seeing if you remembered." 

"I never forget anniversaries" he says with a practised charm, soft gaze resting on you. 

"Liar" you tease, nose crinkling at him. 

The woman laughs "Oh, that's exactly how my husband and I used to argue" 

Six smiles with an effortless charm "I've learned apologising is usually easier"

"Very wise" She chuckles, giving you a small pat on the arm before wandering back into the crowd.

The second she's gone you mutter through your teeth, "Four in September?"

"I was testing you" he says, taking a drink from the champagne flute he managed to swiftly grab from a passing by waiter "You panicked."

"I adapted." you remark, reaching for the glass, and he moved his arm back with effortless ease.

"You improvised," he said, "that sort of thing can get you killed in this line of work."

You scoffed, he knows as well as you do that this is not your day job "It worked."

"It almost didn't."

You open your mouth to argue that the difference of a year to some curious lady at a party is not a life or death ordeal, before you feel his hand tighten ever so slightly against your waist, his eyes narrowing towards the edge of the ballroom.

"Don't look" which of course made you desperately want to, "they're on the move."

Your pulse jumps, and it takes every muscle in you to fight against your instincts to turn to look at them.

"They're moving?" you question, he replies with a small nod.

You continue smiling, while your eyes follow his instructions, indirectly catching reflections in mirrors and crystal decorations instead of staring outright. The man with the briefcase was heading towards a quieter corridor beside the ballroom, another approached from the opposite direction.

Neither acknowledged the other.

Professionals.

"The case?" you ask quietly.

"Not money" he states and you agree with a small nod. "Probaly an access key" you say quietly, voice just above a whisper so only he can hear you.

"Most likely" he agree's, his eyes wandering around the room, looking for exits, ways in, ways out and everything in between, like he can predict this might go sideways. 

"What do you need me to do?" you ask, eyes focused intently on him, you could feel your pulse slightly quicken again. 

"Exactly what we discussed" he says slowly, his voice losing any trace of humour.

You nod, recounting your conversation on the journey here "I intercept"

"You verify" he correct's you softly. 

"And if something goes wrong?" you ask softly, although you're pretty sure you already know what his answer will be. 

"You leave" he states, eyes meeting yours, looking at you with a scrutinising gaze "You don't wait for me, I'll catch up."

You don't answer, because you both know that isn't really a promise.

The pair disappear through the corridor entrance, Six quickly collects two fresh champagne flutes from a passing waiter before handing one to you.

He offers his arm, "ready, darling?"

You slip your arm through his with an exaggerated smile "I thought you'd never ask." 

Together you leave the ballroom, the music fades behind you with every step. The corridor outside is quieter, lined with expensive paintings and polished marble floors that reflect the warm glow of ornate wall lamps, the sounds of the gala became distant, muffled by thick glass and closed doors.

Halfway down the hall, Six slowed and without looking at you he murmured "Two guards pretending to be guests"

You resisted the urge to search for them instead falling into step with Six "I didn't even see them" you mumble, taking a quick sip of your drink. 

"You weren't supposed to" he responds, eyes fixated on a spot in the distance. They continued walking until they reached an alcove overlooking another hallway. The briefcase exchange had already begun, one man unlocked the cuff from around his wrist that you hadn't even noticed was there until now, securing it to the other man as he handed him what looked like a small key card. 

A swap, quick, clean and almost disappointingly uneventful.

Six checked his watch "thirty seconds" he says quietly. 

"For what?" you ask, with a glance over to the exchange. 

"They'll separate" he shrugs, finishing off his drink and placing the glass on to a window sill.

Almost on cue, the two men nodded to one another before turning in opposite directions.

One disappeared towards the service elevators.

The other headed back towards the ballroom carrying the case.

"Go stand over there" Six breathed, head nodding towards the window, you shot him a questioning look, he gives you a small push encouraging you to move. 

As the courier passed, Six stumbled deliberately into him.

Arm coming up to secure around his neck dragging him closer towards the wall as shadows envelope them both. Your head whips forward, staring out the window towards the lavish gardens surrounding the hotel, although you could feel your attention pulling as you heard the wet gasps of the man struggling behind you. 

You hear a final wheeze and a wet crack that sends a shiver down your spine, Six walks forward, adjusting his jacket with the brief case in hand. 

"What-" you stutter, as his hand slips into yours. 

"Walk" he says calmly. 

You did, although every instinct in you screamed at you to look back.

"You just-"

"Later" he spoke, speeding up slightly, tugging you along with him. 

You reached the end of the corridor before Six peeled away towards a side hallway, pushing the brief case into your arms.

"Five minutes," he says "and If I'm not there-"

"I leave" you repeat, locking eyes with him. 

"Good" he says quickly and with that he disappears through the door without another word, going to deal with the poor guy who took the service elevator.

You inhaled slowly.

Five minutes.

Easy.

Simple.

You adjust your grip on the briefcase and lift your dress as you start walking towards the designated rendezvous point. You made it back through the door to the main ballroom before the first attacker slammed into your shoulder.

The impact spun you sideways and someone shouted.

The ballroom erupted behind you and then came the unmistakable crack of a gunshot, panic swept through the hotel like wildfire.

Guests screamed and security rushed in every direction.

Your only thought was the briefcase.

You ran or you tried too, someone grabs on to your wrist.

You manage to quickly twist free.

Another figure appeared from the crowd, reaching for the case, you ducked beneath his arm and shove through a group of terrified guests flooding into the corridor.

Your breathing came fast now.

Every instinct told you to find Six.

Instead you remembered his orders.

Keep moving.

Don't stop.

You almost reached the emergency stairwell.

Almost.

A heavy body crashed into your back, driving you into the wall hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. The briefcase nearly slipped from your grasp before you clutched it tighter again against your chest.

You shoved backwards with everything you had, catching the man just enough to stagger him.

It bought you all of three seconds.

Not long but it was enough, it had to be enough. 

You ran again.

Someone grabs the back of your dress, a shedding sound pulses out behind you as the satin tore.

You spun, elbow connecting with someone's jaw entirely by accident before wrenching free again with a groan. 

The stairwell door was only metres away.

You reached for the handle just as something collided violently with the back of your knees.

Your world disappeared beneath you.

You can taste the metallic tang of blood on your lips as you hit the ground, you quickly suck breath and try to push yourself up moving purely on instinct and adrenaline, before you're able to, another kick collides with your stomach, you let out an audible groan, rolling backwards before your back comes into contact with one of the table legs. You clutch at your stomach and squeeze your eyes shut, forcing out a few breaths.

'Get up' a voice echo's in the back of your head, this can't go wrong because you can't do your job. 

You blink, eyes squinting at the bright lights in the room. Both you and your attacker's eyes land on the brief case, your eyes dart to him, he's moving before you can even fully register it.

You attempt to push yourself up as pain flashes across your stomach, you stumble and drag yourself towards it and lunge towards the case when it's in your reach.

It brushes against your finger tips as you snatch at it, just as quickly it's pulled away from you.

"Sorry, I can't afford to let this get into the wrong hands" he hissed, looking down at you, baring his teeth, his voice having the twang of an accent you can't quite pinpoint. 

You narrow your eyes and push yourself up to pursue the man.

 He doesn't get far.

As he turns a thundering crack rings around you both, the man's hand collides with Six's fist

The brief case hits the floor with a crash, followed short by the dull thud of the man who was holding the case. With an exhale you push yourself up, grabbing the case, you stumble as you reach for it, Six steadies you.

He opens his mouth to speak before being cut off but more gun fire raining out around you. With a scowl he grabs the edge of a table, flipping it upright and ducks you both behind it.

"You okay?" he asks quickly, a trace of worry edging at the corners of his tone.

"Yeah um, yeah" you wince, you can barely hear yourself speak as blood rushes to your head, thrumming in your ears. Your head instinctively ducks down at the sound of more gunfire, you shake your head, hands shooting up landing on your head, ducking in between your legs trying to will all this away. 

"I can't do this" slips from your lips, you're aware this is not the ideal time for you to have a mental lapse, but all things considered you think you've held it together better than most people would.you  Six reloads his gun, and peeks over the side of the table his eyes catch your frame, fingers ranking through your hair and breaths coming out in short puffs. 

"Hey," Six cuts in quickly "look at me" he adds on, fingers wrapping around your wrist halting your movements. Your frantic eyes meet his calm ones. He takes a few deep breaths with you, your body heaves with the action, his thumb rubbing gently at the exposed skin on your wrist. 

"Cover your ears" he instructs, softly moving the wrist he is holding closer to your ear. Your other hand mirrors it, fingers pushing into your ears as the deafening crack of gun shoots rings out above you. Six comes back down beside you and the gunshots cease again for a short moment.

"Okay, go take the stairs, I'll meet you at the room" he whispers, swapping the brief case from your hands to his, and pushing the key card in between your fingers. 

"But-" you start, Six cuts you off before you can even get your words out.

"I'll be right behind you" his tone remaining calm, as he swiftly slips another magazine into his gun. You swallow, your mouth dry as you do.

Six leans over the table and starts shooting, you make off with a run, ducking out through the door and making your way up the stairs, you breathing coming out in heavy pants. Your eyes are glued to the ground until you collide with a body.

A yelp escapes you before you can stop it, arms wrap around you and you begin to struggle. 

Legs frantically thrashing. 

"Stop!" the voice comes out with a small struggle as the grip on you loosens a fraction. They quickly spin you around.

"Donald?" you question, heart hammering in your chest, as you relax against his hold on you. 

With a heavy sigh, Fitzroy looks you over, takes in your state, dress torn, blood trailing from your lips and splatters covering your arms and wrists.  

"Tell me what happened" he says slowly, holding his hands up and leading you upstairs, out of the stairwell, to somewhere safe, more secure. He looks over his shoulder as you both make your way up the stairs. 

You explain as best you can, words pouring out of you faster than you can stop them. Fitzroy tells you that MI6 and the police are on their way to retrieve the case and arrest any of the perpetrators, if any are still alive when Six is done with them. 

"If Six has that case, the job is already done" Donald says, a gentle hand resting on your shoulder, giving it a small reassuring squeeze, you force out a smile back. 

You settle quietly in Fitzroy's room, legs pulled up towards your chest in the small armchair, the police lights flash outside, lights dancing on the wall. You're not sure how long you're sat there, staring off into space, still trying to steady your breathing. Fitzroy is talking on the phone to someone, he has been alternating between phone calls since you got back here, you only pick up on every few words. Your ears perk up at Six's name, letting out a sigh of relief, he's okay. 

You push yourself up on unsteady legs, excusing yourself with a quiet nod to Fitzroy before slipping out into the corridor.

The hotel felt eerily different now, the music had stopped, replaced by the distant murmur of police radios and hurried footsteps. Staff moved through the halls with forced composure while shattered glass crunched beneath the shoes of passing officers.

Your suite wasn't far.

The suite is silent when you finally return, not truly silent, the distant hum of traffic filters through the windows, and somewhere down the hall a door closes, but compared to the chaos of the evening, it feels unnaturally still. You close the door behind you and lean against it, eyes squeezed shut and for a moment, you simply stand there, trying to calm the spiralling thoughts in your head.  

The mission is over, the money has been recovered, the suspects are in custody or dead. 

Your hands are still shaking, you don't even realize Six is in the room until he speaks.

"You're bleeding" he mutters out, his words are quiet.

Without even looking at him, you glance down, A smear of blood stains your wrist, not yours, at least you don't think it is you aren't sure whose it is anymore.

"Oh" you breathe out, that's all you're able to manage, you push off the door and start making your way towards the bathroom, in there you can lock the door, strip off and try and scrub yourself clean underneath the blazing heat of the shower.

 Before you're able to get there his eyes narrow slightly and his words interrupt you, "You okay?" he asked, softly, somewhat gauging your reactions, now, trying to understand how you're feeling, for him this is just another Thursday, but he sometimes struggles to remind himself that this isn't normal. Of course he knows that, at least he thinks he does, but while he's in the thick of it, adrenaline running high, and everything happening at once around him it is difficult to separate himself from that. 

You almost laugh, the question feels absurd after everything that happened tonight. "No" the answer slips out before you can stop it. And you spot it, something shifts in his expression. Not surprise at least you don't think it is, understanding. 

Six had seen this before.

Without another word, he crosses the room, you stiffen automatically, taking a few steps back. He notices, of course he does. He lets out a small sigh, not impatient but tired, and for a second, neither of you move. He puts his hand up slowly and reaches past you and takes a towel from the bathroom. The tension eases not much but enough, enough that you feel like you're able to breathe without the air itself suffocating you.

"Sit" he says, pointing towards the edge of the bed. It sounds like an order and you obey anyway. Too tired to argue, your legs almost buckle beneath you and the edge of the bed sinks beneath your weight. Your hands tangle in your lap, the dress creasing underneath them, your hands are shaking, you suck in deep breaths willing them to stop, but it's no use, you clench your fists. 

He dampens the towel with warm water before kneeling in front of you, taking your wrist in his hand, surprisingly careful for a man whose reputation seems built entirely on destruction. Neither of you speak and the room fills with silence again although this time it feels less empty.

You stare at your hands while he gently cleans the blood from your skin, his movements pauses.

"You don't have to keep looking at it" he offers quietly, looking up at you as he rests on your knees, you blink at him.

"What?" you blurt out, your eyes flickering to meet him, his hand still wrapped securely around your wrist, keeping you grounded you're not sure if it's purposeful or just a happy accident.

"The things you saw tonight" his voice remains level "you've been replaying them since you left" he states, not asking, he knows. You should feel embarrassed, feel exposed, being so seen by someone you've only known for a few hours, but he doesn't make you feel that way, you feel like he understands it, or at least right now, he's trying to. 

You swallow hard, knowing that the worst part is that he's right. You close your eyes almost immediately regretting it, because for a moment the ballroom flashes behind your eyelids: the shouting, the gunfire, the panic, the feeling of Six's hand around yours as he pulls you to safety but one emotion bleeds through them all, the fear. It still remains now, even though the logical part of your mind knows that you're safe, the dregs of adrenaline still coursing through your vein begs to differ.  

Your breathing falters and almost immediately, the towel disappears, Six shifts closer he's not enough to crowd you but it's enough, just enough to make your breath catch. 

His forearms rest easily on his knees as he watches you carefully, the same way someone might approach a wounded animal. He's unsure, you can feel it, in better spirits you might tease him for it, it's an unusual expression for him to wear. All evening he's known exactly what he's doing, his next move is almost engrained into him like muscle memory but when presented with the aftermath he's almost frozen. 

"You know what the funny thing is?" you ask quietly, your free hand reaching up to wipe away at any remainder of make up that lingers on your face. Your eyes reach his and his brow lifts.

"I usually spend my days worrying about spreadsheets" you say softly as a breath of laughter escapes you and a faint smile appears on his lips. 

"Sounds dangerous" he retorts, matching your tone, and he lets out a small huff of laughter, and it is small, but it's real. 

The tension in your chest loosens slightly and for a long moment neither of you speak. You both sit in the comfortable silence, interrupted by the noises of the city outside, the lights painting soft gold patterns across the room.

Finally, you look at him, really look at him, you see the bruising along his jaw and eyebrow, the exhaustion present on all of his features and the weight he carries behind that irritatingly calm expression.

"You okay?" you ask tenderly, as something unreadable flickers across his face.

"No" he answers with a huff, his eyes moving away from yours and landing on the carpet below both your feet. His answer mirrors yours simple and honest. That makes your throat tighten, because suddenly you realize that you're not the only one struggling to carry tonight, and you feel a flash of guilt span across your chest, and feel awful for not thinking about how this night might have affected him too.

You reach out before you can overthink it, your fingers brush against his wrist. Six freezes almost instantly and the contact lasts barely a second but neither of you pull away immediately, you sit in it, a soft almost feather like touch ghosting over his skin, your fingers catching on the puckered cigarette burn that sits there, your eyebrows knit together, drawing a sad expression on your face. 

His gaze drops to your hand for a second and then returns to your face. For once, there are no sarcastic remarks, both your walls are down, no carefully constructed distance or elaborately fabricated lies.

Just two exhausted people sitting in the aftermath. Time almost stands still after this, you're sure it due to the both of you being too exhausted to form words, eventually he stands.

"You should get some sleep" he says, and you nod but neither of you make any effort to move. You hear a small scoff come from him, your head raises and you catch the corner of his mouth twitching.

"That's usually the part where you say goodnight" a tired smile appears despite yourself, as you let out a small laugh

"Goodnight, Six."

He heads for the adjoining room before pausing at the doorway.

For the first time all evening, his voice softens.

"Goodnight sweetheart."

Then he's gone.