The Gray Man [sixxreader]

~Chapter Two~

Your eyes went wide, and you stayed on the ground. You were worried that if you moved even an inch, you'd be shot.

You look back to the table at Six, who is staring coldly at whoever is holding the gun to your head. 

"Don't move, or I shoot her," the gunman said. 

Outside, what you assumed to be a monkey threw the lid off a garbage can, distracting the gunman enough for Six to throw a flashlight from the table at him.

The agent ran up to the assailant and pushed him into the wall, away from you.

You tried to take this moment to scramble away, but your ankle was stepped on by the stranger during the fight, eliciting an audible pop from the joint.

You whimpered, trying to keep as quiet as you could to not rouse Claire.

You turned onto your back, sitting up on your elbows to watch Six effectively beat the man with the same flashlight that was thrown. It somehow got turned on during the scuffle, and the quick movements caused the open floor plan to strobe in beams of light. 

The fight moved into the sitting area, where he picked up a decorative bowl and smashed it across the attacker's head. 

This disabled him enough for Six to slam him yet again against a wall, maybe two feet away from where you still lay on the ground, beating him until you heard an unhappy squelch and the attacker's body fell to the floor, unmoving. 

"Is everything okay?" you heard a timid Claire ask from the end of the hall. She looked between you on the ground, Six panting, and the pair of feet that would never move again.

"Yeah. Broke a bowl," Six returned casually, holding up the handle of the broken decoration.

"I just tripped in the dark," you feebly attempted. 

"You sure you're alright?" she asked you.

"Just another Thursday," you gave back.

"You should go to bed," Six told her.

Claire looked between you and the agent before heading off down the hall.

Once the door to her room was closed, you let your head fall to the ground and the pain in your ankle take over. 

"One second," Six said as he dragged the dead man out of the house. You didn't know where he was going, and you didn't really care to ask. All you cared about was how much your ankle hurt.

After five minutes of self-pity on the floor, you attempted to stand up, grasping the wall for support.

Six came back in through the front door and locked it behind him. 

He paced up to you and helped you slowly to the couch.

He softly put your ankle on the table, and went to turn on the lights.

Once he could see, he bent down and softly examined the injured joint.

"I think it's just dislocated," he told you.

"Just?" you retaliated sarcastically. 

"I'll re-locate it. Here, bite down on this," he said, handing you a pillow.

Questions with this man are pointless anyway, you thought as you bit down on the fabric.

He glanced up at you, and you could see a hint of pity as he pushed the joint back into its place.

You couldn't linger on if what you saw was real or not because your eyes slammed shut with the pain you were trying your best not to vocalize.

"You probably shouldn't walk on it for a few days," he told you, taking the pillow and putting it back on the couch.