Chapter Text
Court Gentry had forgotten a lot of things over the years. Much of it willingly. Sierra Six didn't need to know the name of Court's freshman English teacher, or how getting his first kiss under the bleachers felt. Sierra Six, a blade honed to precision and then sharpened a little more for good measure, had no use for the way Court's twin grinned at him as they clambered up creaking wood to reach the topmost branch of the old withered tree in... well, Six couldn't tell you now, could he? He had ruthlessly culled all of Court from himself, carefully paring away slices of the boy between missions and flinging them behind him to the depths of time, until all that was left was Fitzroy's asset. Could only be the weapon the CIA had invested so much in. But as Claire threw her arms around him in the safe house where Suzanne had stashed her, Six realised that he remembered exactly when he had last been held without the intent to harm.
For a fraction of a second, it was someone else’s shaking arms folding him into their body, someone else’s cheek that was stained and dripping with more than just emotion as it pressed into his own, a trembling voice that lied one last time and told him everything would be alright. He exhaled the memory of tired blue eyes too similar to Six's own in all the ways that mattered and too different in too many ways to count, shrugging it off as he did every part of Court that seeped through the divide he had carefully built between them. But it left behind a question that crept unbidden into every crevice of his mind. When he looked at Claire now, was it with the same eyes that had looked at Court once?
If this unwieldy fear was what had been lurking behind them, Six found he couldn’t begrudge Court’s decision to say yes to Fitzroy. There were moments in the past that he had, that he’d wondered if being on the other side of the bars was really so much worse than endless cities blurred together, monuments marred by bullet holes and skin that had knit itself back together too many times to count. Still, it was too much he thought, this fear. It could destroy him utterly and completely until there was nothing left for even Court to drag himself back from. It probably would, one day. And he had carried it around for years. For Court and for…
Well. At least Court’s actions should have lessened that fear. Even if only incrementally. Six could find some gratitude in the depths of himself for that, even if Court couldn’t. This shared helplessness, separated by years and distance meant that whatever Court’s feelings on the matter, Six at least could appreciate any alleviation of the weight on his shoulders. No one should have to suffer this. The little boy inside him didn’t get a vote on this topic, he figured. Not that it mattered — he and what was left of Court Gentry had been at odds for longer than they had ever agreed on anything. Either way, he didn't have the time for this. He had to get Claire to safety. As little as he could provide her with, it was still a far sight better than being a pawn under Suzanne's thumb. Or whoever came after Suzanne.
It took effort, but he managed to pull himself away from Claire, gently dislodging her arms from where they clung to his middle like he was a lifeboat. He had no right to consider himself as such, but he was all she had now, and he couldn’t leave her adrift. Leave her to be subject to the whims of whatever wave would pick her up and fling her helpless, fragile body around. Her hand clutched at his, fingers pressing into his palm in a desperate cry for help that she would never verbalise. She was just so small, he thought. And the world that clung to her, its tendrils pulling at her jeans, tugging at the hem of her shirt — it would fling her around so, so easily. She’d be subsumed by the waves immediately. And that was… unacceptable. So a lifeboat he would be.
She held onto his hand as he led her outside, stopping only to pick up the small bag she had kept packed for when he would come for her and her copy of Silver Bird. Six quietly vowed that he would rebuild her collection, no matter how long it took.
They made their way to the little garage at the side of the house, Claire carefully ignoring the bodies that littered the little garden and pathway. She was so brave, and it made something turn in his stomach, reminding him of how Colt his twin his brother would hold his head high and pick his way around the wreckage of their small apartment like it didn’t matter to him. Nausea, sharp and acidic, rose in his throat, and he knew he would do almost anything so that she would never have to be this brave again.
He had already stripped the SUV of all trackers and disabled the GPS before he made his way into the house, so Six didn’t hesitate before bundling his precious cargo into the car. She smiled weakly at him as he buckled her in, some of her sarcastic personality shining through as she said, “I do still know how to wear a seatbelt.”
“You have a heart condition and an unhealthy habit of encouraging excitement,” he told her even as he shut the door. “Forgive me if I don’t take any chances.”
She gaped at him, banging her indignation on the window and Six found himself smiling as he rounded the car to get in himself.
Claire huffed, her arms crossed in mock petulance. “You’re the worst,” she assured him. Six merely tilted his head in acquiescence as he started the car and encouraged it down the road, picking up speed as they went further and further away from the house. He’d feel much more comfortable the further away they were from Suzanne or Carmichael’s direct sphere of influence.
They had just turned onto the highway when Claire piped up again. “So where are we going? I hope it’s somewhere with civilization because I gotta say, I can’t push a rock up a hill. They tell me I have a heart condition.”
An amused huff pushed its way past Six’s lips without his permission. “That’s what they tell you?” Claire hummed a yes and he shook his head a little, squinting against the sunlight so she wouldn’t see the way the corners of his mouth quirked up. “Next you’ll say if they don’t have ice cream, you’re not staying.” Claire giggled and poked him in the arm.
“Come on, Six! Where are we going? I’ve never been on a roadtrip before, I want to know how long I should plan on waiting before I go crazy on you.”
“Stop poking me, I don’t know yet. I’m still working on it.” Her responding hum took on a dejected tone and Six sighed. “Do you have any ideas?” he managed before she decided the conversation was not evolving as adequately as might be wished.
This, naturally, had the desired effect. She brightened, sitting up straighter, feet bouncing a little. “I do, actually! I’ve never really been to the US for long, but I’ve visited one or two of the main cities. Which ones, you ask? Why thank you for asking, Six! Just New York and Chicago. And Washington DC. Uncle Donald…” her voice stumbled on the name, her already pale cheeks paling further before she visibly shook herself and pitched her voice higher, borrowing from that deep well of strength inside her that Court was so in awe of. “I want to see San Francisco next,” she said,the words masked in confidence. “They have that weird street there, right? I think I read about it once. Something with a L?”
Six hummed, noncommittal even as his heart sank. If Claire wanted it, he’d find a way. But… San Francisco was a place that had held few good things for him. His fingers tightened against the leather of the steering wheel as Court Gentry struggled his way to the surface again despite his best efforts. It was the one thing that had angered his father like nothing else, Six remembered, the thought pushing its way through his budding annoyance at his past self. How he (and Colt his twin, a voice long ignored whispered. The other half of your soul) would never just lay down and take it, not like he would. Like he had to, that same voice prodded even as Six waved it away, forcefully stamping down the memory of quiet sobs from behind closed bathroom doors and fists full of ice wrapped around threadbare towels. He had always had to fight back, his own anger fueled by his twin’s bravado (Colt, Colt’s bravado) no matter the consequences. And there were consequences. But Court Gentry was cursed with the desire to live and it was what had kept Six putting one foot in front of the other all these years later.
He had wondered, more than once over the years, if it was worth it. If Court’s unyielding will to keep going was worth the patchwork of scars it had left on Six, worth the cold rationality that comprised his actions and guided his aim. But looking down at Claire's trusting face, a tiny part of him thanked Court for his persistent will to live. At least, when he wasn't bringing memories with him that Six had long buried.
Unfortunately, for all that he had excised Court’s weaknesses from himself, that didn’t mean they didn’t linger on. And while one of his ghosts was gallivanting around the world and dodging Vanity Fair articles the last time he checked, Six couldn’t bring himself to look in on the other one. As much as he accepted Court’s decision to go with Fitzroy all those years ago and even felt some level of gratitude for it, Six knew that stumbling upon that ghost would be a betrayal that would cut deeper than any doctor could fix. But Claire asked for so little. And the last time he had brought himself to check, there was news of a science conference. His career must have blown up exponentially since then, labs vying for his attention. Perhaps… perhaps it would be worth the risk. For Claire.
They didn’t go immediately. Six and Claire meandered around the country a while, seeing the sights where they could and dodging any members of the agency that might have been sent their way before he finally took her to San Francisco. It had been about a month since he had retrieved Claire from Suzanne’s safe house, and in that time, he’d consolidated some funds and explored the depths of his contact list, discarding one-time allies and those with ties a little too intertwined with the CIA and its network of assets. Agent Miranda was one of the lucky ones, with a career of her own, but the same could not be said for many of those who came under the agency’s purview. Six would know.
Either way, it took a while to set up an apartment in San Francisco that aligned with both his specifications and Claire’s needs. It took even longer to arrange for paperwork that would let them slip into the cracks of the city unnoticed. Claire was doing her best to be a good sport, decorating the new car he had picked up with flashy little stickers placed haphazardly on the dash, and burying her nose in whichever book he picked up for her at gas station stands, but Six could tell she was going a little stir crazy. He couldn’t blame her, he had too, when he and his twin were forced to spend hours at the library at her age, while their brother he researched jobs and scholarships. She needed structure in her life, more than what he could provide her with if they continued on this path, constantly on the move. He needed a defensible position, and she needed a place she could call home. San Francisco hadn’t been the kindest to him in the past, but the part of Court Gentry that still resided within him hoped maybe it could be gentler now, if it was to her.
They settled in quietly, a few false starts before stumbling into a routine that worked. Six was contemplating going out to find a job. He wouldn’t need one for a while, but it wouldn’t do to let himself become complacent. He and Claire would go out for walks daily so the kid could stretch her legs and interact with the outside world while he came up with a long-term plan. It was… a process. There was a part of him that almost missed his handlers. Improvising according to the needs of a mission and within defined parameters was fine, but he wasn’t used to being the one in charge. Someone else had always outlined the plan for him, laid out acceptable outcomes and what constituted failure. An inability to meet those standards was met with punishments that were decidedly less clearly outlined but still within known parameters. Six knew how to deal with those, knew how to accept the blows and repercussions of falling short of the CIA’s nigh insurmountable expectations. He had learnt early on that colouring mostly within their lines was a far sight better than the alternative. And he’d always had leeway, to assess a situation and react accordingly. Fitz had made sure of it. But making a plan on his own? Entirely from scratch? That was more daunting than it had any right to be.
“That looks like it hurt,” Claire commented one day as they explored the city, pointing to a particularly bad scar on his arm. He had taken to wearing short sleeved shirts under his jacket and he was regretting that choice now, having had to remove said jacket in concession to the heat.
“It did,” he replied lightly, hoping a direct answer would satisfy her curiosity. As ever, rarely was he so lucky.
Claire raised an eyebrow when he left it at that, scoffing a little. “Wow, yeah, that seems like it sucks. I have a scar too, from that time they gave me heart surgery. That must have been painful, you say? Yeah, actually, pretty much so. Where'd you get your scar from, Six? People shooting at you?”
Six ducked his head to hide any amusement, sliding his person out of reach of her poking fingers. “No, this one I, uh, gave to myself. When I took out my tracking chip,” he told her casually.
She stopped in her tracks, turning around to stare at him. “You had a what?”
He shrugged, nonchalant. This was an old wound, one that he was used to carrying. “Yeah, your uncle put one in me after he picked me up from prison. It's important to know where your investments are when they’re a flight risk. Besides, your pacemaker functions as a tracker too. It’s how I found you in Croatia.”
“Six, that’s kind of fucked up. Also — we were in Croatia?”
“Don’t swear, you’re like ten. I’m working on getting the tracking function in your pacemaker disabled and I took mine out. Yes, you were held in Croatia. What does it matter?”
“I’m twelve and Croatia isn’t important, Six! What does it matter?” Claire’s voice rose in indignation with every word. “Why did you have a tracker in the first place? I know Uncle Donald was… I know he had a job to do, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to — to chip a person like they’re some pet!”
Six just looked at her, surprised at the depth of her anger on his behalf. He felt disoriented. There was an animal inside him, howling itself hoarse, begging for someone, anyone, to pay attention to its wounds even as he ruthlessly muzzled it once more. But there was also a part of him that desperately wanted to defend Donald. He’d believed in Court when no one did, took a chance on him when no else would (or could). And for all that he had never provided Six with a home, never even tried to, it felt like he was returning to something close to it when he’d come to heel. It wasn’t like Fitz had encouraged any false illusions about what they were to each other. But he was there for Six when he had no one else to turn to. What was a tracking chip in the face of that?
So he just shrugged and kept walking, letting her follow behind, stomping her feet and spitting rage all the way.
He didn’t tell her how the chip gave him comfort at first. How the knowledge that someone was always, always watching struck a chord inside him. Gave him the slightest sliver of hope that maybe, after all was said and done, they’d bring him home if something happened. That maybe, just maybe, he mattered enough that someone cared what happened to him. After all, they could have left it at the pill tucked under his left molar. He knew for a fact that Homeland certainly did.
He didn’t tell her how he slowly realised that he didn’t mean anything at all to the CIA. That he never would. He upheld it as a point of pride, that he didn’t have a file as Sierra, but he wasn’t naive enough not to understand the implications of that. Not anymore. Not when he was just an asset and it was someone’s career on the line. Not when that career would always supersede his life. After all, what could an asset prove to be beyond a weapon at the mercy of its master? An asset who didn’t even have a file to justify his existence and necessitate explanation after it went missing. If you lost a gun in the middle of a fight, you didn’t stop and mourn. You didn’t try and get it back. You picked up the next weapon and kept going. Six didn’t blame them, he knew what he had been to the CIA.
So he didn’t tell her how weak he had been, holding on to the faint hope of rescue the one and only time he was captured. How he had sat there in that cold cell for days, fingers pressed against the skin of his inner elbow, where he knew the tracker was buried, unassuming metal innocently digging into bone, and how he had waited. Waited for a rescue that was never coming. The coldness of the realisation, as it crept over him, that he had to get himself out because assets were only good for something if they were useful.
He didn’t tell her how Fitzroy had clapped his shoulder when he came crawling back home to him, his loyal hound returning to lick at his master’s heel. How Fitz had commended him on his escape in Iceland over drinks. The way it felt like a bucket of ice water poured over his head to realise that they had known where he was all along. Pets were chipped out of love. He was the suitcase you tagged so you knew who to blame when it went missing. Nothing more, nothing less.
Claire eventually let the subject drop when it became evident that he had nothing else to contribute to the conversation, but he could tell something about it weighed on her. He hoped it wasn’t Donald’s part. He wanted her to remember her uncle as a good man, because that was what he was. A deeply flawed, but ultimately good man, who worked to ensure Claire was safe, and that she was happy. He had tried to preserve what was left of her innocence for as long as he could and Six would do the same. He hadn’t expected or needed Fitz to do the same for him; he had lost his innocence long ago, with a gun in his hand in a shitty apartment soaked in blood and the pungent smell of cheap beer. Fitz had given him a chance. What more did he really need?
It took a few weeks, but once Six was as certain as he could be that the CIA had turned their attention to other matters — or at least, were no longer as immediately intent on locating him and Claire and clawing them back into the fold, he enrolled Claire into school. The universe seemed content to let them be for the time being, and he had long since learnt to take advantage of such lulls amidst the chaos he called a life.
Besides, Claire was in desperate need of socialisation — real socialisation, not whatever he passed for. He had considered hiring tutors for her as Donald had done for the last several years, but discarded the idea almost immediately. It would make them stand out, even if only just a little. In their world, even that much could be more than enough to set off alarms. He raised the idea with her one day, and the excitement that had her vibrating in place brought a smile to his lips even as it broke his heart a little.
“I haven’t been to school since I was eight! Please, Six, please can we? I’ll be so careful, I swear—”
He cut her off with a placating hand. “I’m not making any promises, but it was an idea. Let me look into it and if you’re willing, I’ll try and make it happen.”
Her wide eyes shone with happiness even as she pretended to go back to organizing her meagre collection of vinyl records so he wouldn’t see how much it meant to her. “I know you will,” she whispered, and her confidence in his capabilities floored him.
He took his time researching middle schools, evaluating them on their reaction times to emergency situations, their distance from health services as well as a proximity to police presence (as far away as humanly possible in the case of the latter was his preference). Where those aligned with educational results, he took special note. Eventually, he had a list of three schools that met his checklist and he presented his findings to Claire over a microwaveable dinner. After several mishaps that had resulted in part of the stove being irreparably burnt, the two had decided on takeout and microwaveable meals being their staple for the foreseeable future. Six could make an omelette or box mix pancakes without too much trouble, but anything more than that was beyond his meagre capabilities. They had learnt to keep Claire as far away from the kitchen as possible. It was a far cry from the gourmet cuisine she had gotten used to, but as with everything else, she adapted to this with an equanimity that Six was proud of.
Claire insisted on touring each of the schools before she came to a decision. “You scope out places too, Six! How will I know if it’s the one without doing my own research?” she defended, lip sticking out in a little pout and Six had to give it to her. The kid knew just how much she had him wrapped around her finger.
She rejected the first school they visited out of hand. “It’s a torture chamber, Six!” She whispered insistently. “Look at those security checkpoints!” Six thought it best not to mention that said security checkpoints had been one of the reasons this school had made the shortlist. Besides, he had been in torture chambers and they were much more beige.
The second and third schools were met with a better reception, though, and she spent a few days considering the merits of each option before settling on Grover Cleveland Middle. They enrolled her with only minor difficulties — Six was eternally grateful for his forger's foresight in arranging school transcripts along with the other documents he had had made for them. Although he had transcripts made until her current age, he settled on a variation of the truth to account for the gaps in her knowledge and experience of how schools worked. The school admin was duly informed that Claire had been homeschooled for a couple years on account of her heart condition and now that the situation had stabilised somewhat, her return to the school system was entirely dependent on their ability to accommodate it. The principal seemed to take it seriously, and the way he took Six’s grilling in stride was a point in his favour, but Six knew better than to trust anyone based on their word. Claire was armed with an emergency phone to contact him in case anything happened, but he was also working on other, faster alternatives to alert him in the event that something happened.
She quickly got tired of his concern though, all too excited to begin classes and squirmed a little in his grip. He held her close just a little longer though, enjoying the way she felt, tucked safe under his arm where nothing could get her. He felt that deep, relentless fear rise up inside him again as the principal led her away, carving the breath from his lungs, and forced himself to exhale. Everything would be fine, he told himself. This was good for Claire. A necessary bid for stability that he could and would provide for her. Court had had his chance to be a real boy snatched away from him, but Six would be damned if he didn’t do everything in his power to ensure Claire could have everything she wanted.
For all that she put on a brave front for Six though, Claire was nervous as the principal led her to her new homeroom. He was saying something about her schedule, and even as she found herself glancing at the paper clutched in her hand, she realised she couldn’t retain any of it. They finally reached, and he pushed the door open, gesturing for her to go in first. Her teacher was sitting on the corner of his desk, laughing at something, and Claire took a moment to take in everything before all the attention turned to her. There were so many students in the classroom. Intellectually, she knew there couldn’t have been more than twenty, but even that was a lot when you’re used to your own company and maybe that of two others. The principal cleared his throat and her new teacher immediately straightened, smoothing down his jacket as he approached them.
“Hi,” he said softly, bending down a little so he wouldn’t loom over her. “I’m your homeroom teacher, Mr. Grace. You must be Claire. We are very excited to have you.” She tore her gaze away from the other children, all of whom were staring outright at her now, and turned to assess Mr. Grace instead. He was dressed in jeans and a collared shirt that was half hidden by his blazer, a teacher ID hanging loosely around his neck. Claire swiftly shoved away the voice that informed her it would be all too easy to choke him with it. His face was kind, she thought, patience pressed deep into the small lines around his lips and eyes. His features felt weirdly familiar though, as if she was looking at a face she should have already known through a dirty glass. She finally made herself look into his eyes and had to claw back a gasp, trapping it in the confines of her throat.
Mr. Grace mistook her shock for nerves, his expression gentling impossibly further. “First days are tough, I know,” he soothed, “but you’ll fit right in, I promise.” She let him take her hand and lead her to the middle of class, still in a daze, her thoughts warring with themselves. It had to have been a trick of the light, she justified to herself. Lots of people had blue eyes and his were pretty common features. She had seen some variation of them at every store that Six and her had passed by on their impromptu roadtrip. Sneaking another glance at her new teacher confirmed this, to her relief. Among other things, his hair was lighter and his nose the slightest bit crooked. Sunlight streamed through the window, lighting up his profile and she had that strange sense again, but she was more confidently able to designate it as her mind stumbling over the unfamiliar and reaching for what it knew.
Her new teacher wasn’t at all aware of her internal turmoil, nodding a dismissal to the principal and turning to grin at the rest of the class. “Alright everyone,” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. Claire jumped at the sound and Mr. Grace winced. “Oh, sorry Claire. Everyone, can we say hi to Claire, please? She’s going to be joining us from today and I want you all to welcome her — that means no spitballs for at least a week, Tommy, you know my rules.”
“Hi Claire,” the class chorused in unison, Mr. Grace ignoring the singular protest which Claire assumed was from the infamous Tommy.
“Awesome, now can I get a volunteer to be her buddy for the day? I don’t want Claire getting lost and eaten by the boiler.”
“Mr. Grace, you know the boiler monster isn't real!” several voices protested.
“Is something not real just because you haven’t seen it?” he retorted with a quirked eyebrow, laughing at the groans he got in response. “Remind me to introduce you to my good friend and pal Erwin Schrödinger some day. But anyway, speaking of pals, I really do need one for Claire before I start volunteering you myself.” The class erupted into noise, some with hands outstretched and shaking in the air, others taking advantage of the chaos to talk to their friends.
Her new teacher just pinched the bridge of his nose before rapping loudly on his desk until everyone settled. He decided on a girl named Priya to be her buddy, waving Claire to go and sit at the empty seat next to her with a warning that Priya had better show her the official things about school alongside whatever unofficial matters she was undoubtedly cooking up.
Priya met Claire with a toothy smile and a whispered hi. As Mr. Grace went through his attendance list, she demanded Claire’s schedule, going through it with an eagle eye and circling the classes they had together.
“Ok, good,” she whispered as she handed it back. “You’re in Mr. Grace’s science class and you have art with Ms Lily. I had her last year and she’s the best. I’ll take you to math after we’re done here and make sure Mandy knows not to let Mr. Rosen bully you too much.”
“Mandy?” Claire whispered back.
Priya pointed at another girl a row down from them. “Amanda, she’s my best friend. We’ll look out for you, don’t worry.”
Ok, sure, Claire figured. Maybe this whole school thing wouldn’t be the hardest thing ever. If she could survive being shot at and held hostage, she could navigate whatever this was going to be.
She still couldn’t quite meet Mr. Grace’s eyes though.