Six grunts as you move in his lap. Again. He's had just about enough of your squirming and whimpering, all while you sit dead center in his lap. He knows he can't blame you fully- you have a bullet wound the size of Texas in your abdomen that he's trying to bandage it up for you- but damnit... if you didn't stop squirming, there would be a whole other problem. Primarily in his pants.

He hates you. At least, he assumes the feeling is hatred. From what he has come to learn about you, you're Sierra Seven. He rarely has any communicate with the other Sierra agents, but you and him had a run in a few months ago during a mission. A run-in that, consequently, caused him to fail his mission and miss his mark. You had missed your mark too, which made everything slightly better, but it still pissed him off.

You had been paired together for a mission, months later. He couldn't have been more peeved, but he was resigned to following along for the sake of the mission. Once thing let to another, and the whole cluster-fuck of a mission went up, you got shot, and now the two of you are in a supply closet, forced to sit as close as possible to one another, trying to stay quiet and undetected.

It's difficult.

He pressed a calloused hand to your mouth as you let out a whimper, his other hand gripping your hip tightly. He bores his icy blue eyes into yours, his expression stern, heat lingering behind his gaze.

"Stop squirming." He commanded coldly, holding you still. "Or I'll sit you on something that'll make you stay still."