Synopsis: Rural Spain was the last place you expected to see Leon Kennedy. He isn’t the rookie you left in Raccoon City, he’s colder, sharper, and harder to walk away from a second time.
Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Mission-Driven Angst
Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Injury Recovery
Words: 12k
The corn stalks whip at your arms and face, their sharp edges leaving stinging trails across your skin. Every breath burns, the damp air heavy with the stench of earth and rot. Spain has been unkind since the moment your boots touched its soil. The villages are hollowed-out shells, the people nothing more than puppets for something far darker.
You press forward anyway. Orders are orders: infiltrate, gather intel, eliminate Ramon Salazar if the opportunity presents itself. Simple words on paper, but the reality is blood, paranoia, and the gnawing weight of isolation.
The cornfield feels endless, each rustle too loud, every shifting shadow a threat waiting to pounce. When you finally break free, it’s almost worse, an open stretch of dirt path leading to ancient stone buildings, their walls cracked and leaning like tired old bones. The silence here is suffocating, pressing against your ears until even your own heartbeat sounds like a beacon.
You sink low, pressing yourself against the jagged stone. The air is thicker here, heavy with the faint metallic tang of blood, though you can’t tell if it’s yours or someone else’s.
Movement.
Two villagers shuffle across the path ahead, their steps uneven, their bodies jerking like marionettes strung up by invisible hands. Their eyes are hollow, not vacant, but filled with something worse: obedience to the parasite that puppeteers them.
Your grip tightens on the knife. Guns are loud, and sound travels too well in these narrow streets. So you stalk. One breath, one step, one strike. The blade slides beneath the first villager’s ribs, silencing him with nothing more than a guttural choke before you lower him soundlessly to the dirt. The second turns too late. A flash of steel, a hot spray against your cheek, and he crumples at your feet.
You wipe the blade against your thigh, though the gesture feels pointless, no amount of cleaning will ever wash this country off your skin.
For a moment, there’s stillness again. You force yourself to breathe, to listen. Every nerve screams at you to move, to stay ahead before the bodies are found. You dart deeper into the cluster of stone buildings, boots splashing through puddles of stagnant rainwater.
You pull out your map, a flimsy, blood-stained, rain-warped scrap that looks as exhausted as you feel. The edges are torn, entire corners missing, but it’s enough to remind you how close you are to the castle. Too close. The thought of what waits inside coils like ice in your stomach.
You fold it back with trembling fingers and shove it deep into your pocket. A pause, just long enough to reload: the metallic clack of a magazine sliding home, the satisfying click of a safety checked, the careful assembly of makeshift first aid sprays from herbs you’ve hoarded like treasure. It’s a ritual, something you can control in a place where nothing else bends to your will.
And then you hear it.
Not the shuffle of infected villagers. Not the frantic, mindless scurrying of rats. But slow, measured footsteps. Deliberate. Predatory.
The sound echoes down the narrow stone alley, steady as a heartbeat that isn’t yours.
Your breath lodges in your throat.
You raise your gun, two hands locked around the grip, every muscle strung tight. The footsteps approach, deliberate, calculated, a hunter’s rhythm. You flatten against the cobblestone wall, boots sinking into the soft hay to mask your movements, heart rattling in your ribs.
The glint of steel, a gun muzzle, slides into view around the corner. Training kicks in before thought does.
You lash out, boot connecting hard with the stranger’s wrist. A grunt echoes sharp in the alley as their weapon skitters across the stones, vanishing into shadow.
You don’t hesitate. The knife is in your hand, the weight familiar, steadying. But before you can press the advantage, there’s an answering rasp of steel leaving leather. Another blade.
Then they’re on you.
The first clash is violent, steel strikes steel, ringing in your ears. You push forward, slashing high toward their ribs, but they twist, catching your wrist and shoving you back against the wall. Your shoulder slams stone, teeth clenching against the impact. You duck low, kicking out at their knee, but they shift just in time, answering with a downward slash that you barely deflect with the flat of your blade. Sparks spit into the dark.
You twist your arm free and shove upward, forcing them back a step. You feint left, then pivot right, blade carving for their abdomen, but they spin with you, wrist locking yours in midair. For a moment your arms are tangled, blades trembling inches from skin, muscles straining as neither of you gives ground.
They shove you off, swift and brutal. You stumble, roll, and come up crouched, knife raised underhand. They match the stance. Exactly.
Another surge, they slash for your throat, you duck beneath and drive a knee toward their gut, but they catch it with their thigh, twisting you around, knife arcing for your back. You catch the wrist, drop low, and wrench free, spinning to face them again. The rhythm is relentless, slash, block, counter, strike, until it’s less a fight than a mirror, every move reflected, anticipated.
Your lungs burn, sweat stings your eyes. Boots scrape against wet stone, blades whisper and shriek as they collide. You drive forward with a furious shove, twisting your knife up toward their jaw. At the same instant, they hook your wrist, dragging you down, knife pressing into the hollow of your throat.
Stalemate.
You’ve got your blade jammed hard against their neck, close enough you can feel the faint tremor of their pulse. But the exact same pressure bites into your skin, their knife nestled under your jaw. Neither of you dares move.
Breath mingles in the scant inches between you.
Your knife wavers. Breath tangles in your throat as the stranger’s face sharpens in the moonlight.
And then you see them.
Eyes you know. Eyes you trusted when the world was ending. Blue, once bright as firelight against the dark, now dulled, hardened into steel.
It should feel like salvation. Instead, it feels like betrayal.
The rookie who smiled at you through the ash of Raccoon City is gone. What stares back at you now is a weapon shaped like him, colder, sharper, stripped of everything that once made him human.
Your lips stumble over his name, breaking on it like a wound:
“…Leon?”
For a flicker, his grip hesitates, and you almost believe. Almost.
Leon.
It’s him, but not.
Your memory betrays you with flashes of Raccoon City: the boyish rookie in a too-clean uniform, hair falling messily into eyes that were still warm despite the nightmare closing in. He’d smiled then, even in the dark, offering steady words that made the terror feel bearable. His hands had trembled, but his heart had never faltered. That Leon carried a softness, a stubborn hope that survival meant more than just killing your way through the night.
The man in front of you now is nothing like that.
His uniform is gone, replaced by worn tactical gear that hugs his frame like armor. The hair you remember, once loose, almost boyish, is longer now, deliberately pushed back, streaked with dirt and sweat. His jaw is sharper, set with a constant tension, like he hasn’t allowed himself rest in years.
But it’s his eyes that steal the air from your lungs.
They were blue before, but softer, touched by something human, alive. These eyes are steel. Cold. The kind you’ve only seen in men who’ve buried too many ghosts to count. He looks at you not like a friend, not even like an ally, but like a threat he’s calculating how to eliminate.
There’s no tremor in his grip, no hesitation in the blade pressed against your throat. Only precision. Only control.
And yet, in that tiny flicker of recognition, the smallest crack ripples across the mask.
For just a heartbeat, you see him. The boy in Raccoon City. The one who saved you, the one who smiled.
Then it’s gone.
Leon doesn’t flinch when you breathe his name. He doesn’t soften, doesn’t loosen the knife pressing against your throat. If anything, the blade digs a fraction deeper, just enough to remind you he’s in control.
His jaw tightens. The lines around his mouth and eyes are harsher now, carved deep by years of battles you weren’t there to see. He studies you like you’re a puzzle, like he’s weighing whether you’re real, or just another trick this cursed country has thrown at him.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and gravel-edged, nothing like the earnest rookie who once stumbled through fire with you.
“...You shouldn’t be here.”
The words are flat, stripped of warmth, but beneath them, barely there, almost lost, you catch the faintest tremor. Recognition.
He exhales hard through his nose, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to drag a wall back into place before you can see past it.
“What are you doing here?” His words cut like the edge at your throat, sharp, demanding, designed to keep you on the defensive.
You swallow, the press of his blade cold against your skin, but you don’t back down. His gaze pins you in place, blue eyes unrelenting, scouring every flicker of your expression as if the truth is something he can drag out of you by force.
The Leon you knew would have said your name with relief. This Leon spits the question like an accusation.
His grip tightens on the hilt, knuckles white, voice low and strained:
“Tell me. Now.”
But that tremor is still there, buried under the command, a crack in his armor. He’s not just asking. He’s pleading in his own way, desperate to understand why fate has dragged you back into his line of fire.
For a heartbeat, the silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid.
Your pulse hammers in your throat, just beneath the blade, but you force your chin up anyway. If he expects you to cower, he’s forgotten who you are.
“I could ask you the same thing,” you snap, though your voice wavers at the edges. “I didn’t exactly plan to run into you in the middle of this hell.”
His eyes narrow further, searching, testing. You push against the silence, refusing to let him see how much the coldness stings.
“I’m here on orders,” you bite out, each word steadier than you feel. “Ramon Salazar. That’s my mission. That’s what I’m doing here.”
For a second, something shifts in his expression, a shadow of concern. But it vanishes as quickly as it comes.
“And don’t look at me like I’m some liability.” Your grip tightens on your knife, pressing harder into his neck, matching his pressure exactly. “I’ve survived just as much as you have, Leon. Don’t you dare pretend otherwise.”
The words hang between you, trembling with anger and something deeper, something you can’t swallow down.
For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves. The knives glint in the moonlight, pressed to skin, breaths ragged in the narrow silence.
Then Leon exhales, a sharp, frustrated sound. His wrist shifts, knife lowering an inch, then another, until the cold bite against your throat is gone.
But his shoulders don’t relax.
They’re rigid, drawn tight like bowstrings. His stance remains squared, ready. Every muscle in him screams restraint, like lowering the weapon cost him more than plunging it into you ever would have.
He takes half a step back, blue eyes locked on yours, and his own knife hovers low at his side. Not sheathed, not away, just not aimed at your life anymore.
The stiffness in his jaw doesn’t soften, his mouth a hard, thin line. You can see the fight in him, not against you, but against himself. Against whatever cracks are splitting open at the sight of you here, real, alive.
Finally, his voice scrapes out, quieter but no less rough:
“You don’t belong in this place.”
Your grip tightens on your knife, and your reply is out before you can stop yourself.
“You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do,” you snap, sharp as broken glass. The words cut the silence between you, brittle with defiance.
Leon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression stays unreadable, a mask chiseled into stone. Only his eyes shift, narrowing slightly as if weighing whether it’s worth arguing with you.
“Where are you headed?” he finally deadpans, voice flat as the steel in his hand.
You hesitate, then tug the battered map from your pocket, unfolding the ruined creases with stiff fingers. You jab a finger toward the crude drawing of the looming structure dominating the area.
“The castle.”
For a second, something flickers across his face, surprise, then calculation. He studies the map, then you, his jaw working.
“That’s where the president’s daughter is,” he says at last, tone clipped but carrying a weight you can’t ignore. His eyes harden, colder than the night air. “That’s my mission.”
The tension between you lingers, but it bends into something else, necessity. For a moment, the knives, the bitterness, the years don’t matter. Survival does.
You fold the map back into your pocket, meeting his stare. “Then we’re headed in the same direction.”
Leon doesn’t agree with words. He just exhales through his nose, shoulders still tense, and steps past you, scanning the shadows as if every corner hides another fight.
But he doesn’t tell you to leave again. He doesn’t stop you from following.
And in this place, in this nightmare, that’s as close to agreement as you’ll ever get.
The air between you is thick with everything unsaid as you fall into step behind him. Leon moves like a shadow, every stride purposeful, weapon angled low but ready. He scans every corner, every rooftop, every crack in the walls, like he expects the night itself to reach out and drag him under.
You match his pace, boots crunching against gravel and wet hay, the map’s weight heavy in your pocket. Neither of you speaks at first. The silence is suffocating, but you refuse to be the one to break it. Not when his words still burn, you don’t belong here.
The streets coil and twist, narrow alleys bleeding into wider paths lined with skeletal trees. The villagers are quieter here, their presence more of a shadow at the edges than a direct threat. The quiet is almost worse.
Your eyes keep pulling to him despite yourself.
The Leon you knew in Raccoon City was green but brave, his movements uncertain yet fueled by sheer determination. Now, every motion is precise, stripped of hesitation. He’s efficient in a way that makes your chest ache; it’s the efficiency of someone who’s learned survival by losing too much.
There’s a faint scar at his jaw you don’t remember, another slicing through the brow above his left eye. His hair, longer now, clings damply to his forehead when the wind shifts. The light from the moon catches on the line of his profile, and for a moment you almost see him as he was back then, until he turns, and his eyes slice right through you, cold and unrelenting.
You look away, heart hammering.
“Stay close,” he mutters finally, voice low, rough. The command is automatic, but there’s a flicker of something else buried deep in it.
You almost laugh, bitter. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he adjusts the strap of his holster and presses on, shoulders stiff, as though keeping you at arm’s length is the only thing holding him together.
The silence falls again, heavier than before. And yet, for all his words, for all the coldness in his tone, Leon doesn’t leave you behind. He doesn’t tell you to turn back. He lets you walk at his side.
And in the dark, ruined streets of Spain, that fragile allowance feels like a confession all its own.
The silence breaks not with words, but with guttural cries tearing through the night. Villagers emerge from the shadows, eyes glowing with unnatural fury, the shuffle of boots on stone punctuated by the metallic rasp of sickles dragged along walls. They pour in from both ends of the alley, sealing you inside a kill box.
Leon’s head snaps up, gaze cutting sharp as he counts the enemies. He doesn’t waste time speaking, he just shifts, sliding instinctively until his back brushes yours. His weight grounds you, the familiar anchor in chaos.
It’s automatic. Seamless. Like Raccoon City all over again.
The first villager lunges. You don’t think, you just fire, the muzzle flash lights the alley as the man crumples into the dirt. Behind you, Leon pivots at the same instant, his handgun barking once, then twice, each bullet placed with surgical precision. The stench of blood and gunpowder thickens, filling your lungs.
A roar to your right, an axe cleaves downward. You duck, twisting beneath the swing, knife flashing up as you drive the blade into the attacker’s ribs. Hot blood sprays your arm. Before you can finish the kill, Leon’s elbow cracks back against another villager’s face, bone crunching wetly. His boot brushes yours as he plants it forward and kicks the man hard enough to send him crashing into the wall. Not a stumble. Not a misstep. Just rhythm.
Another surge, a pitchfork aimed for your chest. You twist aside, parrying with the edge of your knife, and slash down the attacker’s arm until the weapon clatters away. Before you can strike again, a bullet whistles past your shoulder, straight into their skull. The body drops at your feet.
“Reloading,” you bark, slamming a fresh magazine home.
“I’ve got it.” His answer is clipped, but solid, steady as bedrock at your back.
You trust it.
They come faster now. You move together, pivoting in unison, a seamless machine of survival. When you duck, Leon rises. When you thrust forward, he covers your flank. A villager swings wild at your side, Leon catches the wrist mid-air, twists, and shoves the blade back into the man’s chest. Another charges you head-on, you roll beneath their swing, slice the tendon at their knee, and Leon is already there above you, finishing with a brutal downward stab.
Back to back, you spin as one.
He kicks low at an enemy’s shin; you catch the stagger with a slash across the throat. You leap up the wall for leverage, boot pushing off stone to drive your knife down into a skull; Leon drops into a crouch beneath you, sweeping another enemy’s legs out before finishing them with a clean, merciless shot.
Your shoulders knock once, twice, in the chaos, not from clumsiness, but from sheer synchronicity, the kind that comes from surviving hell together once before. Every strike, every pivot, every kill feels like muscle memory burned into your bones.
For a moment, it feels like nothing’s changed. Like you’re back in that cursed city, rookies drowning in fire and blood, clinging to each other just to see the sunrise.
But then the last villager collapses, body folding into silence on the wet stone.
The night quiets.
You’re both breathing hard, blades dripping, sweat sticking your clothes to your skin. Back pressed to back, you hold the stance a moment longer, chests heaving in sync, hearts thundering against one another through armour and cloth.
Leon is the first to move. He steps forward, breaking the connection as if the closeness itself is more dangerous than the horde you just cut down. He reloads with mechanical precision, holstering his knife without a word. His shoulders stay rigid, his face unreadable, his silence a wall as high as the castle looming in the distance.
As if he can erase what just happened, the rhythm, the trust, the way your bodies still fit together perfectly.
But you can feel it thrumming in your veins, humming in your bones. The rhythm of him. The way the world seemed to make sense with him at your back.
And you hate how much you miss it.
Leon breaks the silence first, his voice low, clipped, almost like he’s annoyed with himself for speaking at all.
“I see your aim improved,” he mutters, sliding a fresh magazine into his handgun with a practiced snap.
Your lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a grimace. You refuse to let him have the last word.
“I see your footwork improved,” you shoot back, flicking blood from your blade before sliding it into its sheath. “You don’t stumble around like a rookie anymore.”
He glances at you sidelong, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth before it hardens again, vanishing as quickly as it came.
“Guess some of us had to grow up,” he says, voice flat, carrying more weight than the words themselves.
The air thickens again, that brief flicker of old rhythm buried under the heaviness of who he is now, and who you used to be to him.
The words hang between you, sharp and bitter. Guess some of us had to grow up.
You let out a dry laugh, though it’s softer, more fragile than you intend. “Yeah… you definitely grew up. Just not in the way I thought you would.”
Leon doesn’t answer immediately. He reloads with deliberate care, the metallic click of the magazine louder than his silence. His shoulders are still stiff, like the weight of his own words is pressing down on them.
“Raccoon City feels like a lifetime ago,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the bloodied stones under your boots. “Back then, you still had hope. You still looked at people like they were worth saving.”
His jaw works, but he keeps his gaze ahead, scanning the shadows. “Hope gets you killed.”
You take a step closer, unable to stop yourself. “No. Losing it does.”
That makes him glance at you, just a flick of his eyes, sharp and electric. For a moment, you swear you see it: the younger man beneath the hardened exterior, the rookie who smiled at you even when the city burned. But then he looks away again, wall slamming back into place.
“Don’t romanticize the past,” he mutters. “We survived. That’s all that matters.”
“Is it?” you press, voice low, dangerously close to cracking. “Because standing here with you… it feels like the man I knew didn’t survive at all.”
His lips part, like he wants to argue, but nothing comes out. His silence is heavier than any fight.
For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breaths and the distant croak of night insects in the fields. And though he doesn’t say it, you can feel it in the space between you.
“We have to rest,” Leon says at last, voice clipped, flat. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, his eyes are already scanning the broken stone courtyard around you, weighing shadows, corners, exits. “If we push any further tonight, we’ll be dead before we reach the castle.”
You shake your head immediately, sharp, defiant. “There’s no time. You know that as well as I do.”
His jaw flexes, that telltale tension twitching along the muscle. “I’m not asking.”
“Good. Because I’m not listening.” You shove past him, boots crunching on gravel. “Rest if you want, Leon. I’ll go on my own.”
The words taste bitter, and maybe you hope he’ll let you go, call your bluff. But he doesn’t.
Because the second you step forward, his hand closes around your wrist. Hard.
You freeze. His grip is iron, not the desperate hold of someone begging you to stay, but the unyielding restraint of a man who’s lived too long on the edge of survival to let anyone slip out of his control.
“Don’t,” he says. Just that one word, low, cold, cutting.
You twist, trying to yank free, but his fingers only dig tighter, tendons standing out stark beneath his skin. You can feel the heat of his palm, the tremor buried under the strength. He’s steady, always steady, but something in that grip betrays him.
“Let go,” you hiss, glaring up at him. “I don’t need you.”
His eyes finally meet yours, and the look in them nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Blue, burning, but not warm, not anymore. There’s no rookie softness left, no spark of hope. Just a storm, sharp and unrelenting.
“You think I don’t know that?” His voice scrapes raw, a whisper dragged through glass. “You’ve survived plenty without me.” His grip tightens until your pulse hammers against his palm. “But you’re not walking into that castle alone.”
Your breath falters. The words should feel protective. They don’t. They feel like chains.
“Why?” you bite back. “Because it’s your mission? Because I’ll get in your way?”
His expression flickers, something cracks, quick and sharp, before he slams it back into place.
But not fast enough.
His mouth parts, voice low, rough, dragged up from somewhere he’s kept locked down for years.
“Please, ______. Just do this for me.”
The word doesn’t sound right in his mouth. It scrapes out jagged, raw, like he’s forgotten how to ask for anything instead of ordering it. And it’s not the word of a soldier, not even the warning of a man trying to command control, it’s a fracture. A plea.
The word rattles inside you long after it leaves his mouth. Please. You hate how it lingers, how it pulls at something you thought you’d buried.
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Instead, the two of you move through the courtyard in brittle silence until an old, half-collapsed stone house looms out of the dark. Its roof sags inward, moss and rot clinging to the broken beams, but the walls are still standing, enough to pass for shelter.
Leon stops at the threshold, weapon raised, scanning every corner with that precise, mechanical rhythm of his. He doesn’t even breathe wrong as he checks the shattered windows, the leaning doorframe, the piles of debris that could hide more than rats.
While he sweeps the perimeter, you slip inside, boots crunching over broken glass. The air is stale, heavy with mildew and old wood. In the corner, a chair leans drunkenly against the wall, one leg splintered. You drag it across the warped floorboards anyway, jamming it under the cracked door handle until the wood creaks against the strain.
It won’t hold much, but it feels like doing something. Like control.
When you turn back, Leon is there in the doorway, watching. His eyes flick from the chair to you, unreadable, and then he steps past, pulling the door shut until the chair groans under the weight.
No words of approval. No reassurance. Just silence.
He moves to the far side of the room, crouching to sweep dust and old straw into a small, clear space. Every motion is efficient, practiced, ritual more than rest. He sets his knife down within easy reach, back against the wall, gaze locked on the single cracked window as though daring the night itself to try him.
The silence presses down, thick enough to choke on.
You sink onto a beam near the blocked door, arms braced on your knees. The shadows stretch long between you, broken only by the pale sliver of moonlight cutting through the cracks in the boards.
For a long time, neither of you speaks.
Then, without looking away from the window, Leon mutters, voice low and flat but carrying something heavy beneath it:
“You can take the first watch. I’ll cover after.”
The words are practical, stripped down to survival, but you hear what he doesn’t say: I don’t trust myself to sleep while you’re awake. Not yet.
Your throat tightens. You should argue. Should tell him you don’t need his approval, his permission, his please. But all you can do is stare at the scarred line of his profile in the dim light, and wonder how the same man can feel both like home and like a stranger all at once.
You don’t answer him. Not with words.
Instead, you reach into your pack, fingers brushing past the bruised herbs and warped map until they close around your flask of water. The metal is cold against your palm, condensation slicking your fingers as you pull it free.
You cross the room in slow, deliberate steps. He doesn’t look at you at first, still watching the window, jaw set, posture coiled like a trap. But when you hold the canteen out, his eyes flick to yours, blue cutting through the shadows.
For a heartbeat, he just stares at it. At you. Like he can’t decide whether to accept, or whether taking even this would be a weakness he can’t afford.
“Go on,” you murmur, softer than you mean to. “You look like hell.”
His mouth tightens, but after a moment he takes it, fingers brushing against yours as he does. The contact is brief, fleeting, but it burns, heat sparking where his hand touches yours, lingering even after he pulls back.
He unscrews the cap with quiet efficiency, gulps once, twice. His throat works as he swallows, and for some reason you can’t tear your eyes away from the motion. He drinks just enough to take the edge off before screwing the cap back on, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove.
When he passes the flask back, you notice it immediately: he’s angled it so the mouthpiece never touched his lips directly. Even here, even now, he’s keeping distance, building walls with small, thoughtless habits.
But his voice, low, gruff, gravel-edged, betrays him.
“Thanks.”
The word is almost nothing. A ghost of gratitude. But hearing it from him feels heavier than any knife, because it’s too raw, too human, too much like the Leon you used to know bleeding through the cracks.
You clutch the canteen tighter than you need to, sinking back toward the chair wedged against the door. The silence thickens again, heavier now, thick with things you’ll never say.
Across the room, Leon adjusts his grip on the knife at his side, gaze still fixed on the window. But his shoulders are taut, his breathing just a fraction too shallow.
At some point, exhaustion drags you under despite yourself. Your head tips against the wall, breath evening out, the steady rhythm of Leon’s silence lulling you into uneasy half-sleep.
But it doesn’t last.
A sound cuts through the dark, sharp, low, and pained. A hiss, bitten back between clenched teeth.
Your eyes snap open.
The room is still swallowed in shadow, but a strip of moonlight cuts across the floorboards, spilling over Leon where he sits near the window. He’s hunched forward, one hand locked in a tight fist on his thigh, the other dragging a filthy scrap of cloth across his stomach.
And that’s when you see it.
His shirt is pushed up just enough to expose the wound, a jagged, raw slice cutting deep into the muscle of his abdomen, seeping dark red even as he presses the cloth harder, too hard. The grit in the fabric scrapes the injury, and his jaw is locked so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack.
You’re on your feet before you can think. The weight of your pack crashes against your shoulder as you grab it and drop hard to your knees beside him.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice comes out sharp, rough, cracking around the edges.
His head jerks toward you, blue eyes flashing under the dim light. He doesn’t answer immediately, just glares, as if your sudden nearness is more dangerous than the bleeding hole in his gut.
You don’t give him the chance to push you away. You rip the bag open, hands already sifting through the crushed herbs, bandages, the last precious supplies you’ve hoarded.
“You should’ve told me the second you were hit,” you snap, voice trembling as you yank out a roll of gauze. “You think bleeding out quietly in some rotting house is noble? That hiding it makes you strong?”
He exhales sharply through his nose, gaze dropping back to the wound as if he can will it shut by ignoring you. His knuckles are white where his fist still grips his thigh.
“I’ve had worse,” he mutters, voice low, frayed with pain but stripped of complaint.
The words light a fire in your chest.
“That doesn’t make it better, Leon!” You tear the filthy cloth from his hand, tossing it aside. The wound is worse up close, ragged, angry, like whatever cut him had been meant to gut, not just wound. The sight twists your stomach, but you steady your hands anyway.
He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t move. Just sits rigid, jaw clenched, as you press clean bandage against torn flesh.
But his silence — that stubborn, suffocating silence — feels louder than any scream.
Your fingers work with steady precision, even though your chest is tight with fury and fear. You thread the needle, sterilize it in the brief flame of a match, then lean in close.
“This is going to hurt,” you mutter.
Leon doesn’t reply. Just braces his fist harder against his thigh and sets his jaw like stone.
The first stitch pierces flesh, and his body jolts despite him trying to hold still. A low hiss escapes through his teeth.
You glance up at him, rolling your eyes. “Oh, please. You’ve been stabbed, shot, mauled by god-knows-what, and you’re going to complain about this?”
“I’m not complaining,” he grits out. “Just… reacting.”
“Uh-huh.” You pull the thread taut, tying it off before moving to the next. “For the record, you were a pretty good medic back in Raccoon City. Remember? Patching people up in that busted squad car like you actually knew what you were doing.”
For the first time tonight, the edge in his expression softens — barely, but enough that you notice. His eyes flick toward you, something almost like memory sparking behind the steel.
“You were the one who stopped me from stitching that officer’s arm shut without anesthetic,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened by more than pain. “Said I’d do more damage than good.”
You smirk faintly, concentrating on sliding the needle through another torn edge of skin. “Well, I was right.”
“Yeah.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a ghost of one. “You usually were.”
The words settle between you, warmer than they should be.
You finish the last stitch, snip the thread, and reach for the small tin of antiseptic cream. Scooping some onto your fingers, you press it gently along the wound.
Leon hisses again, breath shuddering out as his hand fists tighter on his thigh.
“Oh, quit being dramatic,” you chide softly, though your tone is lighter now, almost fond.
When you glance up, he’s watching you, not the wound, not your hands, but you. His eyes aren’t steel in that moment. They’re tired, bruised with years of weight, but softened at the edges by something you can’t quite name.
You clear your throat, looking back down as you smooth the cream over the last raw edge. “Feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Raccoon City.”
Leon exhales through his nose, leaning back against the wall, gaze distant. “Sometimes it feels like yesterday. Other times… like it happened to someone else.”
You sit back on your heels, hands still trembling faintly from the work. “It happened to both of us. No one else would understand.”
His eyes flick to you again, and this time the silence between you doesn’t feel like a wall. It feels like a thread — fragile, thin, but tying you both to something that mattered.
For a moment, the ruined house, the wound, the mission — all of it fades. There’s only the memory of fire and ash, of two rookies stumbling through hell and keeping each other alive when no one else could.
And for the first time since you saw him in Spain, sitting here beside him doesn’t feel like standing next to a stranger.
You finish tying off the last bit of gauze and sit back, exhaling slowly. Your hands are still trembling, though you try to hide it by wiping the needle clean, tucking the supplies away.
Leon leans against the wall, breathing steadier now. His shirt is still loose around the stitched wound, but the bleeding has stopped. The moonlight slips across his face, softening the edges just enough to make him look younger, almost like the man you remember.
He’s quiet for a long time. Too long. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, searching, and you almost wish he’d stay silent.
Then, softly, so softly you almost don’t catch it. He says:
“Do you remember that night? After we made it out of the station… before we went our separate ways?”
Your chest tightens. You know exactly what he means. The burned-out rooftop, the silence between the sirens, the strange fragile hope that maybe you’d both live to see morning.
The words leave your mouth harsher than you intend, cutting through the quiet like glass.
“No. I don’t.”
You don’t wait to see his face, don’t let yourself look at the way those blue eyes must flicker when the words hit. You push to your feet, crossing the creaking floorboards with quick, sharp steps.
Your pack drops beside the blocked door with a dull thud, and you lower yourself onto the makeshift bedding without another glance at him. Turning your back feels like armor, the only defense you have left.
The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.
For a moment, you almost expect him to argue. To push. To force the memory back into the open where you can’t escape it. But he doesn’t.
Behind you, there’s only the sound of his breathing, rough and uneven, and the faint rustle of fabric as he pulls his shirt down over the fresh stitches.
Then nothing.
You stare into the dark, fists tight in the thin blanket, heart pounding like you’ve just survived another fight.
You told yourself the words would protect you, that denying him would make it easier, but all they do is echo, hollow and jagged, until you almost believe them yourself.
Across the room, Leon shifts once against the wall. His voice doesn’t follow.
And maybe that’s worse.
Because in the silence, you know he remembers. You know he still carries it, even if you’ve tried to bury it.
And no matter how tightly you shut your eyes, you can still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your back, steady, unrelenting, like a wound you don’t have the strength to stitch shut.
You wake to the pale light of dawn bleeding through the cracked boards, gray and cold. The night has left your body stiff, your clothes damp with the chill that clings to this rotting country.
The chair still holds against the door, though the wood has splintered under the strain. You push yourself upright slowly, every muscle tight with the weight of memory.
Leon is already awake. Of course he is.
He sits where you left him, back against the wall, knife in hand, gaze fixed on the window as if he never closed his eyes. The fresh bandages at his stomach are stained through, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. His expression is unreadable, jaw set, eyes colder than the morning air.
You almost wish he’d look at you. Almost. But he doesn’t.
You start gathering your gear in silence, shoving herbs and rags back into your pack with sharp, unnecessary force. The sound fills the room, brittle and ugly, but it’s better than the suffocating quiet between you.
When you sling the strap over your shoulder, Leon finally speaks.
“Castle’s two miles east.” His tone is clipped, flat, businesslike. Not even a trace of last night’s softness remains. “If we move now, we’ll make it before sundown.”
You nod once, not trusting your voice, and shove the chair aside from the door. It scrapes across the floorboards with a shriek, breaking the fragile stillness.
Leon stands, holstering his weapon, movements precise, efficient, the mask firmly back in place. He doesn’t look at you when he passes, just pushes the door open and steps into the weak daylight.
For a moment, you stand in the ruin of the house alone, staring at the space he left behind, the air still heavy with what neither of you said.
The road east winds through damp fields and half-collapsed walls, the silence between you louder than the crunch of boots on gravel. Leon walks a half-step ahead, scanning every shadow with that clinical precision of his, and you let him, partly because it’s easier than trying to match his rhythm, partly because you’re still stinging from the way you cut him off.
When the ruined outline of a fork in the road comes into view, you stop. One path angles up into the hills, the other dips low through the remains of a village.
“We should take the high ground,” you say, breaking the silence at last. Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. “Less chance of an ambush if we can see what’s coming.”
Leon doesn’t slow, doesn’t even glance back. “It’ll expose us. The village has cover.”
“Cover that can hide twenty villagers waiting to tear us apart,” you snap, moving to block his step. “High ground means visibility.”
“High ground means open sky and nowhere to run if we’re spotted.” He stops then, blue eyes locking onto yours. Cold, controlled. “Trust me. We go through the village.”
The words sting more than they should. Trust me.
You fold your arms, glaring back. “Funny. You used to actually listen before deciding what’s best.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. “Listening got people killed. I won’t make that mistake again.”
It lands like a blade to the gut. He’s not talking about the mission anymore, and you know it.
For a heartbeat, the silence thickens between you, both of you refusing to break eye contact.
Finally you huff, stepping aside with a sharp shake of your head. “Fine. But when we’re knee-deep in blood because you couldn’t handle being wrong, don’t expect me to say I told you so.”
Leon exhales through his nose, moving past you with that same soldier’s stride. His boots crunch over gravel, shoulders squared, mask nailed firmly back into place. But just before he overtakes you, his voice slips out — low, almost too quiet, but cutting all the same:
“Some things never change.”
You stop dead. Your head snaps toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t look back. “You always have to be right. Always have to argue.” His tone is flat, practiced, but there’s an edge underneath, sharp and bitter, meant to wound. “Even when it puts you in more danger than it saves you from.”
Your stomach twists, heat rushing to your face. “You think I argue for the fun of it?” Your voice rises, sharper now. “I argue because I know what I’m doing. Because I don’t just blindly follow orders.”
You stalk a step closer, closing the space between you, refusing to be dismissed. “Not everyone can live their life marching to someone else’s command, Leon.”
That makes him stop. His boots grind against the gravel as he halts mid-stride. Slowly, he turns, blue eyes narrowing, fire sparking beneath the ice.
“And how’s that worked out for you?” he asks, voice razor-sharp. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s examining a flaw under a microscope. “Running off on your own. Shutting people out. Pretending you don’t need anyone. Tell me—” he steps closer, his shadow almost brushing yours now, “—is that really what’s kept you alive all this time? Or has it just kept you alone?”
The words hit like a blow to the gut. For a moment, you can’t breathe. Rage and hurt knot together in your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.
“Better alone,” you fire back, voice shaking but unrelenting, “than shackled to someone who thinks they know what’s best for me.”
Leon’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding, muscle ticking hard in his cheek. His shadow swallows yours as he steps closer again, the space between you taut and sparking.
“You think that’s what this is? Me trying to control you?” His voice drops low, rough, dangerous in a way that’s not about combat, about truth. “I’m trying to keep you alive. Because like it or not—” his hand twitches at his side, as if he wants to reach for you but doesn’t — “that still matters to me.”
The admission hangs there, raw despite the venom it’s wrapped in.
You scoff, shaking your head hard, as if the motion itself will keep his words from digging deeper. “No, what matters to you is control. Keeping everything neat, ordered, safe. You’d rather suffocate the people around you than admit you can’t save them.”
His eyes flash, a sharp crack in the steel mask. He leans in, voice biting. “And you’d rather push everyone away than admit you want someone to fight for you.”
That slices deep. Your breath stutters, your chest aching, but you snap back before he can see the crack in your armor.
“Don’t put this on me,” you hiss, fists curling tight at your sides. “You’re the one who chose this life. You let them turn you into a weapon and now you expect me to just—what? Follow behind you? Fall in line like I’m one of your missions?”
Leon’s nostrils flare as he exhales sharply, the sound almost a laugh, bitter and hollow. “God, you think you know me so well.” His voice scrapes low, dangerous. “You think because you saw me in Raccoon City — the rookie, the idiot kid in a clean uniform — that you know the man I am now?”
Your heart twists. You take a step closer, eyes locked with his. “I don’t think. I know. And that’s what scares you.”
For a moment, the two of you just stand there, too close, the air between you trembling with everything unsaid. His breath brushes yours, shallow and sharp, his blue eyes burning, storming.
Neither of you steps back. Neither of you looks away.
The air between you feels scorched, every word still hanging, sharp and unfinished. Your chest heaves, blood hot in your veins, but you’ve run out of words. Or maybe you’ve just run out of the strength to keep flinging them at each other.
Leon doesn’t say anything else either. His jaw is tight, lips pressed into a hard line, blue eyes dark with things he won’t let spill. For a heartbeat you think he might push again, might twist the knife deeper. But instead he just exhales through his nose, sharp, controlled, and turns back toward the road.
Silence swallows what’s left.
You fall into step behind him, boots crunching over gravel, every sound too loud in the quiet. The fork in the road closes behind you, but the sting of the argument clings like smoke. Neither of you looks at the other. Neither of you dares to break the stillness again.
The path to the castle forks at a broken courtyard, where the grass is long dead and the stones are slick with damp moss. The fortress looms above you both, black towers jagged against the gray sky, windows like hollow eyes staring down. The air is heavy, thick with the stench of mildew and rot, every breath like swallowing earth.
You stop at the fork. One way spirals west, where the stones are older, crumbling into themselves, Salazar’s domain. The other arches east toward the looming main gates, where Ashley Graham is rumored to be held.
It feels like a line carved through more than stone.
“This is where we part ways,” you say at last. Your voice is flat, clipped, though you can feel the tremor pressing at the back of your throat. You keep your eyes forward, fixed on the path ahead. If you look at him, you’ll break.
Leon doesn’t answer right away. You hear the faint scrape of leather as his hand flexes at his side, like he’s fighting to still it. When he speaks, his tone is as cold and steady as the castle walls, “Yeah. Guess it is.”
The words cut sharper than any goodbye.
You force yourself to shift the strap of your pack higher on your shoulder, something to do with your hands. “I’ll find Salazar. End this parasite at the root.” You say it like it’s just orders. Like it’s easy.
He nods once, eyes narrowing on the opposite path. “Ashley’s my mission.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it, as if keeping his gaze away makes the split less real.
The silence between you thickens, pressing heavy against your ribs. For a moment you both just stand there, side by side but already divided.
You can’t help yourself, you glance at him. The blue eyes that once felt like safety now look like frozen steel. His face is set in that hard, unreadable mask he’s perfected, but you catch it, the flicker, the almost. The tension in his jaw, the way his throat works like words are crawling up it, desperate to be spoken.
He swallows them down.
“Don’t slow me down,” you say, harsher than you intend. You mean it to sound sharp, dismissive, but it comes out cracked at the edges, a weak shield against the truth clawing at your chest.
Leon finally looks at you then, just long enough for your heart to stumble. His eyes are tired, bruised with too many ghosts, but beneath the steel there’s something buried, something he won’t let rise.
“Stay alive.” His voice is low, rough, stripped bare of everything except the command. But underneath it, buried so deep you almost miss it, is the plea he refuses to let surface.
The words hang there, heavy, final.
You nod once. Nothing more.
Then you turn. Your boots scrape against the stones as you step onto your path, the castle swallowing you into shadow.
Behind you, Leon stands rooted for a moment longer, eyes locked on the place where you vanished. His hand flexes once at his side, then fists tight, the knuckles white.
The words burn in his chest, don’t go. Not again. I can’t lose you too. They crawl up his throat, scrape against his teeth, aching to break free.
But he forces them down.
When he finally turns toward his own path, his face is stone again, his steps as measured and precise as ever. A soldier. A survivor. Nothing more.
The courtyard empties, leaving only the echo of two sets of footsteps fading into opposite halls.
And though the castle swallows you whole, the silence you leave behind follows him like a ghost, louder than any scream.
The castle doors groan open behind you as you stagger out into the courtyard, the night air crashing over your skin like ice water.
You brace yourself against the stone archway for a moment, catching your breath. Every inhale rattles, your ribs tight, your chest burning from smoke and exertion. Your leg throbs with every step, not broken, but twisted, strained in the fight. The dull ache sharpens when you shift your weight, forcing you into a limp.
Salazar is dead.
The thought should feel like victory. It doesn’t.
The battle replays in shards behind your eyes, the grotesque contortion of his body, the way the parasite twisted him until he was nothing human anymore, the screaming collapse of the chamber as your last shot found its mark. You’d expected triumph. All you feel is the sour tang of bile in your throat and the echo of his shriek still rattling your bones.
The night air doesn’t wash the blood away. It clings, sticky on your arms, caked along your thigh where the wound had split open. Your pack is lighter now, herbs and ammo spent, the map little more than tattered scraps.
You drag yourself down the stairs into the moonlit courtyard. The grass here crunches brittle underfoot, the earth dead long before your fight ended it.
The silence is unbearable.
You lean against a crumbling pillar, pressing a trembling hand against your thigh where the pain stings sharpest. Each pulse is a reminder that you made it out, barely. The kind of survival that doesn’t feel like winning.
The cold seeps into your bones as you stare back at the looming silhouette of the castle. Its towers rise jagged into the night, black against the stars, its windows burning faint with torchlight.
You tell yourself it’s over. Mission complete. Orders fulfilled.
But the words feel empty.
Because all you can think of is the other path, the one that led east, where Leon disappeared into the dark.
You don’t know if he’s alive. You don’t know if you’ll ever see him again.
The ache in your leg is sharp, but the ache in your chest is worse.
The island path is narrow, carved from stone and dirt, the sea clawing at the cliffs far below. Every step sends a dull ache shooting up your leg, each movement heavier than the last. The taste of smoke still lingers at the back of your throat, and every bruise across your ribs throbs in rhythm with your heartbeat.
You keep walking. One foot. Then the other. The promise of extraction, of leaving this cursed land behind, dangles just far enough ahead to keep you moving.
Until it hits you.
The memory.
You’re both bruised and bloodied, bodies aching from hours of running and fighting, lungs burning from smoke that thickens the air. Behind you, the city groans with death, fires chewing through buildings, smoke rising in black, suffocating plumes that blot out the stars. Sirens wail somewhere distant, half-swallowed by the roar of collapse.
You stumble against a wall, sucking in a ragged breath, and he’s there, Leon, younger, rawer, his uniform torn and stained but still somehow clinging to the crisp edges of what it once was. His face is smeared with soot and blood, a fresh cut along his cheekbone, but his eyes…
God, his eyes are still alive. Bright. Unshaken.
Despite everything, he looks at you with a steadiness that anchors you to the ground. A rookie, barely trained, standing in hell with you, and somehow still carrying hope.
He closes the distance, one hand bracing against the wall near your shoulder, the other hovering uncertainly before pressing gently against your side where blood has seeped through your shirt. His touch is clumsy but careful, his brows knit tight with worry.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice rough from smoke but threaded with so much concern it nearly undoes you.
You huff a laugh, sharp and brittle, because the truth is obvious, neither of you is okay. “No,” you rasp, shaking your head. “Pretty sure I’m falling apart.”
For a second he just stares, startled, then a crooked grin tugs at his mouth despite the ash and blood caked there. The expression looks absurd in this place, this nightmare, but it’s real.
“Well,” he says, breathless, trying to match your tone, “guess we’re in the same boat then.”
You bark out another laugh, short and pained, leaning heavier into the wall. “Some first day on the job, huh?”
Leon lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle, running a bloody hand through hair that keeps falling into his eyes. “Yeah. Not exactly what I signed up for.” His smile falters, then steadies again as his gaze locks with yours. “But… at least I didn’t end up facing it alone.”
And there it is. The steadiness in him, raw and foolish and unbroken, a warmth that cuts through the smoke and flames more than the fire ever could.
But then his expression shifts. The grin fades, the boyish spark in his eyes hardening into something sharper, almost frantic. His voice cuts in, rough with blunt desperation:
“Come with me.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, confusion breaking through the exhaustion. “What?”
He leans closer, smoke curling between you, his hand still braced against the wall near your shoulder. There’s no hesitation now, no careful rookie second-guessing himself. His voice drops, urgent, insistent.
“Come with me — join the government.” His words tumble out fast, like if he doesn’t say them now he never will. “We can work together, you and me. We could actually do something. Put an end to this before it happens again.”
The desperation in him is naked, almost jarring, but it’s real. He believes it. His jaw is set, his blue eyes blazing in a way that pins you in place, that makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like a plea.
“You’ve seen what I’ve seen,” he pushes, breath ragged, chest heaving with smoke and exhaustion. “We survived this together.
You swallow hard, throat tight, staring into his desperate, pleading eyes. Every fiber in you aches to say yes, the words press against your teeth, raw and almost painful in how badly they want to break free.
But you know you can’t.
“Leon…” your voice cracks, barely audible over the roar of fire behind you. You force the words out anyway, each one cutting like glass. “I can’t.”
His face falters, just a flicker, but enough to gut you. The firelight licks across his features, carving the sharp planes of his jaw, the cut on his cheek, the tremor in his mouth as if he’s biting down on all the things he wants to say.
“Why not?” His voice comes rough, breaking with frustration, with the rawness of someone too young to understand that sometimes survival isn’t enough to bind two people forever. “We could do this. Together. Don’t you see that?”
You shake your head, harder this time, though your chest feels like it’s splitting open.
“You’d become sick of me,” you whisper, forcing the words past the knot in your throat. “Day after day, mission after mission. You’d start to see all the cracks, all the things that don’t fit. And one day, you’d—”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Leon cuts in, firm, desperate, the words tripping out like a promise he doesn’t know how to stop making. His blue eyes blaze against the firelight, unwavering.
“You’d grow to hate me,” you push, voice shaking, trying to drive the knife in deep enough that he’ll finally let go.
“No.” His reply is sharp, immediate, the rookie’s stubbornness sharpened into something like defiance. He takes half a step closer, close enough that the smoke curls between you both. “I could never hate you.”
The way he says it almost undoes you. Not as a reassurance, not even as an argument, but as a truth, carved raw out of his chest, stripped of every layer of hesitation.
You bite down hard, teeth clenching, because if you let yourself believe it, if you let yourself want it, you’ll never be able to walk away.
The realization settles into his face all at once, dimming that stubborn fire in his eyes. His lips part, trembling faintly, before he forces the words out, quiet, uneven, like he already knows the answer.
“I’m never going to see you again… am I?”
The plea in his voice cuts deeper than any blade, but you can’t bring yourself to lie. Your throat locks, burning with everything you want to say but can’t. Because you know the truth — and so does he.
You can’t say no. You can’t say yes. You can’t say I’m sorry.
So you say nothing.
The silence is worse than any refusal.
His jaw tightens, his eyes flicking away, blinking against the smoke curling through the street. His hand lifts, just for a second, like he might reach for you, but it falls before it closes the distance.
“I thought…” His voice cracks, just once, before he steadies it. “…I thought maybe after everything, you’d—” He swallows hard, snapping the words off like he’s biting through glass. “Doesn’t matter.”
You want to tell him it does. That it always will. But you can’t.
So you just stand there, frozen, the roar of fire closing in around you while the one person who’s ever truly seen you stares at you like you’ve already become a ghost.
He looks back at you one last time. Blue eyes, raw and burning, searching for something he’ll never hear from you. Then he exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders stiffening, and the mask begins to fall, the first bricks of the wall that, years later, will become unbreakable.
When he finally turns away, it feels like the city itself collapses in his wake.
The memory collapses in on itself, flames and smoke giving way to the crash of waves against jagged rock. You stumble mid-step, boots skidding on the narrow path, your hand shooting out to catch the rough stone wall before you fall.
Your chest heaves. The night air bites sharp, but it does nothing to steady you.
You didn’t even notice the tear until it slid down your cheek, warm against the cold wind. You swipe it away with the back of your hand, quick, angry, like denying it will make it vanish, but the ache it leaves behind is worse than the sting in your leg.
It hits you all at once, the memory you’ve buried for years, the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes when you walked away. It slams into you like a truck, merciless, unstoppable, dragging up everything you’ve tried to forget.
You squeeze your eyes shut, breath ragged. You survived the castle. You killed Salazar. You’re walking off this cursed island alive.
And yet, somehow, this feels like the moment that breaks you.
Your hand shakes as you dig into your pack, fingers closing around the cracked satellite phone. The screen flickers weakly to life, the signal barely cutting through the static. You bring it to your ear, voice rough as you force out the words for pickup coordinates.
But before you can finish, another voice slices through the silence.
“Going so soon?”
You freeze.
The phone nearly slips from your grip as you whip around, heart slamming into your ribs.
He’s there.
Leon. Standing a few paces back on the jagged stone path, framed by the pale wash of moonlight. His tactical gear is torn, streaked with blood and dirt, but he’s upright. Alive. The steel blue eyes you’ve seen in nightmares and memories fix on you now, steady despite the exhaustion etched into his face.
For a heartbeat, you can’t move. The sight of him feels impossible, surreal, like conjuring a ghost.
“Leon…” The name breaks out of you on a breath, cracked and fragile, like saying it will make him vanish.
But he doesn’t vanish. He’s real. Solid. Safe.
Your throat tightens as the phone slips lower in your hand, forgotten. Every ache, every bruise, every buried memory crashes down on you all at once.
You’d convinced yourself you’d never see him again. That the last thing you’d carry was that look in his eyes as you walked away in Raccoon City.
The wind off the sea cuts cold against your skin, but you barely feel it. The only thing you register is the weight of his stare, unwavering, pulling you apart piece by piece.
Then his eyes shift lower to the tear you hadn’t even realized was still clinging to your cheek.
For an instant, neither of you moves. The silence between you is taut, as fragile as glass.
His shoulders drop. Just slightly, but enough. The rigid soldier’s frame, always squared, always braced for impact, eases as though someone has stolen the fight from him. It’s not relief, not exactly. It’s something deeper. Something heavier.
It’s the look of a man who’s been carrying armor so long that the sight of your tears cracks it without warning.
Your chest tightens. You want to speak, to force words through the knot in your throat, but nothing comes. Your voice has abandoned you.
Leon swallows hard, his jaw clenching once before he exhales. That breath carries years of silence, years of ghosts, years of everything he never said. His hand twitches at his side, not quite reaching for you, not quite steady, like he’s fighting himself even now.
For the first time since you saw him in Spain, his eyes don’t look like steel. They look human. Haunted.
The silence stretches until it’s unbearable, pressing against your ribs like a vice. The crash of waves below becomes the only sound, relentless, echoing the pounding of your heartbeat.
Then, finally, Leon speaks.
“I told myself…” His voice is low, gravel-scraped, almost unrecognizable. He stares past you for half a second, like pulling the words out costs him more than any wound. Then his gaze locks back onto yours, sharp and unwavering. “If I ever saw you again…” His throat works, the next words rasping out like a confession torn from his chest. “…I wouldn’t let you go.”
Your breath hitches. The words hit too deep, sinking past every wall you’ve tried to keep standing. Your chest aches, a sharp, hollow ache, like his vow has cracked something you didn’t realize was still breakable.
Leon doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed on you, not the cold steel you saw in Spain, not the soldier’s mask he’s worn for years, but something stripped bare. Human. Raw.
“Do you know what it’s like,” he continues, voice rough, heavy with something he’s held back for too long, “carrying that thought? Through every mission, every night that doesn’t end? Thinking I’d already lost you, and knowing it was my fault for letting you walk away?”
The words tumble out, sharper now, as if he’s afraid if he doesn’t say them now, he never will.
Your throat burns, but you can’t answer. You can’t even breathe.
He draws in a ragged breath, shoulders heaving. His hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles blanching, nails biting into skin like it’s the only way to ground himself.
“I tried to bury it,” he admits, voice breaking for just a second. “Tried to be what they needed me to be the soldier, the weapon, the man who could shut it all out. But it never worked.” His eyes flicker, haunted. “Because every time I closed my eyes, I remembered. Raccoon City. The fire. The blood. And you.”
Your heart stutters. His voice is low but relentless, every word a blade carving you open.
“I remembered the way you looked at me when the city was burning. The way you walked away when I asked you to stay.” He swallows, hard, jaw clenched as though the memory still tastes like ash in his mouth. “I carried that with me, every damn day. Every time I thought I couldn’t keep going, I saw you leaving. And it cut deeper than any bullet ever could.”
You shake your head faintly, desperate to stop him, desperate to keep yourself from breaking under the weight of what he’s saying. “Leon…”
But he doesn’t stop. He can’t.
“I wouldn’t let it happen again.” His voice sharpens, intensity cutting through exhaustion, a vow forced out through clenched teeth. “Not this time. If I saw you again, I wouldn’t—” His breath catches, chest heaving, as though the words themselves wound him. “I couldn’t let you slip away.”
The air between you feels electric, vibrating with everything unsaid, everything lost and clawing to the surface. His eyes burn into yours, unflinching, stripped of every layer of discipline and armor. What’s left is raw need, a vow made in the ashes of Raccoon City, carried like shrapnel in his chest for years.
And standing in the moonlight, you realize he isn’t just speaking about now. He’s confessing the promise that’s haunted him since the night you left him behind.
A vow he never stopped keeping, even when you weren’t there to hear it.
The vow hangs there between you, jagged and heavy, too sharp to ignore. The waves crash against the cliffs below, the spray rising in bursts of white mist, but you barely hear it. All you can hear is his voice, the rawness of it, the way the words cut open the silence like they’d been clawing at his throat for years.
Your lips part, but nothing comes at first. The knot in your chest tightens until it’s almost unbearable, your breath catching like you’ve been struck.
“Leon…” His name slips out again, this time softer, breaking at the edges. You shake your head, eyes burning. “You can’t say things like that to me.”
His jaw tightens, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s the truth.”
You bite down hard, trembling, fighting the war in your chest. “And what do you want me to do with that truth? Pretend the years didn’t happen? Pretend we didn’t—” Your voice falters, catches, then steadies with a shaky breath. “You don’t understand what it did to me. Walking away from you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
His eyes flicker, widening just slightly, like your words gut him more than any bullet. But still, he holds.
“I thought if I stayed, I’d ruin you,” you force out, words spilling now, sharp and aching. “That one day you’d see every crack in me and realize I was never enough. That you’d hate me for it. That’s why I left.”
For a moment, the only sound is the wind tearing at the cliffs, whipping your hair into your face.
Leon shakes his head slowly, blue eyes burning. “I told you then, and I’ll tell you now — I could never hate you.” His voice drops, rough with something that feels close to breaking. “I don’t care how many cracks there are. I don’t care how much hell we’ve seen. You were the only thing that ever felt real in all of this.”
The words tear through every wall you’ve tried to hold, every excuse, every fear. Your breath stumbles out of you in a sound you don’t recognize, half a sob, half a laugh. It feels fragile, jagged, like you’re breaking apart and being stitched together in the same moment.
“Leon…” You press a trembling hand over your mouth for a second before letting it fall, the words slipping free in a rush you can’t hold back. “You always say things like this… things that make it impossible for me not to fall in love with you. Over and over again.”
The confession leaves you trembling, but lighter too, like it was tearing itself out whether you wanted it to or not. Your chest aches with it, the truth burning as it hangs between you, raw and unguarded.
For a heartbeat, Leon just stares, every line of his face tight with shock, with the weight of what you’ve just given him. Then his shoulders sag, his lips parting in a breath that sounds almost broken, as though he’s been waiting years to hear it and never thought he would.
For a heartbeat, Leon doesn’t move. He just stares at you, blue eyes wide and unguarded, your confession echoing in the space between you like it’s the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.
Then something in him breaks.
He steps forward, boots crunching against the gravel, closing the space in two sharp strides. His hand comes up first, tentative, almost trembling, before it settles against your jaw, his thumb brushing away the tear track on your cheek. The warmth of his touch is enough to undo you all over again.
“God…” he breathes, voice rough, low, almost reverent. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that?”
You can’t answer. You don’t need to. Because in the next breath, he leans in, closing the final inches.
The kiss is not soft, it’s desperate, aching, years of ghosts and silence finally giving way. His lips crash against yours with a force that speaks of everything he’s swallowed down, every vow unspoken, every moment of regret. You grip at his vest with shaking hands, dragging him closer, afraid that if you let go even for a second he’ll disappear back into smoke and memory.
He tastes like salt and iron, like sweat and blood and the sea air, but beneath it all is something achingly familiar. Something you thought you’d lost in the fire of Raccoon City.
Leon groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth, one hand sliding back into your hair while the other anchors hard against your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers again.
When you finally break for breath, your foreheads press together, both of you panting, trembling. His eyes search yours in the pale moonlight, still haunted, still scarred, but softer now, cracked open.
“You’re not walking away this time,” he whispers, the words a vow pressed against your lips.
And for the first time in years, you don’t want to.
Synopsis: You’re the no-nonsense top officer at Raccon Police Department who swore off training rookies, right up until Leon Scott “golden retriever” Kennedy gets assigned to your hip.
Tags: pre–full apocalypse, grumpy x sunshine, coworkers, an attempt at comedy, fluff, mutual pining, patch-up scene
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, profanity, emotional intimacy, mentions of blood/wounds, brief animal violence (dog is infected!)
Words: 22k
A/N: every time I think about re2 leon kennedy I think of that tik tok sound “how old are you? i'm 4 years old!” my shayla
The station always felt half-asleep at this hour.
Not dead, not empty, just… dozing. The fluorescent lights along the ceiling hummed lazily, flickering every now and then like they were reconsidering their career choices. The air-con pushed out that tired, overworked breath the building had been exhaling since the eighties. Somewhere, something dripped. Somewhere else, a vent rattled. The RPD was old, but in the way a grizzled officer is old, stubborn, loud, still standing.
You liked it like this.
No radios crackling, no phones ringing off the hook, no officers tromping around telling the same story for the sixth time. Just you, the paperwork, the smell of burnt coffee baked into the walls, and the faint electrical buzz that said: the city is still asleep, take the win.
Your key slid into the side door and turned with a soft clack. That sound always hit you with a weird, quiet satisfaction, the sound of being first, of beating the day to the punch. You pushed the door open, stepped into the dark bullpen, and were greeted by that familiar stripe of light from the vending machine at the far wall. Everything else was shadow and soft blue-gray.
You didn’t turn on the overheads. Those were for the chaos hours. You crossed the room and clicked on your desk lamp instead, a warm, small circle of light that cut out a little territory just for you.
Your corner.
Exactly how you’d left it yesterday: reports stacked in descending order of priority, pen jar turned with the labels facing out, a closed file where you’d stopped mid-sentence, and your mug, handle to the right, tilted just so. No one touched your desk. Not because anyone was afraid of you (though some were), but because after a while people learned, you kept things the way you kept them for a reason.
You dropped your bag under the desk, slid into your chair, and pulled the top file toward you. Break-in, residential, no forced entry, no usable prints, witness half-drunk. You’d read this case a thousand times in a thousand neighborhoods. It didn’t matter. You still read it. Because sometimes there was a pattern. Sometimes someone else missed what you didn’t. That was the part you secretly liked, the puzzle-hunting.
The clock above the copier clicked over to 6:10 a.m.
Good. That gave you maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes before the rest of the department began to stagger in, grumpy and loud and full of fresh disasters. If you were disciplined, and you were, that was enough time to clear two, maybe three reports before people started asking for things.
You stood, crossed to the communal coffee pot, and poured the first cup of the day. It was the kind of coffee that hated you and wanted you to fail: thin, bitter, scorched. You drank it anyway. Two sugars, exactly. Stir twice clockwise, once counter. Not superstition, not really, just rhythm. Ritual was the thing between you and the noise. Ritual meant you were the one in charge.
The first sip burned your tongue, and some half-dormant part of your brain purred at the heat. Alert, now. Ready.
A floorboard or a pipe groaned somewhere behind the records room. You didn’t even flinch. The building did that sometimes. Old bones popping. You were the one who had to read the “I heard something” reports, half of them were the plumbing, the other half were bored officers, and the last 3% were actual problems. Today, it was the first category. Not worth getting up.
You sat again, tapped your pen twice, and sank into the silence. It wrapped around you like a worn-in jacket. In here, this early, you weren’t the one people whispered about or asked for or rolled their eyes at. You were just another pair of eyes on paper. It was almost… nice.
The phone on your desk blinked once, red. Voicemail, 3:42 a.m. You ignored it. If it had been a real emergency, it wouldn’t have waited for voicemail. Let Morning You deal with that.
Outside, behind the blinds, the sky was doing its best imitation of morning, but Raccoon City was stubborn about sunlight. Thin gray light seeped in anyway, making the dust in the air glow. Another day. Another pile of things broken by other people that you’d have to fix.
You flipped a page. Evidence chain incomplete. Of course it was. You circled the line and scrawled in the margin: Follow up with Miller. AGAIN. You sighed through your nose.
Rookies.
Always rookies.
They came in waves, faces that looked too young to hold a gun, all posture and big talk. They asked where to put their lunch, how to log evidence, where the clean cups were, who had the good chair. They were excited, hopeful, romantic about the job. You’d been like that once, maybe, the memory was fuzzy. Now it just got in the way.
You’d told the sheriff two years ago you weren’t training any more of them. They burned time, they burned energy, and half of them quit when they realized this wasn’t an action movie. “They learn more from getting it wrong,” you’d said. “I don’t have the hours to hold hands.”
He’d agreed. Or at least, he’d stopped asking.
So when the front doors creaked open too early, when footsteps sounded way too fast and way too upbeat for 6:15 a.m., you already knew who it was.
Leon Scott Kennedy. RPD’s newest golden retriever.
The kid who smiled at everyone. The kid who apologized to filing cabinets when he bumped them. The kid whose laugh you could hear from the parking lot.
You took a long, fortifying sip of coffee and said to no one, “Here we go.”
The quiet survived for exactly twenty-three seconds.
The squeak of boots on linoleum echoed down the hallway, repeating in a chipper little rhythm that made you want to introduce someone to proper stealth technique. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.
“Morning!”
His voice bounced across the bullpen like it had no idea what walls were. Bright, young, open-throated. You could almost see the grin.
You grunted into your mug. The international sign for not now.
It didn’t dissuade him in the slightest.
Leon rounded the desks and came into your little pool of lamplight like it was the most natural thing in the world. Up close, he was somehow even more… shiny. Brand-new uniform, still a deep navy because it hadn’t met rain and grime and blood yet. Collar perfect. Hair neat. Eyes, stupidly blue and awake, like he had actually slept last night, like he didn’t understand how offensive that was.
He planted himself at the edge of your desk, boots squeaking one final time, hands in his pockets like he wanted to seem relaxed but hadn’t practiced it enough.
“I’m still getting lost around here,” he said, chuckling a little like he was confessing to something small and adorable. “This place is huge.”
You didn’t look up. “Then get a map.”
He laughed. Laughed. Full, bright, genuine. Like you’d said something funny. You hadn’t.
“Right, yeah. A map. That’s a good one.”
You finally lifted your eyes, slowly, giving him The Look, the one that said you were too tired for sunshine and too experienced for charm. Most rookies got that look once and avoided you for a week.
Leon just smiled wider.
He lingered, clearly expecting you to add something, maybe ask how he was settling in like you were some kind of welcoming committee. You didn’t. You turned a page.
There was a little beat, the kind where you could watch a brain decide whether to keep bothering you or to go bother someone else, and then, like a happy dog catching the scent of more people, he swivelled and bounced off toward the other desks.
Good. Let him spread the energy over there.
Within ten minutes, the rest of the station began to trickle in. By then Leon had already made himself useful: he carried a stack of files for Donna from Records, refilled the sugar, helped someone figure out the copier, and did it all with that same I’m happy to be here grin that made older officers soften a little.
“Careful, Kennedy, that pot bites,” one of the detectives called when he reached for the coffee.
“Only if you don’t respect it, sir,” Leon said, completely serious.
The bullpen burst into laughter.
Of course they loved him. Of course. He was exactly the kind of rookie they liked, polite, helpful, could take a joke, good jawline for pictures. Meanwhile you sat in your corner and pretended your report was the most interesting thing you’d ever seen.
He’d been here what, two and a half weeks? Long enough for half the department to claim him. Long enough for the forensics girl to say, “He’s so sweet.” Long enough for dispatch to start asking if he wanted to join poker night. Long enough for you to peg him.
He was the kind of guy who probably thanked the vending machine when it actually dropped the right snack.
You tried to tune him out. You really did. But his laugh carried, bright and unfiltered, not yet sanded down by too much shit. It didn’t sound like it belonged in a room that also held three unsolved homicides and a faulty AC. It sounded like it belonged outside, on a good day, with a dog and no paperwork.
You kept reading.
Then you made the mistake of glancing up.
He was over by Miller’s desk, leaning over a map, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, talking with his hands, big, animated gestures like he used to play sports. Miller looked amused, like he was indulging him. Leon said something, Miller laughed, and then Leon glanced across the room.
Right at you.
You were mid-sip.
He waved. Cheerfully. Like you weren’t glaring. Like of course you were watching him.
You froze.
He was coming back.
Fantastic.
He slid into the chair opposite you without invitation, spun it around, and straddled it like he was in one of those “down-to-earth cop” recruitment posters. “Hey, you’re (L/N), right? Everyone keeps saying you’re the best. You must’ve seen it all.”
“Most of it wasn’t worth seeing.”
He laughed. Again. God. “Guess I’ve got a lot to learn.”
“You do.” You flicked your eyes to him, then pointedly to the floor between you. “Starting with boundaries.”
He blinked, then scooted his chair back… about an inch. “Personal space. Got it.”
That was not “got it.” That was “I acknowledged the concept.”
He tipped his chin toward your paperwork. “What’re you working on?”
“Paperwork.”
“Oh. Cool.” He nodded, totally sincere. “I love paperwork.”
You looked up, slow, disbelief written across your face. “No one loves paperwork.”
“Well, I mean, it’s not exciting, but it’s organized.” He shrugged, boyish, easy. “I like organized.”
You stared at him for half a second longer than you meant to. Because okay. That was… not the worst answer. You were almost willing to say, Huh, when someone in the back yelled:
“KENNEDY! You still owe me that coffee!”
He jolted upright. “Right! Coming!” He looked back at you as he stood. “We’ll talk later?”
“Let’s not.”
“Cool, see you soon!”
Then he was gone again, vanishing into the crowd in a trail of squeaky boots and good intentions, leaving the air four decibels louder than it had been.
You rubbed your temples. “This department needs earplugs.”
You dropped back into your report. You didn’t get three lines in before your brain supplied, unhelpfully: He’s not the worst rookie you’ve seen.
You ignored it.
The morning bled into proper shift hours. More bodies, more noise, more coffee. By now the bullpen was at that low, constant hum of work, phones ringing, printers chewing paper, someone cursing because a form was missing a signature. You settled into it, that well-practiced blindness that let you read even while chaos moved around you.
And then you heard him again.
Not near you this time. At the lockers. Voice carrying easily down the hall.
“She’s the best on the force, right? I kinda wanna train with her.”
Your pen stopped.
Your heartbeat didn’t speed up, you were too controlled for that, but something tightened right under your sternum. You stilled, eyes fixed on the same line you’d been reading.
Of course he wanted you.
You dipped your head, muttering into your mug, “Over my dead body.”
A couple of guys by the lockers laughed, that low, ugly kind of laughter men have when they think they’re being funny at a woman’s expense.
“You don’t want her, kid,” someone said. Dwyer, by the voice. “She’ll have you polishing her boots before she lets you touch a case file.”
Another chimed in, piling on. “She doesn’t train rookies. Burned through the last one in two days.”
More laughter.
You didn’t look up. You didn’t take the bait. You’d had worse said about you in rooms where you were the only one actually doing the damn job. Let them talk. Let them think you didn’t hear.
Then Leon spoke again. And his tone was different.
“Maybe she’s just the only one doing her job right.”
The laughter faltered.
He didn’t stop.
“I’ve seen her reports,” he said, still casual, but the edges of the words had steel. “She doesn’t miss anything. If that’s what ‘burned through’ looks like, maybe we should all be taking notes.”
Silence rolled across the room like a slow wave. The kind of silence people fill with coughs because they don’t want to admit they were being assholes. Eventually someone muttered, “Watch your mouth, rookie,” and the sound of papers shuffling resumed like nothing had happened.
You stared at your report, but the words were lolled together now, refusing to be separate. Something warm, annoyingly warm, crept up the back of your neck.
He defended you. Why?
He had no reason to. He didn’t know you. He’d met you, what, three times? You’d been nothing but short with him. And still, he’d said it like it was obvious. Like anyone with eyes would say the same.
You finally let yourself glance over.
He was still by the lockers. Still smiling, but it wasn’t the goofy, I-love-everyone smile from earlier. It was smaller. Defiant. There was spine under all that sunshine.
He glanced up, caught you looking, and lifted a hand in a little wave.
You rolled your eyes and went back to your report, pretending to read, even as the corner of your mouth betrayed you with the smallest twitch.
“Perfect,” you muttered. “The rookie’s a hero now.”
You thought that would be the end of it. You thought: Fine. He defended me. I’ll nod at him next time or something. Then he’ll get bored and go charm forensics again.
But the universe hates your plans. Because right then, the room changed again.
Not loud, quiet. That special quiet that sucked the air out slowly. The one everyone recognized.
Sheriff Graham walked in.
Coffee in one hand, clipboard in the other, expression like the day was already going his way. He strode through the bullpen like a man inspecting his troops.
“Morning, everyone!”
A few tired “mornings” came back. You didn’t bother. You just sat up a little straighter and set your pen down. Whenever he greeted everyone like that, it meant he was about to make the day worse.
His gaze swept the room, taking in faces, desks, the mess of lives being lived in dark blue. Then his eyes landed on Leon.
“Kennedy,” he said, already smiling. “You settling in?”
Leon practically snapped to attention. “Yes, sir! Great team here, sir!”
Of course he said that.
“Glad to hear it. We’re proud to have you.” The sheriff flipped through his clipboard, made a show of scanning the notes. The room went a shade quieter. You felt it coming. You felt it like you feel a storm in your joints.
“Now…” he said slowly, tapping the board with his pen, “about training assignments…”
You closed your eyes.
No. No, no, no, no, no-
“_______,” he said, too cheerful, “since you’re our top field agent, I’m assigning Kennedy here to shadow you for the next month.”
There it was.
The thunderclap.
Your hand tightened around your mug so hard you almost cracked the handle. “Absolutely not.”
The sheriff didn’t even look up. “Consider it a character-building exercise.”
“Whose character?” you shot back. “Mine or his?”
He finally glanced at you then, eyes amused. “Both.”
There was a ripple of poorly hidden laughter around the room. You didn’t have to look to know some of those same guys from the lockers were smirking. Let’s see how long the ice queen lasts. You’d seen the look before.
Meanwhile, Leon, bless his shiny, oblivious soul, was beaming.
“Thank you, sir!” he said, practically glowing. “I won’t let you down!”
You turned toward him slowly, every motion deliberate, and said with all the exhaustion of five years on the force: “You already are.”
For half a second, his grin faltered. Then, somehow, impossibly, he rallied. “Yes, ma’am!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Don’t call me that either.”
The sheriff chuckled, clearly very pleased with himself. “Play nice. Dismissed.”
And then he abandoned you to your fate, vanishing into his office on a cloud of smug and caffeine.
The second his door shut, the bullpen erupted.
“Twenty bucks says she doesn’t last the week.”
“You kidding? She’s gonna eat him alive before Friday.”
“I give him three days before he cries.”
You ignored all of it. You gathered your file, your notepad, and your now-lukewarm coffee and headed for the hallway like a woman being marched to the firing squad.
You didn’t even make it three desks before you heard the quick, eager footsteps behind you.
“So! Partnered up, huh?”
You didn’t bother to look at him. “Don’t call me partner.”
“Right, right.” He fell into step beside you like he’d always walked there. “Mentor?”
“No.”
“Sensei?”
You stopped. He almost rear-ended you, skidding to a halt just short of your shoulder. You turned your head slowly, giving him the kind of look that had made grown men apologize.
“If you call me sensei, I’ll shoot you.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Got it, boss.”
“Not that either.”
“Understood, coach.”
You closed your eyes for a one-second prayer. “Kennedy—”
“Okay, okay,” he said, hands up, laughing, actually laughing, like this was a fun day for him. “I’ll just… follow your lead.”
“You were already doing that,” you said, dry as old paper.
“Guess I’m good at it, then.”
And there it was again, that stupidly sincere smile. Unarmored. Like he was actually happy to be assigned to you. Like he hadn’t heard all the crap they said.
You turned the corner toward the briefing room and caught your reflection in the glass — uniform crisp, expression sharper than your badge. Behind you, Leon followed like he belonged there. Like a golden retriever glued to its person.
“So,” he piped up again, because of course silence was illegal for him, “what’s first on the agenda, ma’am, I mean —____?”
You didn’t answer. You just pushed open the door and muttered, just loud enough for him to hear:
“First, you’re getting a leash.”
He laughed. Of course he laughed.
And as you walked inside with him at your heels, you realized, you’d survived firefights, blackouts, and one stairwell trying to kill you. You weren’t entirely sure you’d survive him.
The moment Sheriff Graham disappeared into his office, you were already on your feet.
Nothing good ever came after one of his “character-building exercises.” If you stayed seated, somebody would remember you. If somebody remembered you, you’d get roped into something even worse than babysitting a rookie, community liaison stuff, press, or, God forbid, another high-school career day. So you moved. Fast.
You tucked the folder under your arm, slid your chair in with that automatic, military-precise motion that said you’d been doing this too long, and sent up a silent, extremely unprofessional prayer that the universe would grant you five whole minutes of freedom before Leon Kennedy realized you’d left the room.
Five minutes. Three, even. Long enough for him to get distracted by the vending machine, or by someone with softer edges, or by anyone who didn’t regard rookies as time vampires with badges.
There were plenty of kind people in this building. People who brought homemade brownies on Mondays. People who asked about everyone’s kids. People who had photos of their dogs taped to their monitors. People who looked at Leon and saw “promise” instead of “noise.”
He could follow any one of them.
If I move fast enough, you told yourself, maybe he’ll attach himself to someone else like a golden parasite.
You slipped out of the briefing room like you were escaping a hostage situation. Your boots barely made a sound on the scuffed tile. You kept your head down, folder angled against your ribs, weaving through desks and half-finished reports and morning chatter like you were running a quiet little op no one else knew about.
Down the hallway. Past records. Past dispatch, where the radio chatter was just starting to pick up. A shaft of pale sunlight cut across the corridor from one of the too-small windows, throwing a stripe over your shoulder as you moved. You reached the locker corridor and let yourself feel the smallest, pettiest bubble of satisfaction.
No blond hair. No too-bright eyes. No “hey, partner!”
You almost smiled.
Then you heard it.
Boots. Jogging.
“Wait up, partner!”
You didn’t even have to turn around. You closed your eyes mid-stride and let out a long, slow, despairing groan, the kind you usually saved for missing evidence receipts and twelve-page internal memos drafted by people who had never once stepped onto a crime scene.
He caught up to you in exactly three long, eager strides. Of course he did. He was a puppy. Puppies had no understanding of “no.”
He appeared at your side, a little out of breath but beaming like he’d just won a race you hadn’t agreed to run. “You walk fast.”
“I have places to be,” you said, tightening your grip on the folder. “Alone.”
He nodded, like you’d just said something inspiring. “Me too! But… together!”
You stared ahead and decided not to answer that. Some things didn’t deserve oxygen.
Instead, you veered right toward your locker, yanked it open with more force than necessary, and started rummaging around the top shelf like you’d forgotten something critical, a notebook, a spare radio, your will to live. Maybe, by some miracle, he’d take the hint and go… anywhere.
He did not.
“You need a hand?” he asked, head tilted, peering over your shoulder like a golden retriever checking to see what you’d dropped. His hair fell forward a little and you hated, on principle, that it looked soft.
“No,” you said. Short. Flat. Final.
He leaned against the locker beside yours anyway, hands shoved into his pockets, posture casual but eyes lit up, radiating patience like he had endless time to wait for you to finish being annoyed at him. You could feel him watching you. You could feel half the bullpen watching you. You slammed the locker closed hard enough to make the metal ring, grabbed a notepad, and pivoted toward the exit.
He pivoted too.
You stepped left. He stepped left.
You faked right.
He mirrored you perfectly, like this really was a drill. “Oh, we’re doing drills?” he said, almost delighted.
You stopped so abruptly he almost ran straight into you. You turned, slow, eyes narrowed. “Do you always hover?”
“Only around people I like,” he said, not missing a beat.
You made a noise somewhere between a choke and a sigh, the kind of noise that said I am too sober for this. “Unbelievable.”
“I get that a lot.”
You rolled your eyes and resumed walking, faster this time. The hallway stretched ahead, long and bright and entirely too public. Sun cut in through narrow windows, painting pale bars across the floor. You ignored the morning laughter from the bullpen behind you, ignored the faint echo of someone placing a bet on how long you’d last, and kept your gaze pinned on the red EXIT sign like it was the finish line.
Leon matched your pace like it was nothing. His boots squeaked just slightly out of sync with yours, enough to annoy you, not enough to qualify as a true offense. He dropped back a step, jogged up again, like he was trying to find whatever tactical distance would make you least homicidal.
Maybe he thought this was trust-building.
“You know,” he said cheerfully, not even winded, “for a veteran, you’ve got great cardio.”
You did not slow down. “Keep talking and you’ll need yours.”
He laughed, bright, open, happy, and the sound bounced off the concrete walls like sunlight. “That’s fair!”
By the time you pushed through the metal door to the lot, the air outside had already started to warm, that early, faint heat of a Raccoon City day that hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to be kind. The smell of asphalt, exhaust, and old rain hit you. You narrowed your eyes against the light.
Leon was still right beside you.
Of course he was.
You crossed the parking lot toward your patrol car, folder tucked tight under your arm, walking like you didn’t see him. He kept pace like a soldier in formation, his shadow overlapping yours every few steps. You could hear the faint scuff of his boots, the quiet jingle from his belt, the easy way he breathed, unbothered by the morning, by you, by anything.
“I brought snacks,” he said suddenly, proud, like this was the part he’d really been waiting to share. “Protein bars. Thought it might be a long day.”
You unlocked the car door without looking at him. “You can eat yours when I drop you off.”
“Drop me off where?”
“Anywhere else.”
He laughed, genuinely amused. “You’re funny when you’re pretending not to like me.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“Sure,” he said lightly. “You’ll warm up to me eventually.”
You opened the driver’s door, slid in, and gave him a flat look over the roof. “Don’t bet on it.”
He leaned on the frame, still smiling, as if your refusal hadn’t so much as dented him. “Guess I’ll just have to prove you wrong, partner.”
You shut your door very pointedly.
Through the glass you watched him mouth something that looked suspiciously like you’ll thank me later as he jogged around to the passenger side.
You sighed, started the engine, and told yourself the truth:
This was going to be a very, very long day.
The ride started in silence.
Not a comfortable, companionable silence, not the kind you had with seasoned officers who knew when to shut up. This was the thick, foggy kind that sits in the cab of the car and hums with all the things you don’t want someone to say.
You drove.
He fidgeted.
Five minutes in, he had already adjusted his seat three different ways, opened and closed the glove box twice, checked his seatbelt as if it might have changed since the last time he looked, and was now turning the radio knob back and forth between two static-filled frequencies like he was trying to decode secret transmissions.
“Do you ever stop moving?” you asked, eyes still on the road.
“Nope,” he said, cheerful as ever. “Helps me think.”
“Then maybe stop thinking.”
He laughed, unoffended. “Can’t. Thinking’s kind of my thing.”
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes so hard you saw your own brain. Outside, the city rolled past, low buildings, storefronts just waking up, a guy hosing down the sidewalk, a woman walking her dog. The hum of the engine and the steady whir of tires should’ve been calming. Instead, Leon started humming along to the static on the radio.
You gave him a sideways look. “That’s white noise, Kennedy.”
“Yeah,” he said, drumming his fingers on the dash. “But it’s catchy.”
You turned the radio off.
“Rude,” he muttered under his breath, still grinning.
You grabbed the clipboard from the dash and handed it to him. “Check the route log.”
He flipped it open, scanned it like this was the most interesting document he’d ever seen, and, because he was constitutionally incapable of silence, said, “So… how long have you worked here?”
“Too long.”
“You like it?”
“Define like.”
He chuckled. “What’s your worst case?”
You didn’t answer.
“Okay, what about ghosts? You believe in ghosts?”
You turned your head just enough to look at him properly. His expression was open, honest, annoyingly earnest. He actually wanted to know.
“Only the ones still taking up desk space,” you said.
He barked out a laugh. “That’s a good one.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
He grinned anyway. Nothing could kill this man’s mood. You were starting to suspect he was immune to sarcasm.
The questions continued: favorite weapon, favorite street, first arrest, worst partner, biggest pet peeve, whether you thought Raccoon City was haunted (you did), whether you had any hobbies (you didn’t tell him), whether you liked dogs (you pretended you didn’t). Each answer from you got shorter, tighter, sharper.
Finally, after his tenth question, something like, “Have you ever had a partner that wasn’t terrible?” you muttered, “You’re exhausting.”
He lit up like you’d handed him a trophy. “Thanks, I get that a lot.”
At the next stoplight, he tried to balance his coffee on the dashboard.
You didn’t even have time to tell him not to.
The cup tipped, slid, and sloshed straight across the dash and down onto his thigh.
“Ah—! Damn it—no, no, no—” He scrambled, hands darting around like he could catch the spill in mid-air. He grabbed the first thing he could find, a single napkin, and dabbed at the mess, which of course did nothing.
Without even glancing, you reached into the door pocket and handed him the full stack of actual napkins you kept there for this exact reason. Not for him, but for humanity in general.
“Next time,” you said, eyes still on the road, “maybe drink it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, blotting at his pants, at the dash, at his vest. “Crisis averted. Minimal casualties.”
“You’re a walking incident report.”
“That’s unfair,” he said, smiling again. “I’m at least a two-person incident report.”
You almost laughed. Almost. It came out as more of a quiet exhale and a mouth twitch. You hid it behind a sip of your own coffee.
For a moment, a rare, blessed moment, silence actually held.
He leaned back in his seat, let out a slow breath, and watched the city blur by through the windshield. The sun had climbed higher now, casting everything in a soft, washed-out glow. It made him look younger. New. Breakable.
“You’re really calm behind the wheel,” he said at last, voice lower than before, less performative, more real.
“It’s called experience,” you said.
“I like that,” he said simply.
You rolled your eyes, but the words sat there between you, small and warm and annoyingly sincere.
The radio crackled then, saving you from having to respond.
“Unit 14, disturbance reported at 5th and Cedar. Possible lost pet, no sign of injury. Check it out.”
You picked up the mic. “Copy that. On route.”
Leon perked up instantly, like someone had just thrown a ball. “Action time,” he said, straightening his vest.
“It’s a lost pet, Kennedy. Not exactly a shootout.”
“Still counts as field work,” he said, actually bouncing a little in his seat.
You sighed, took the turn, and pulled up to the corner store. A handwritten MISSING DOG flyer was taped crookedly to the front window. A woman in her fifties, apron still on, hair frizzed from stress, stood out front the moment she saw the car.
“Oh, thank God,” she said, rushing toward you. “He ran off again, the neighbor’s mutt scared him, he’s so small, I don’t want him in the road—”
Before you could even open your door, Leon was already out, the picture of eager concern. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll find him!”
You stared at him through the windshield. “He we’d you,” you muttered.
You got out a bit slower, professional, steady, while he was already crouched near a line of bushes by the sidewalk.
“Here, buddy,” he called softly. “Hey, c’mere… it’s okay…”
He dropped his voice, and for the first time all morning, there was no performative brightness in it. It was warm, coaxing, the same tone people used for scared kids and baby animals. You watched him with your arms crossed, because damn it, it was… effective.
Two minutes later, a shaggy little mutt poked its head out from under a dumpster, sniffing suspiciously.
“Heyyyy,” Leon said, grinning. “There you are.”
The dog trotted out, tail wagging, straight into his hands.
Leon scooped him up gently, scratching behind his ears. “Gotcha, pal. You okay?”
The woman’s relief hit like a wave. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” She took the dog from him, pressing her nose to its fur. “You’re such a sweet boy.”
Leon laughed, dimples and everything. “He’s a brave little guy. Just needed a snack and some encouragement.”
You were watching. You were absolutely watching. Because right there, in that stupid small moment with a stupid small dog, the chaos smoothed out of him and you saw the cop underneath. The one who’d kneel for old ladies. The one who’d stay with a scared kid. The one who’d go into a bad building even if his hands were shaking.
You cleared your throat. “You done making friends?”
He looked over at you, bright again. “Just doing my civic duty.”
“You can put that on your evaluation,” you said, turning back toward the car.
He thanked the woman again, of course he did, then jogged to catch up to you. When he climbed in, he was still a little breathless, still smiling. “That went well, huh?”
You put the car in gear. “You didn’t lose the dog. Congratulations.”
“That’s an A-plus, right?”
“A passing grade, at best.”
He leaned back, arms folded behind his head like he’d just saved the city. “I’ll take it. Small victories.”
You caught his reflection in the side window, sunlight catching in his hair, lips still curved. And, unfortunately, your own faint smile in the mirror.
He’s not hopeless, you thought. And you immediately hated yourself for thinking it. You adjusted the mirror. Just in case he noticed.
The rest of the afternoon blurred into regular patrol rhythm, calls, checks, drive-bys, the ordinary little crises of a city still pretending everything was fine. By the time you rolled into that quiet residential strip on the west side, with its narrow sidewalks and overgrown hedges, you could feel your patience wearing thin.
Which is exactly why you pointed toward the mouth of the alley and said, “Check the perimeter.”
It was a test. And also a break. Mostly a break.
“On it,” he said immediately, saluting like he was in an RPD brochure.
You’d expected him to circle the block and get distracted by someone’s garden gnome. Rookies could turn a five-minute task into a thirty-minute adventure involving three civilians, a dog, and a traffic cone.
You didn’t expect him to come back seven minutes later with a raccoon.
He came jogging back down the sidewalk, cheeks flushed, jacket half-zipped, and something moving inside it.
“Found this little guy by the dumpster,” he said, proud, as a small masked face poked out from the fold of his jacket. “He looked cold.”
Your pen stopped in mid-air.
“That’s not perimeter security,” you said slowly. “That’s wildlife theft.”
He looked genuinely offended, clutching the raccoon closer. “But look at his little hands!”
Across the street, a woman on her porch watched the scene unfold with unearned delight. You could feel the “awww” from here.
“Put it back,” you said. “Before it files a report.”
“I don’t think it would file anything,” he said thoughtfully. “Didn’t look like the filing type.”
You stepped forward, because at some point in this partnership someone had to be the adult. You reached out and took the raccoon. It was warm, and heavier than it looked, and its tiny fingers grabbed your sleeve for a second. You hated that your heart stuttered.
“You’re lucky it didn’t bite you,” you said.
“I think it liked me,” he said, all sunshine.
“That makes one of us.”
He trailed you as you walked it back toward the dumpster, narrating like an idiot. “We could call him Rocky. No, wait, that’s cliché. Sarge? Mini Leon?”
“Stop naming it. We don’t name evidence.”
“It’s not evidence,” he protested. “It’s a citizen.”
“Citizens don’t rummage in dumpsters at seven a.m.”
“Then we know at least three officers who aren’t citizens,” he muttered.
You ignored him.
You tucked the raccoon back into the little space behind the dumpster, made it a small nest out of cardboard, and straightened. Leon watched you like you’d just saved a puppy, eyes bright, shoulders still buzzing with energy. The neighbor lady waved.
“He’s a sweet one, huh?” she called.
Leon grinned and pointed at you. “Yeah, she’s the best coach ever!”
You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “I will end you.”
He just laughed. And you, traitor that you were, almost laughed, too.
The sun was already melting down behind the RPD by the time you pulled back into the lot. Everything was dipped in honey-gold, the cars, the glass doors, the metal railings. The air was warm and tired, smelling faintly of hot concrete and old exhaust. Your shoulders ached. Your brain hummed. You were, miraculously, still sane.
You sat there for a second with your hands on the wheel, looking at the building. Today had been… a lot. Eight hours of corralling living sunshine. Eight hours of bumping, talking, laughing, rescuing raccoons and small dogs and random civilians from themselves. Eight hours of not snapping.
Which, in your book, counted as a win.
Leon hopped out before you could say anything, stretching with an audible groan, vest riding up, shirt pulling across his chest. He looked… disgustingly content. For someone who had tripped twice, spilled coffee once, nearly got you killed by a car, and openly challenged half the department’s opinion of you… he looked pleased.
He rounded the hood, still smiling, and leaned on the roof. “So,” he said, “how’d I do?”
You took a sip of your cold coffee just so you didn’t have to answer right away. “You didn’t die,” you said at last. “That’s a start.”
His smile widened. “So… like a C+?”
“A generous C+.”
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, that nervous, innocent gesture he did when he was happy and didn’t know where to put it. “I’ll take it. Better than an F. Or a funeral.”
You started walking toward the building, folder under your arm. His footsteps fell in beside yours, like they always did. You didn’t tell him to move. Not this time.
“Thanks for letting me tag along today,” he said.
You snorted. “I didn’t let you. I was forced.”
He grinned. “Still counts.”
You shook your head, but the sincerity in his tone lodged somewhere under your ribs. You hated that.
You reached the steps. The light hit the concrete in a long, warm strip. A couple of officers were heading out. Someone waved at Leon. Someone else called, “How’d the ice queen treat you, rookie?”
Leon just grinned. “She was great!”
You wanted to die. You turned toward the lot again. “Go home, Kennedy. Before I remember to file a complaint.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
You were halfway to your car when you heard him again, loud, unbothered, absolutely fearless.
“See you tomorrow, partner!”
You groaned, not even trying to hide it. “Don’t push your luck, Kennedy!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it!” he called back, right before tripping over the curb. You heard the stumble, the flailing, the little laugh he gave himself.
You didn’t turn around.
You opened your car, slid in, and for the first time all day, the silence wrapped around you again. Familiar. Comforting. Yours.
You told yourself he was still just an assignment. A problem to manage. A box to check on someone else’s clipboard.
But as the engine hummed to life and you caught your reflection in the rearview, a faint, stupid, uninvited smile tugging at your mouth, you realized you couldn’t quite make yourself believe it. Just a flicker. Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone else would’ve seen.
You swiped it away with a snort and muttered, “Yeah. That’s the part that worries me.”
Outside, the last of the light bled out of the sky. And somewhere behind you, you knew, Leon Kennedy was still grinning.
The next day started the way they all did lately, with you pretending you weren’t listening for the sound of Leon Kennedy’s footsteps.
You had your coffee, your folder, your usual spot at your desk. You went through the same motions as always: check the overnight reports, file the ones that mattered, ignore the ones that didn’t. The bullpen buzzed with that particular mix of too much caffeine and too little patience. Nothing new. Nothing exciting.
You weren’t waiting for him. Of course not. Then the door opened and there it was, the sound of energy entering a room, all optimism and squeaky boots.
“Morning, partner!”
You didn’t look up. “You’re late.”
“It’s seven-oh-one.”
“Exactly.”
He grinned, dropped his bag onto his chair, and began the daily ritual of getting ready like a kid suiting up for summer camp. Keys clipped. Notebook tucked. Vest straightened twice. You told yourself you weren’t watching him do it, that you were only looking in that direction because the light was better.
He still looked too new for the job, too clean, too bright. You half expected him to leave muddy pawprints on the tile.
You were halfway through pretending to type something meaningful when the dispatcher’s voice cut through the morning noise:
“Unit 14, report of disturbance at the Old Fairview building. Possible trespasser or animal. Check it out.”
You sighed. Of course.
Leon perked up like he’d just been given a winning lottery ticket. “That’s us, right?”
You took a slow sip of coffee and muttered, “Apparently.”
“Nice! First call of the day.”
You glanced up, one brow lifting. “It’s a disturbance, Kennedy. Probably a raccoon.”
He shrugged. “Could be a dangerous raccoon.”
You almost smiled. Almost. “Let’s go, rookie.”
The drive out was quiet at first. The sky had turned that dull gray that never quite decides between rain or thunder, and the wipers kept time in slow, steady arcs. The city blurred past, old warehouses, sagging power lines, the edges of Raccoon City that people forgot existed until someone called in a complaint.
Leon sat in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio until you slapped his hand away. Then he moved on to checking his sidearm. Once. Twice. A third time.
“Something wrong with it?” you asked dryly.
“No, just… making sure,” he said. “Never know when things go sideways.”
You resisted the urge to smile. “If things go sideways on a simple trespass call, you’ve done something very wrong.”
He shot you a grin, still fiddling with the strap of his vest. “So this is real fieldwork, huh?”
“Not unless you count stepping in puddles as tactical maneuvering.”
“Hey, I’ll take what I can get.” He leaned back, tapping his boot against the floorboard. “Better than more filing duty. I swear I can still smell the ink from those reports.”
“Don’t get too excited,” you warned. “You’ll jinx it.”
He laughed, unfazed. “Can’t jinx a good day, boss.”
You didn’t bother correcting him.
Rain began to tap against the windshield as you turned onto the old service road that led toward Fairview. The buildings here leaned into each other like tired drunks, brick chipped, windows boarded, everything smelling faintly of wet concrete and decay.
The Old Fairview building came into view around the corner: a hulking, skeletal thing fenced off with rusted chain-link. Graffiti covered the walls in bright streaks of rebellion, names, tags, angry faces staring back through the grime. The wind moaned through a broken upper window, carrying the faint clatter of loose metal.
You parked at the curb, engine idling.
Leon leaned forward in his seat, peering through the rain-speckled glass. “Wow,” he murmured. “They weren’t kidding about abandoned.”
The place looked half-alive in the storm light, every shadow a suggestion, every doorway a dare. You’d been in worse, but something about Fairview made the air feel heavier.
“Stay sharp,” you said, more out of habit than necessity.
He nodded quickly, but you caught the flicker in his expression, bravery brushing against the first edges of unease. His hand hovered near his sidearm, not touching it, just there.
You glanced at him, the ridiculous hair, the nervous smile that wouldn’t quite fade. He looked like someone about to walk into a haunted house because he’d already bought the ticket.
“Still think it’s just a raccoon?” he asked, voice light but strained.
You opened your door, the sound of rain filling the silence between you. “If it’s not,” you said, stepping out into the gray, “I hope it bites you first.”
He laughed as he followed, boots splashing into a puddle. “That’s fair, partner. Totally fair.”
You didn’t look back, but you heard the quiet chuckle that followed you toward the gate, and for reasons you couldn’t name, the sound didn’t bother you as much as it should have.
The moment you pushed the door open, the smell hit first, damp plaster, rust, and something faintly organic that had been rotting longer than it had any right to.
The air was thick enough to taste. It clung to your tongue, humid and stale, a breath caught in the building’s throat. You stepped inside, boots crunching on a layer of broken tile and grit, the beam of your flashlight slicing through the haze of dust like a knife through fog.
“Charming,” you muttered.
Leon stood just behind you, shining his own flashlight in a wide, sweeping arc. His boots creaked across the warped floorboards as he looked up, down, everywhere at once. “Wow,” he whispered. “It’s like something out of a horror movie.”
You gave him a sideways look. “If you start humming theme music, I’m leaving you here.”
He smiled, completely unbothered. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You moved further in. The old building sighed around you, long, slow groans from the beams above, the soft patter of water dripping through unseen cracks. The sound echoed down the empty corridors, stretching and bending until it was impossible to tell where it began. Somewhere deeper inside, something metal rattled.
Your light caught on a peeling wall. The wallpaper had once been floral, but years of moisture had turned it into a mess of brown curls and mold patches. A half-collapsed chair sat in one corner, its legs splintered. The air smelled faintly of rainwater and rusted pipes.
You’d just started toward the main hallway when Leon moved. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him stepping ahead of you, flashlight raised like he was in charge.
You reached out, grabbed the back of his vest, and pulled him back so fast he nearly tripped.
“Hey—!”
“No.” You turned your head just enough to glare at him through the dark. “You don’t lead. You observe. I move, you follow.”
He blinked, sheepish. “Got it. Observing.” He gestured vaguely to the space behind you. “From right behind you. Very close.”
“Leon.”
He froze. “—Stopping.”
You released his vest slowly, like letting go of a leash you weren’t entirely sure he wouldn’t bolt against.
The two of you fell into an uneasy rhythm: your steps slow, precise, scanning each doorway; his a little too quick, too light, his flashlight beam jittering along the walls. You moved like a ghost. He moved like someone trying not to trip over one.
The corridor opened into a long, narrow hall lined with office doors. Most were cracked open, revealing glimpses of overturned desks, mold-eaten carpet, a scattering of old papers that fluttered when the wind sighed through the broken windows. Your beam landed on a rusted filing cabinet toppled onto its side, drawers hanging open like gaping mouths.
“Guess nobody’s filed anything here in a while,” Leon said quietly.
You shot him a look over your shoulder. “If that was an attempt at humor, stop.”
He grinned faintly, but his eyes stayed sharp. You had to give him that, he might talk too much, but he wasn’t careless. He kept scanning, even as his nerves bled through in the restless tap of his boot.
A low creak rolled through the ceiling. Dust fell from above in a lazy drift. Both of you froze.
You tilted your head, listening. Just the building settling. Or pretending to.
“Old place like this,” you murmured, “you don’t assume silence means empty.”
Leon nodded, his grip on the flashlight tightening. “Right. Empty things make noise too.”
You gave him a quick glance, surprised by the phrasing. Then you turned back to the hall, letting the comment hang in the air.
At the end of the corridor, a flickering red light cast intermittent flashes over a sign that still read EXIT in fading paint. Every time it buzzed, the shadows jumped, walls breathing, corners twitching. The water dripping from the ceiling made a soft, constant rhythm somewhere behind you.
You reached an intersection where the hall split in two directions. Left led deeper into the building. Right descended into shadow, probably toward the basement. Neither option looked friendly.
You scanned left first, your beam glinting off shards of glass and a fallen ceiling tile. Something skittered across the floor and vanished into the dark, a rat, hopefully.
Leon’s flashlight followed yours. “I vote we don’t go right,” he said.
“You don’t vote,” you reminded him.
“Right. Observing. From behind. Quietly.”
You exhaled through your nose, the sound almost a laugh. “Getting there.”
You started forward again, keeping your light trained on the edges of each doorway, the corners of the ceiling. He stayed close, his shadow brushing yours now and then when the lights crossed. The narrowness of the hall pressed in around you both, too tight, too quiet, every breath too loud.
The silence between you wasn’t just silence anymore. It had weight. And for once, Leon didn’t fill it with words.
He just followed, footsteps steady, eyes flicking to every little sound. You caught yourself glancing back once, maybe to check his position, maybe for something else. He gave you a quick thumbs-up, grin barely visible in the low light.
You shook your head and turned back to the dark.
The building groaned again, a long, low shudder that ran through the floorboards beneath your boots.
“Still think it’s just a raccoon?” Leon asked softly.
You didn’t answer.
Because you weren’t entirely sure anymore.
The deeper you went, the more the building seemed to fold in on itself. Corridors narrowed. The air thickened, weighted with damp and dust. Every sound was drawn out and strange—each footstep echoing longer than it should have, like the place was repeating it back just to prove it was listening.
Your radio hissed once, a short burst of static, then went silent again. You frowned and tapped the transmitter clipped to your vest.
“Signal’s weak,” you muttered. “Stay close, or you’ll lose contact.”
Leon was only a few steps behind, flashlight beam dancing across the warped floorboards and scattered debris. “Got it,” he said, voice bright but lower now, as if the shadows demanded it. “No wandering off.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
You reached another junction, two halls splitting in opposite directions. Both were long, dark, and equally uninviting. The one on the left sloped downward, a cracked sign half-hanging above it that once said Storage. The one on the right ended in a set of broken double doors with glass panes punched out like missing teeth.
The radio hissed again, louder this time, a quick burst of interference that made you wince.
You unclipped it, adjusted the channel dial out of habit, and spoke into it. “Dispatch, Unit 14 checking Old Fairview interior. Static’s heavy, confirm frequency lock?”
Nothing but crackle answered back.
Leon tilted his head, listening. “Think it’s the concrete?”
“Or the wiring,” you said. “These old buildings eat signal. We’ll need to stay in shouting distance.”
He nodded, then glanced down the right-hand corridor. “Want me to check that way? Looks shorter.”
You considered it. The place was quiet, too quiet, but if there was anything here, some vagrant, stray animal, it’d show itself faster with two angles covered.
“Fine,” you said finally, tightening your grip on the flashlight. “Check the hall on the right. Stay in range. I mean range, Kennedy. If I call, you answer.”
He gave you that trademark grin, equal parts confidence and sunshine. “Got it. In range. I’ll be right around the corner.”
You wanted to roll your eyes, but something about the steadiness in his tone made you just say, “Good,” instead.
You watched him go, the beam of his flashlight bouncing over the walls. He moved slower now, careful with each step, shoulders squared like he’d practiced it in a mirror.
The second he turned the corner, the silence hit. It was immediate, total. Like the whole building took a breath and held it.
You waited a few seconds, listening for his footsteps. Nothing.
“Rookie?” you called, pressing the radio button again. “Kennedy, do you copy?”
A burst of static answered. A crackle. Then nothing.
You exhaled sharply through your nose, the start of irritation rising in your chest. “Unbelievable. Can’t follow one simple instruction.”
You took a few steps forward, trying the radio again. Still dead.
The shadows seemed thicker now, your flashlight beam barely pushing them back. Each door you passed was slightly open, like the building wanted to keep its secrets half-told. Your boots crunched over shattered glass. The air smelled of mildew and dust, and underneath that, something metallic.
“Leon?” you called again, louder this time.
No answer.
The irritation twisted into something tighter in your gut, something that wasn’t quite anger anymore. You moved faster, sweeping your light across the walls, past peeling wallpaper that hung in curls like old bark, over a toppled chair, across a scrawled message in spray paint half-lost to water damage.
You turned the corner.
Empty hall.
“Leon!”
Your voice came back to you, distorted by the acoustics, bouncing off the walls. The echo sounded too much like someone else saying his name.
You checked the next doorway, gun hand steady, flashlight cutting through dust motes. The next room was an old office, metal desks overturned, chairs rusted through. A flickering light somewhere in the ceiling flashed every few seconds, too dim to be useful, just bright enough to make the dark feel alive.
Then you saw it.
A thin streak of light cutting through from the far side of the room, moving—faintly, irregularly.
You crossed the floor quickly, boots whispering over wet linoleum, stepping around fallen debris.
The beam came from beyond the next door.
You pushed it open, the hinges groaning, and your light fell across him.
Leon was there, half-crouched, flashlight in one hand, the other braced against the wall. His shoulders were tense, head turned toward something just out of your line of sight. The light in his hand trembled slightly.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“Jesus, Kennedy,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “You lose radio contact and go sightseeing?”
He turned at the sound of your voice, relief flashing in his face before he quickly straightened. “Hey. Sorry, signal dropped, and I thought I heard something down here. Just… checking.”
You lowered your weapon, the annoyance still a steady pulse under your ribs but easing now that you could see him, alive and upright.
“Next time,” you said quietly, “you stay where I can see you.”
He nodded quickly, a little breathless. “Got it.”
But as you stepped forward, you caught the edge of something moving in the dark behind him—quick, low to the ground, too fast for comfort.
Your instincts took over.
“Leon—down!”
He dropped instantly, years of training, or just dumb luck, kicking in.
You swung your light toward the sound. The beam caught on a flash of fur, teeth, motion—something animal but wrong, lean and wild-eyed.
Then the shadows erupted.
The sound came first, low, ragged, wet around the edges, like something breathing through broken glass.
Leon had already taken two careful steps toward the far corner of the room, his flashlight beam trembling slightly across the peeling paint. You could see the muscles in his shoulders tense as the growl came again, louder this time, followed by the sharp scrape of claws against linoleum.
Your instincts screamed to call him back, but the radio was still nothing but static.
Leon’s voice carried through the dark, calm but steady. “Easy, boy… hey, it’s okay.”
It wasn’t.
Your light swung to the side just in time to see it lunge from the shadows, a dog, or what used to be one. Ribs showing under patchy fur, eyes clouded and wild, jaw hanging at a crooked angle where flesh had torn away. Its movements were jerky, desperate, driven by hunger or pain or both.
Leon reacted fast, not fast enough. He threw up an arm as it launched itself at him, flashlight flying from his hand and skittering across the floor. The impact took him down hard, his shoulder slamming against a fallen filing cabinet.
You moved before you could think, crossing the space between you in three strides.
The beam of your light caught a flash of teeth, a smear of blood, Leon’s boot shoving up between himself and the creature’s snapping mouth. He was trying to keep it back, muscles straining, panic flickering behind his eyes even as he gritted out, “It’s fine! I got it.”
“No, you don’t.”
You drew your sidearm, breath steady, and fired once.
The shot cracked through the silence, deafening in the confined space. The creature crumpled instantly, sliding off Leon’s leg and hitting the ground with a wet thud. The air filled with the smell of gunpowder and rot.
For a long second, neither of you moved.
Then Leon let out a shaky breath and fell back against the cabinet, chest heaving. “Jesus”
You holstered your weapon, stepped forward, and toed the carcass carefully with your boot. No twitch. No sound. Just stillness.
“Jesus had nothing to do with that,” you said quietly.
Leon’s laugh came out half-choked, half-relieved. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving a smear of dust and sweat. “You’re not kidding.”
You crouched beside him, scanning him quickly. No visible bites, just a torn sleeve and a new bruise already blooming along his arm.
“You okay?” you asked, voice low but firm.
He nodded, though his breathing was still uneven. “Yeah. Totally. Minor heart attack, but fine.”
You raised a brow. “That looked like more than minor.”
“Guess I’m an overachiever,” he said, trying for a smile.
You didn’t return it. You stood, offered him a hand, and when he hesitated, you grabbed his vest and hauled him up instead. He stumbled once, caught his balance, and looked down at the dead animal. His voice dropped, quiet, uneasy.
The stench hit first — a sour, chemical rot. Up close, it was worse than you’d thought. The fur had thinned to ragged patches; the exposed skin underneath looked slick and discolored, streaked with deep gray-green lesions that pulsed faintly under the beam of your flashlight. Around the jaw, the flesh had receded entirely, teeth showing through rotted muscle.
Leon leaned in, squinting. “You ever seen anything like this?”
You hesitated, scanning the animal’s ribs, too visible, warped under the skin like something had eaten its way outward. “No,” you said finally.
“Maybe… leprosy?” he guessed, voice low, uncertain.
You shook your head slowly. “No. Look at the tissue, it’s necrotizing. Like it’s… eating itself.”
He frowned, stepping back a little. “That’s… not normal, right?”
You shot him a look. “Nothing about this is normal.”
He gave a breathless chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good to know we’re on the same page.”
You crouched beside the body, taking one last look. The smell burned the back of your throat, but you forced yourself to study it, the mottled veins, the stiff limbs, the faint shimmer of fluid drying on the floor.
“Maybe we’ll send labs out to check it,” you said finally, straightening. Your tone was even, measured, too much so. The kind of professional certainty you used when you didn’t actually have any.
Leon caught it anyway. He glanced at you, expression softer now, concern cutting through the leftover adrenaline. “You don’t sound sure.”
You flicked off your flashlight, holstered it again. “Doesn’t matter what I sound like. Let’s move.”
But the air still felt wrong.
The sound of dripping water filled the silence, a slow, deliberate rhythm. You scanned the room, catching the way the shadows shifted when the wind slipped through the cracks in the ceiling. Everything in here seemed to breathe, even when it shouldn’t.
Leon followed you out into the hallway, quieter now. The adrenaline was wearing off, and you could feel it in the space between you, that brittle stillness that came after things almost went bad.
You stopped just long enough to check your radio again. Still dead.
“You need to work on following orders,” you said finally.
He huffed a quiet laugh behind you. “What, ‘don’t get mauled’ wasn’t clear enough?”
You looked over your shoulder at him. “Next time, stay close.”
His grin flickered, softer this time, the edge of nerves still in it. “Copy that.”
You didn’t say anything else. You just kept walking, the flashlight beam swinging ahead of you, cutting through dust and shadow.
Behind you, you could still hear him breathing, steady, alive, trying not to step on your heels.
And even though you’d never admit it out loud, the sound made the silence a little easier to bear.
The air changed first. A low, splintering groan rippled through the ceiling, wood complaining against time, metal straining against rust. It was the kind of sound old buildings make right before they quit.
“Leon—” you started, but the warning barely made it past your lips before the beam gave out.
The crack was deafening.
You didn’t think, you moved. You shoved him down, body slamming into his as you both hit the floor behind a desk just as the world came apart overhead.
Plaster exploded across the room. Ceiling tiles shattered, pipes snapped. The sound was a roar, then a whimper, then a long, ragged silence. Dust filled your lungs before you could gasp for air.
When it stopped, you were half-sprawled over him, the world around you nothing but gray haze and the sting of dust in your eyes.
Leon coughed beneath you, voice muffled against your shoulder. “...You alive?”
You coughed once, your throat raw. “Yeah. You?”
He gave a breathless laugh. “Think so. Mostly.”
You shifted, blinking grit out of your eyes. The desk above you was half-collapsed, one leg bent inward but miraculously still standing. The air was so thick it looked solid—like you could carve your way out with your bare hands.
And in that choking fog, the two of you were pressed together so close it didn’t feel real.
His chest rose against yours with every breath, fast and shallow. His heartbeat was a wild drum, muffled but there, right under your ribs. You could feel it, every pulse of it. His vest was gritty against your jacket, his breath warm against the curve of your neck.
You heard him whisper, almost laughing, voice low and rough. “So… this part of training too?”
You turned your head, lips close enough to his ear that he could feel the words more than hear them. “Don’t make me regret saving you.”
He huffed a soft laugh, quieter this time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You exhaled slowly, forcing your pulse to steady. The dust began to settle around you in lazy swirls. Somewhere in the distance, a beam groaned and shifted, the noise muffled by the debris piled over half the room.
You could feel him trembling, not fear, but leftover adrenaline, the kind that didn’t have anywhere to go. You’d seen it before, but never felt it like this, the tiny vibrations running through both of you.
You were about to move, shift your weight, give him room to breathe, when it happened. His hand brushed your back.
Barely a touch. Just a small, instinctive movement, like he was checking you were still there, still solid. But even through the layers of your uniform, the contact lit a spark beneath your skin, quick and confusing.
He froze the moment he realized it. You could feel the hesitation, the tension in his fingers before he pulled his hand back slightly, murmuring, “Sorry. Just, making sure you’re okay.”
Your voice came out lower than intended. “Next time, use your words.”
“Noted,” he whispered.
The silence that followed was thicker than before, broken only by the distant drip of water and the slow, uneven sound of your breathing. You told yourself it was ridiculous to notice things like warmth or nearness when you were literally lying in the wreckage of a half-collapsed building. But your hand was close to his, so close your pinky brushed the edge of his glove when you shifted.
Neither of you moved away.
For a second, it felt suspended there, the two of you breathing the same dust, hearts thrumming just out of sync, every sound amplified by the quiet aftermath of the collapse.
You cleared your throat, pushing yourself up just enough to peer over the desk. The ceiling was a disaster, cracked beams, fractured plaster, sunlight bleeding through from somewhere above.
You let out a long breath. “When I say ‘stay close,’ Kennedy, I don’t mean this close.”
Even through the grime, his smile managed to look boyish. “Sure. Got it. Different kind of close next time.”
You rolled your eyes and pushed yourself off him, ignoring the way his hand instinctively hovered near your back again as if to steady you. You told yourself it was out of habit—muscle memory from training, but you didn’t tell him to stop.
He climbed up after you, brushing dust off his shoulders. “Guess the building didn’t like us much.”
“Most people don’t,” you muttered, checking your flashlight. It flickered weakly back to life.
“Yeah, but I’m not ‘most people,’ right?”
You gave him a look, but it didn’t land the way you meant it to. “Don’t make me test that theory.”
He grinned faintly, rubbing the back of his neck, and for once, you didn’t correct him when he fell into step behind you.
The two of you stood for a moment, side by side in the pale shaft of light cutting through the dust. You could still feel the phantom imprint of his touch on your back—warm, grounding, impossible to shake.
You told yourself it was just the adrenaline. That it meant nothing.
But when you started walking again, you didn’t tell him to give you space.
The rest of the building was blessedly still after the collapse. No groaning beams, no ominous shifting above you, just the steady, faint hiss of rain starting to fall somewhere outside.
You and Leon made your way through the dim corridors, your flashlight cutting through the haze of settling dust. The air smelled like wet plaster and old metal, thick and sharp in your lungs.
Dispatch crackled faintly in your ear again, distorted but finally coming through: “Unit 14, status? We lost your signal. Backup en route.”
You thumbed the radio. “We’re fine. Minor collapse. Situation contained.”
Leon shot you a sidelong look, coughing into his sleeve. “Minor?”
You didn’t bother answering, just nudged open the nearest door with your boot and stepped out into the gray light of the overcast evening. The rain was coming down soft at first, the kind that clung to your eyelashes and ran down your collar in slow, cold trickles. It felt cleaner than the air inside, like the world outside hadn’t noticed the building dying behind you.
Two RPD units pulled up near the old fence line, lights flashing lazily. A couple of officers leaned out the driver-side window, faces lined with curiosity.
“Everything good, ______? Heard you on the radio, sounded rough.”
“Minor collapse,” you repeated, voice even. “We’re fine.”
They looked past you at Leon, who was standing beside you, uniform streaked gray with dust, hair plastered damp against his forehead.
He gave them a sheepish thumbs-up. “Just… atmospheric.”
You didn’t wait for the follow-up questions. You waved the backup off with a curt gesture, then started toward the patrol car. Leon fell in behind you automatically, quiet for once.
The rain picked up as you walked, flattening the dust that still clung to your boots. The lot glistened under the flashing lights. It was almost peaceful, if you ignored the adrenaline still humming in your veins like an overworked circuit.
You reached the car and leaned against the door for a second, finally letting yourself breathe. The rhythmic patter of rain against metal filled the silence between you.
Leon stood a few feet away, head tilted back, eyes closed, letting the rain hit his face. The dirt streaking his cheek was running clean now, tiny rivers carving paths down his skin. For once, he wasn’t smiling.
You broke the quiet first. “Congratulations. You survived another day.”
He looked over, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Because you had my back.”
You crossed your arms, the motion automatic, defensive. “Don’t get used to it.”
He chuckled softly, but there was something gentler in his voice when he said, “You didn’t leave me.”
The rain made a steady rhythm between you, punctuating the quiet.
You met his eyes briefly, then looked away toward the skyline, the outline of the RPD faint in the distance. “Could’ve,” you said simply. “Didn’t.”
He nodded slowly, not pushing it, not smiling. Just standing there with that quiet kind of understanding that somehow said more than his usual cheer ever did.
You pushed off the car door and opened the driver’s side. “Get in before you rust,” you muttered.
He snorted but obeyed, sliding into the passenger seat with a faint grunt. The car’s interior smelled faintly of old coffee and dust now, but it felt safer than the building had, too small, too close, but safe.
Neither of you talked much on the drive back. The rain turned heavier, blurring the edges of the city through the windshield. You could hear the wipers working overtime, the occasional rattle when the car hit a puddle.
Every now and then, you caught Leon glancing your way, nothing overt, just the quiet kind of look someone gives when they’re making sure something’s still real.
When you finally pulled into the RPD lot, the world was washed gray and silver. The other cars glistened under the streetlights. The storm had turned the asphalt slick enough to reflect every flash of the lights on your dash.
You killed the engine. The sudden quiet filled the cabin.
Leon unbuckled slowly, eyes still somewhere distant. “Guess we’ll have paperwork for this one.”
“Guess you’ll be writing most of it,” you said, leaning back in your seat.
He laughed under his breath. “Fair.”
You watched the rain trail across the windshield for a moment, the steady pattern of it tapping against the glass. The adrenaline had ebbed, leaving something else in its place, something you didn’t want to name.
You opened the door. The rain hit you again, cold and grounding.
Leon climbed out on his side, jogging around to meet you near the back of the car. He hesitated, hands shoved into his pockets, then said, “Hey, thanks. For… you know.”
You tilted your head. “Not letting the ceiling crush you?”
“That too.” He smiled, small and genuine. “But also for not leaving.”
You sighed, turning toward the building entrance. “Don’t make it sound dramatic, rookie. I was already there.”
He grinned at that, the warmth back in his voice. “Right. Lucky me.”
You didn’t answer. You just started walking, your boots splashing softly through shallow puddles. You could hear him fall in behind you again, his steps a little lighter than before.
This time, though, he didn’t step on your heels. He kept just enough distance, close, but not too close.
When you reached the door, you caught yourself glancing back, just for a second. He was still there, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes bright even in the rain.
You told yourself it was just part of the job. Training. Another rookie to wrangle, another day to survive.
The rain followed you in.
Not literally, but close enough. It clung to your jacket and your sleeves and the ends of your hair, dripping in slow, stubborn beads that hit the tile with soft little plinks. By the time you cleared the lobby, you’d left a dotted trail behind you that Maintenance was absolutely going to complain about in the morning memo. The building hummed its usual song, fluorescent lights buzzing like tired insects, typewriters chattering somewhere deeper in, printers wheezing out reports no one wanted to read. The smell was the same as always, too: burnt coffee, paper, gun oil.
After an afternoon spent in a building that smelled like wet rot and old ghosts, it felt almost rude to walk into somewhere so… normal.
You didn’t slow down. You didn’t shake off the rain. You just made a straight line for the bullpen, folder under your arm, jaw set. You could already feel him behind you — that rookie energy, too bright to disguise, trailing after you like sunlight that didn’t know when to stop.
The second you pushed through the bullpen doors, every head turned.
They always did when something disrupted the monotony. A busted perp, a shouting match, a rookie dripping plaster dust. And the two of you definitely counted. You were soaked, uniform spotted with gray dust, hair damp around your face. Leon looked worse, or better, depending on who you asked. His vest was streaked palest gray where the ceiling had kissed him, his hair was matted to his forehead, and there was a smear on his cheek he hadn’t noticed yet.
Somebody spun their chair around like this was the entertainment break.
“Hey, _____,” one of the older patrol guys called, grin already loaded. “You finally break a partner?”
You did not have the energy for this.
You didn’t even look his way. You just lifted a hand, palm out, lazy, dismissive — the universal keep talking and I’ll make you fill out your own incident report. It got the usual chuckles, the office kind, all low and knowing. None of them meant any harm. They almost never did.
Behind you, Leon didn’t fire back. Didn’t even roll his eyes. He ducked his head like the comment had been aimed at him, which, okay, maybe it had, and kept walking. Too polite to glare. Too new to throw something back. He looked like a soaked golden retriever that had been told it was “a bit much.”
You cut through the room toward your desk, ignoring the looks. The clack of keyboards, the smack of someone closing a filing cabinet, the faint radio chatter, it all faded once you had your target.
You pointed at the chair beside your desk. “Sit.”
He sat. Immediately. No questions, no soft protest, no I’m fine. Just okay, like his default setting around you was obedience. The chair gave a damp little squeak when he hit it; his vest made that miserable soaked-fabric sound. You winced on behalf of the upholstery.
Only then did you catch the line of red on his arm.
It wasn’t dramatic, not a gash, not a bullet wound, not even anything worth bragging about. Just a shallow scrape along his forearm, where a piece of debris had clearly hit him when the ceiling came down. It had bled more than it should’ve, like all arm wounds, and now it was smudged with dust and rain and God knew what else that had been in that building.
He didn’t even seem to realize it was there. He was too busy trying not to make eye contact with the officers who were obviously watching him. And he knew they were, you could tell by the way he kept looking just above their heads, like he hadn’t quite learned the art of ignoring a room yet.
You sighed. Of course. You set the folder down, opened the overhead cabinet, and pulled out the first-aid kit. “Hold still.”
He blinked up at you, surprised. “Oh, I— it’s really fine, I can—”
“You’re leaking on the floor, Kennedy,” you said, already popping the kit open. “Sit still before I staple it shut.”
That did it. His mouth shut with a little click. His hands folded in his lap like he was in high school and you were about to ask him why he was late to homeroom. He looked up at you, not afraid, just… chastened. A dust-streaked, rain-soaked, six-foot-tall scolded puppy.
Unfair.
You crouched beside the chair, the plastic of the kit creaking as you dug through it. Someone had put everything back in the wrong order, again, so you had to sift past gauze, triangular bandages, a pair of scissors you didn’t trust, and three individually wrapped alcohol swabs before you found the antiseptic.
You soaked a cotton pad, the smell of mint-and-vodka antiseptic filling the air between you, and pressed it firmly to the scrape.
He hissed. Loudly.
“Don’t move,” you warned.
“That burns.”
“That means it’s working.”
He blew out a breath through his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “ow,” and you ignored him. You’d cleaned worse. You’d cleaned bullet tracks, glass cuts, split brows, knife slips. This was cake.
Still, the room sounded different now.
The bullpen had gone back to its usual rhythm, phones, printers, chairs rolling, but it was all further away, like someone had turned the volume down. You were aware of the rain ticking against the windows and the hum of the fluorescent light overhead more than you were of the conversations.
You were also very aware of him.
“Stop squirming,” you said, because he’d shifted his arm a half-inch.
He let out a half-laugh, half-groan. “I’m not squirming.”
“You’re absolutely squirming.” You pressed a little harder, just to prove a point. “Hold still or I’m stapling you to the chair.”
He sucked a breath in through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut for a second — and then he laughed. Properly this time. Low, unguarded, the kind of laugh people don’t make on purpose.
“You’re really gentle, you know that?” he said, voice still warm with it.
You looked up long enough to give him the blankest stare you could manage. “You don’t bleed quietly, rookie.”
That earned you another laugh, softer. It didn’t belong in this room, not with the white walls and the bad lighting and the smell of floor cleaner, but somehow it made the place feel less like a building and more like somewhere people actually worked.
The scrape wasn’t deep, but it was messy, little flecks of plaster stuck in the dried blood. You worked them out carefully, thumb steady on his wrist. You felt his pulse there, steady, strong. Too steady for someone who’d been underneath a falling ceiling an hour ago.
You tried not to notice that, too.
“Hold this,” you said, pressing one edge of the gauze into his hand.
He took it immediately, fingers gentle on the fabric, like he didn’t want to mess up your work. The quiet obedience might’ve annoyed you if it hadn’t been paired with that look, the one where he watched you like the sun watches the horizon. Not needy. Not pushy. Just… there. Warm.
You reached for the tape. He shifted in the chair, not a lot, just enough that his boot scuffed the floor and his knee knocked into your thigh.
You didn’t look up. You also didn’t move away.
The gauze wrapped cleanly around his arm, bright white against his dark uniform. You smoothed it down, then tugged the tape a little tighter than strictly necessary.
He winced, shoulders tensing.
“There,” you said, sitting back on your heels. “All patched.”
He flexed his fingers once, testing how much give you’d left him. “Tight.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
“Pretty sure that’s a tourniquet.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He smiled, and this time, it wasn’t the big, poster-boy grin he gave the rest of the department. It was smaller. Less teeth, more eyes. Warm, but quiet about it. It hit lower than you wanted it to.
You were close enough now to see the tiny spray of freckles at the edge of his jaw. The wet strands of blond hair stuck to his forehead. The way the line between his brows smoothed out when he realized you weren’t actually mad.
You weren’t sure when you’d stopped pretending to ignore him.
He watched you check the bandage, watched your fingers as you smoothed the edge, made sure it wouldn’t peel. You let your hand stay there for half a second too long. You told yourself it was to check the pressure.
He was not staring at you. Staring would’ve been obvious. This was worse. This was looking. The kind of looking that sees. The kind that gathers. Like he was storing away the moment, or your face, or the way your hands moved. Like he wanted to remember it.
Why does he have to look at people like that? you thought, irritated at how soft the question sounded in your own skull. Like he’s cataloguing reasons to stay hopeful.
You cleared your throat, broke the moment. Reached for one of the alcohol wipes just to have something to do with your hands.
“Should’ve worn your long sleeves,” you muttered.
“Didn’t plan on wrestling the undead drywall,” he said, automatically.
You blinked at him. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m kind of funny.”
“You’re really not.”
But he smiled like you’d just confirmed his existence.
He let the silence sit for a second, then said, and this time the playfulness was gone “You didn’t have to do this yourself.”
You stilled. The wipe hovered over your hand. Sincerity always did this, made everything feel like it had too much gravity.
You shrugged like it was nothing. “Better me than whoever last used the station scissors.”
He huffed a small laugh, eyes dropping to the floor like he was embarrassed to be taken care of. “You ever let anyone else patch you up?”
You snapped the kit shut harder than you needed to. “I don’t get hurt.”
He looked up, eyes warm in a way that made you want to look anywhere else. “Right. Of course you don’t.”
You grabbed a paper towel from the counter and wiped your hands. The antiseptic smell clung stubbornly to your skin. He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t push. Just sat there, elbow on his knee, staring at the neat line of white around his arm like it meant he’d passed some kind of test.
You crossed your arms. “What?”
He met your eyes, something softer in his expression now. “Just… thanks.”
It was simple. But it landed.
You let out a slow breath, looked away. “Don’t make a habit of it.”
He smiled again, tired, genuine, none of the show-off shine. “No promises.”
The room settled around you again. Not the awkward silence from earlier, not that jagged thing that wanted to be filled. This one was… quiet. Comfortable. Like the noise from the bullpen had faded to something you could ignore.
He sat there longer than he had to. You let him.
Then, finally, he spoke again, even softer this time. “I know I’m not easy to work with.”
You paused mid-reach, the kit halfway to the shelf. You turned, brows pulling together. “Where’s this coming from?”
He shrugged, mouth twisting like he was trying to find the least embarrassing way to say it. “You don’t have to say it. I can tell. I talk too much. I… get in the way. I missed your signal back there.” His gaze flicked to the bandage. “You shouldn’t have had to cover for me.”
You opened your mouth with the automatic response, you didn’t listen, you moved out of range, don’t do it again, but it didn’t feel right now that he’d said it himself. He already knew. He’d already flagged his own mistake.
So instead you said, quieter, “Then listen more. Talk less.”
He looked up, and that smile, the quiet one, the one he didn’t use on everyone, eased back onto his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
You almost smiled back. Almost. It tugged at the corner of your mouth and you swatted it away before it could escape.
You sat on the edge of your desk, arms folded. “You really think I’m the one you should be learning from?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.” Then, almost shyly, “You’re… good at this. You don’t miss stuff. You don’t panic. You make it look like… like the job isn’t bigger than you.” He shrugged again, self-conscious. “I wanna be like that.”
You looked away, not because you were annoyed, but because you didn’t like being seen that clearly. “Observation skills need work.”
He grinned, leaning back. “Guess that’s why I’m learning.”
The silence after that was different. Settled. Like both of you knew something had shifted and neither of you was going to poke it too hard.
You closed the kit properly this time and put it back in its place. “You’re done. You can go.”
He pushed himself up, testing his arm again like he wanted to make sure it would pass your inspection. Then he just… stood there. Not leaving. Not fidgeting, for once. Just looking at you like he was trying to memorize the way you looked in bad lighting and damp clothes.
“You know,” he said finally, rubbing the back of his neck, scattering a few flecks of dust onto the floor, “I think we make a pretty good team.”
You raised a brow. “You think too much.”
“Still true.”
The grin he gave you then wasn’t bright. It wasn’t loud. It was just… warm. For you, specifically. No audience. No need to prove he was happy to be here. Just a rookie who’d nearly gotten mauled in a dead building and still somehow thought partnering with you was the best part of his day.
He turned to go, boots squeaking a little on the still-damp tile. At the door, he glanced back over his shoulder.
“See you tomorrow, partner.”
You didn’t stop him.
The door closed with a soft click. The room, suddenly, felt too big. Too quiet.
You exhaled, shoulders dropping without permission. You told yourself it was just part of the job, keeping the rookie alive, keeping the reports clean, keeping the sheriff off your ass. Routine. Nothing more.
You reached for your jacket, slinging it off the back of the chair, and your hand paused.
There, on the sleeve, just above the cuff, was a faint smear of dried blood. His. From when you’d steadied his arm. From when he’d looked at you like you were the safest thing in the room.
You should’ve grabbed a wipe. You should’ve scrubbed it off. You always did.
Instead, your fingers brushed over it once. Then stayed.
You didn’t wipe it off. Not right away.
You turned off the light, stepped out into the hallway, and let the door close behind you, carrying with you the stubborn, ridiculous warmth of a rookie who smiled like the world hadn’t gotten to him yet.
For now, he was still your responsibility. And, annoyingly, you didn’t hate that.
The RPD after dark never quite sleeps. It hums.
Not the kind of hum that says alive, but the kind that settles into the walls — a low, constant thrum beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights, the whisper of air through the vents, the slow tick of the clock above the filing cabinets. It’s the sound of a building that’s been awake too long.
Outside, thunder rolls somewhere far off, more like a sigh than a warning. Rain streaks the windows, cutting the reflection of your desk lamp into thin, fractured lines. Every few seconds, a drop slides down the glass and catches the light before vanishing. You’ve been watching them more than you’ve been watching the words on the page.
Your jacket hangs off the back of your chair, still damp from the walk in. It’s started to steam faintly in the warmth of the room. Your hair’s doing the same, sticking to the back of your neck, strands curling where they’ve started to dry. You should’ve gone home hours ago. Everyone else did. The bullpen looks hollow without the noise: empty chairs, stacks of folders abandoned mid-process, someone’s forgotten mug leaving a ring on a report. The overhead lights are off in most of the room, just your desk lamp left on, a small circle of yellow light fighting back against the gray.
The vending machine hums in the corner, louder than usual. It fills the silence like a stand-in for conversation.
You type slowly. Not because the report is hard, but because the words feel heavier than they should. “Old Fairview disturbance: resolved. One injured civilian. One deceased animal. Cause: undetermined.” The rest of the blanks you leave half-empty. You can’t think of the phrasing for “looked like it was rotting alive.”
You stop to rub your eyes. The screen blurs when you open them again.
The coffee in your mug has gone cold, bitter on your tongue when you take a sip just to have something to do. The smell lingers in the air anyway, mixed with paper and the faint tang of cleaning solution. It’s ordinary. Comforting in a way you don’t quite trust.
You tell yourself you’re here because you need to finish the paperwork, that it’ll drive you crazy if you leave it unfinished. But that’s not true. Not really.
You’re here because you don’t want to go home yet.
Because you can already picture it: the apartment dark, the slow drip of a leaky faucet, the silence pressing too close. The kind of silence that doesn’t hum like the RPD, it listens.
You glance at the chair opposite yours, the one he sat in earlier, fidgeting while you wrapped his arm, laughing too softly at your scolding. It’s empty now, the cushion still dented from his weight. You look away fast, typing another line into the report that you’ll probably delete later.
You reach for the stack of incident notes and shuffle through them just to make noise. Anything to fill the space.
The rain outside shifts from steady to soft, the rhythm uneven, like footsteps trying to keep time. The thunder grumbles again, distant, half-hearted.
It’s too late for anyone to still be around, but you hear a door close somewhere down the hall. A faint echo, metal on metal. Maybe someone from night patrol. Maybe the janitor.
You glance toward the hallway, but the sound dies before you can decide whether to care. You go back to your report, fingers hovering over the keys. You type your name at the bottom and stare at it. It looks strange in this light, too sharp, too formal. You delete it and type it again.
It’s not the work that keeps you here. You know that. It’s the space between the day and the night, the part where the adrenaline wears off, but your mind hasn’t caught up yet. The part where you start to feel things you don’t have names for.
You breathe out through your nose, slow and steady. The lamp hums. The clock ticks. The world outside drifts in shades of gray. You tell yourself you’ll leave after this page. You don’t believe yourself.
The footsteps reach you before the man does, light, uneven, hesitant. You don’t even need to look up to know who they belong to. No one else in the RPD walks like that.
You keep your eyes on the report, fingers resting on the keys as if you’re still typing. It buys you a few seconds of pretending.
Then: “Hey.”
You look up anyway.
Leon’s standing in the doorway, haloed by the hallway light, damp around the edges, like the rain followed him in. His hair is still wet, darker where it clings to his forehead, and his sleeves are rolled up just far enough to show the new bandage on his arm. His badge hangs a little crooked, his vest half undone. He looks exhausted, but not wrecked, just softened. The sharp edges of the day worn down to something human.
He’s holding a folder in one hand and a thermos in the other — the kind of props people bring when they want to look like they have a reason to be somewhere.
“You left this in the car,” he says, lifting the folder slightly.
You glance at it. “You walked through a thunderstorm to bring me a folder?”
He shrugs, mouth twitching. “I was in the neighborhood.”
You snort, finally sitting back in your chair. “The neighborhood is six blocks and a river away.”
“Yeah, but it’s a nice river.”
You give him a flat look. He grins like he can’t help it.
The sound of rain presses faintly against the windows again, a steady hush that fills the space between you. He lingers in the doorway for a second too long, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed in. You don’t tell him to leave, and that seems to be permission enough.
He crosses the bullpen quietly, the floor creaking under his boots, and drops the folder onto your desk. Then he gestures to the thermos. “Brought you coffee too. Thought yours had probably turned into tar by now.”
You eye it suspiciously. “You didn’t make this, did you?”
He gasps, feigning offense. “What kind of person do you think I am?”
“A rookie who once called the copier a printer with ambition.”
That earns you an honest laugh. The kind that crinkles at the corners of his eyes and shakes off a little of the tension in the air.
“Fair,” he admits, setting the thermos down gently beside your cold mug. The smell of actual coffee, fresh, not burnt, curls up from the lid when you unscrew it. It’s warm, comforting, and far too considerate.
He doesn’t move away, though. He leans against the edge of your desk, just outside the pool of lamplight, watching you the way someone does when they’re searching for an opening and can’t find one. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the hum of the vending machine and the rain against the window.
Then he says, softly, “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
You take a sip of the coffee to stall. “You didn’t think, period.”
“Maybe.” His grin fades, replaced by something quieter. “Still figured you’d be the last one out.”
You glance up at him. “That a compliment or an accusation?”
“Little of both.”
The silence that follows isn’t the sharp kind. It settles in like an old coat, familiar, worn, just heavy enough to notice.
Leon’s still there, arms crossed loosely now, gaze flicking from the reports on your desk to your face and back again. He looks like he wants to say something else but can’t decide if he should.
You don’t ask. You don’t need to.
Whatever it is, you already know it isn’t about the folder.
Leon doesn’t leave the way you half expect him to. Instead, he drags the empty chair, the same one you’d made him sit in earlier while you wrapped his arm, across the tile and drops into it with a soft scrape of metal legs. The sound folds into the hum of the room like it belongs there.
He looks too big for the space, knees bent awkwardly, forearms resting on them. You should tell him to go home, to clock out and get some sleep, but you don’t. You just keep typing, eyes fixed on the screen.
He picks up one of your pens from the desk and starts tapping it lightly against his knee, a steady rhythm that threads through the ticking clock and the whisper of rain. You try not to let it get under your skin. You’ve always hated background noise, but somehow, his isn’t grating. It’s just… there. Filling the space that would otherwise feel too empty.
A few minutes pass like that. You keep working. He keeps watching. The sound of the keys, the tap of the pen, the rain, steady, hypnotic, almost domestic. It feels wrong for something in this city to feel that way.
Finally, his voice breaks the quiet. “You always stay this late?”
You don’t look up. “Paperwork doesn’t file itself.”
He grins softly. You can hear it in his tone when he says, “You’d think being the best on the force gets you out of grunt work.”
“You’d think wrong,” you reply, flipping a page of the report.
He chuckles under his breath and keeps tapping. “Guess it’s nice, though. Quiet. Nobody yelling, no phones ringing. Kinda peaceful.”
You hum in acknowledgment, the sound barely audible. Peaceful isn’t what you’d call it. Peaceful feels like an illusion. But you don’t argue.
For a while, the silence stretches again, warm this time instead of heavy. You can feel his gaze on you, not prying or invasive, just steady. The kind of look that sits softly on your skin. You ignore it, keep pretending you don’t notice, even though it makes the back of your neck prickle.
The clock ticks louder now that the rain’s softened outside. You add another line to the report, fingers brushing against the rim of the coffee thermos he brought you earlier. It’s still warm. You hate that he thought to do that. You hate that it matters.
When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “You know… I used to think this place would feel different.”
You glance up, caught off guard by the shift in tone. He’s not looking at you this time, he’s staring at the far wall, pen still tapping gently against his knee. “The RPD, I mean. I thought it’d feel… I don’t know. Bigger, I guess. Like something out of a movie.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
He smiles faintly, still not looking at you. “You didn’t.”
You freeze for half a second too long before going back to the report. “Flattery’s not going to make me finish this faster.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
The tapping stops. You can feel his eyes on you again, heavier this time. It’s almost enough to make you shift in your seat. Almost.
You write another sentence just to have an excuse not to meet his gaze.
Then, softly, so softly you almost miss it, he says your name.
Your actual name. Not your last name, not the clipped “Officer” everyone else uses, not even “boss.”
It lands like static in your chest, a tiny spark under your ribs.
You stop mid-word. The pen halts, ink pooling slightly on the page.
When you look up, he’s watching you, steady, uncertain, but not apologetic. There’s no smirk this time, no teasing grin. Just quiet honesty.
“Don’t call me that,” you say, the words coming out lower than you mean them to.
His brow furrows. “Why not?”
You hold his gaze for a beat too long. “Because it sounds like you mean it.”
The room goes still again.
No pen tapping. No typing. Just the slow drip of rain against the window and the steady, rhythmic tick of the clock. He doesn’t look away. Not this time.
You wait for the usual comeback, some half-joke to break the tension, but it never comes. Instead, he leans back in the chair, exhaling softly, and the sound fills the space between you like something fragile and human. You should look away. You don’t.
The air feels heavier than it should, thick with everything neither of you has said. You’re both too tired to name it, too wired to ignore it.
When you finally glance back down at the desk, the pen in your hand feels strange, like it doesn’t belong there anymore.
Neither of you laugh this time.
You don’t realize you’ve stopped typing until the screen saver flickers to life, washing your desk in a dim, shifting glow. Your fingers hover above the keys, suspended in the quiet. Across from you, Leon’s still sitting there, too still. The tapping of his pen has stopped.
You set the pen down, leaning back slightly. The exhaustion has settled deep in your bones now, but something else hums beneath it, low, persistent, uneasy.
“Why are you really here, Kennedy?”
Your voice cuts through the hum of the vending machine. He blinks, caught off guard, then looks down at his hands. His thumb runs along the curve of the pen like it’s something delicate.
He shrugs once, eyes darting up, then away again. “Didn’t want the day to end like that.”
You study him for a moment. “Like what?”
He breathes out slowly through his nose, like he’s trying to find the right words. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, stripped of its usual brightness. “Like it didn’t matter.”
The line lands sharper than you expect. You feel it in your chest, that small, heavy weight of honesty. You deflect, automatically. “It was just another call. We did our jobs.”
Leon shakes his head, hair still damp enough to catch the light when he moves. “It wasn’t just another call.” He hesitates, gaze flicking back to you. “You could’ve been hurt. I—”
He stops. The word hangs there, suspended in the air like a wire pulled too tight. You can see it, the next thought forming behind his eyes, the one he’s debating whether to let out. His fingers drum softly against the desk, a nervous rhythm that betrays him.
You should cut him off. You should say something before he crosses a line you don’t know how to uncross.
So you do. Quietly. “Don’t.”
It isn’t sharp, not really. It’s tired, weighted. It carries too much behind it. Not yet. Don’t make me look at it. Don’t ruin the fragile thing we’ve built.
The rain outside fills the silence that follows. It hits the glass in uneven beats, soft and endless. You can feel the air change, that small shift that happens when two people realize they’ve reached the edge of something, and both know one more step might make it real.
He looks at you for a long time. The kind of look that doesn’t demand an answer, doesn’t apologize for existing. Just is.
Then he nods. Once. “Okay.”
The word is barely a whisper, but it echoes anyway, the kind of quiet agreement that feels like understanding.
He pushes his chair back slowly, the legs scraping softly against the tile. The sound is too loud in the stillness of the room. You watch him stand, hands sliding into the pockets of his uniform pants like he needs somewhere to put the things he didn’t say.
He lingers for a second, eyes meeting yours again. Something flickers there — warmth, regret, maybe both. Then he looks toward the hallway, toward the exit, toward safety.
For a second, you think he might actually say something more. But he doesn’t.
He just exhales, small and steady, like he’s letting go of a breath he’s been holding since the collapse. The rain keeps falling. The clock ticks. And you stay exactly where you are, hand still resting on the desk, feeling the ghost of a word that didn’t get spoken hanging in the air between you.
Leon makes it halfway to the door before stopping. The rain outside throws rippled shadows against the frosted glass, and for a second, the only sound is the hum of the lights and the faint tick of the clock above your desk.
He turns, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other still shoved deep in his pocket. His voice comes softer than before, stripped of the usual humor.
“You should go home soon. It’s late.”
You look up from the half-finished report, the cursor blinking uselessly on the screen. “You’re still here.”
“Guess I just wanted to make sure you’d be okay.”
You huff, more out of habit than anything else, and lean back in your chair. “I’ve been okay for a long time.”
He nods slowly, gaze steady, expression unreadable except for the smallest flicker of something you don’t have the energy to name. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “But you don’t always have to be.”
The line hits harder than it should. It’s too simple, too kind, and you don’t know what to do with it.
Before you can find an answer, he’s already turning away. The door opens with a low groan, a flash of hallway light spilling across the floor, and then it closes again, gently, like he’s afraid of waking something.
The quiet returns, heavier now.
You stare at the empty chair across from you, the one still angled just slightly toward your desk, and feel the leftover echo of him in the space, the faint warmth where he’d been sitting, the coffee cup he’d left behind, the silence he took with him when he walked out.
Your hand tightens around the pen. You tell yourself you’ll finish the report. You’ll file it, clock out, go home. Routine. Structure. Safety.
But the pen doesn’t move. Because somehow, against all reason, the room feels lonelier now that he’s gone.
The air still hums with the leftover charge of sirens and adrenaline.
The call had been routine, supposedly. A petty theft, a suspect fleeing down a narrow alley slick with oil and rainwater. Nothing the report will remember. But now that it’s over, the silence feels sharper than the chase itself.
You’re parked beneath a sputtering streetlight, its pale cone of gold trembling against the wet pavement. The city’s hum fades at this hour, just the low thrum of distant engines, the whisper of tires on rain-slick asphalt, the faint hiss of wind through puddles. It’s the kind of quiet that feels earned and unwelcome at once.
Leon’s pacing beside the car, his boots splashing faintly in shallow water. He runs a hand through his damp hair, breath still uneven, and tries to laugh, too light, too quick. “Well, that could’ve gone worse, right?”
You don’t laugh. You’re standing by the open driver’s door, one hand braced against the roof, pulse still thrumming under your skin. “You don’t rush in like that. You wait for backup.”
He freezes mid-step, eyes flicking toward you, rain streaking across his temple. “There wasn’t time!”
“Then you make time, rookie.”
The word lands harder than you meant it to. Sharp, like a slap meant for something else.
Leon exhales, the laugh dying in his throat. “I thought I had him.”
“You thought.” You slam the door shut harder than necessary, the sound cracking through the night. “That’s how people get killed.”
He blinks, water dripping from the ends of his hair. “I’m fine. You’re fine.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s kind of the point!” he shoots back, voice raising before he catches it and softens again. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I just—reacted.”
You shake your head, pacing a few steps away, the rain finding its rhythm against your shoulders. “You don’t react. You think. You assess. You wait.”
“I couldn’t see you,” he says, and the words come out quieter this time, rawer. “You went around the corner and I—” He cuts himself off, swallows. “I just didn’t want something to happen and have to listen to it instead of stopping it.”
You stop, turning just enough to see him through the blur of rain and streetlight. He looks smaller like this, not in size but in the way he’s holding himself, jacket unzipped, hands twitching uselessly at his sides, trying to find somewhere safe to put his guilt.
“I didn’t ask you to play hero,” you say, voice quieter now, but still tight.
He looks up, meets your eyes, and for a beat the distance between you feels thinner than the space it takes to breathe. “I wasn’t,” he says softly. “I just didn’t want to lose sight of you.”
The words are too close to something else—something neither of you is ready to name. You look away first, running a hand down your face. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he says, half a laugh, half an exhale. “Been told that a few times today.”
The argument dissolves, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the rain and the sound of both your breathing. You lean back against the car, feeling the metal cold through your jacket. The puddles reflect the flickering light, catching pieces of both your faces in warped gold and silver.
He stands across from you now, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. The tension’s still there, stretching between you like a pulled wire, but under it, something else hums: relief, exhaustion, something dangerously close to care.
You sigh, finally letting your shoulders drop. “Next time,” you say, not looking at him, “you wait for backup.”
Leon nods, rain dripping from his chin. “Yes, ma’am.”
The words come quiet, earnest. Not teasing this time. Just a promise.
The wind picks up, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and the faint trace of gun oil from your holster. You tell yourself the shiver that runs through you is just the cold. But when you glance at him again, still standing there, still watching, you know it’s something else entirely.
The thing about adrenaline is it never leaves cleanly.
Even when the sirens are gone and the suspect’s cuffed and the report in your head is already half-written, it still clings, to your jaw, to your breathing, to the way your voice comes out sharper than it needs to. It’s still in you now, humming like a bad wire, and he’s close enough to get shocked.
“You can’t do that,” you say again, because saying it once wasn’t enough to burn it out of your system. “You can’t just charge in because you feel like it.”
Leon throws his hands up, rain flicking off his fingers. “I didn’t ‘feel like it’ I saw an opening.”
“You saw a bad idea.”
“It worked.”
“It almost didn’t.”
He stares at you like he can’t believe you’re still mad. “We got him.”
“You could’ve gotten hurt.”
The word comes out too fast, too loud. It startles even you.
Leon blinks, water dripping off his lashes. “I—”
“You don’t get to decide that’s worth it,” you go on, unable to stop now that you’ve started. “You don’t get to decide, ‘Oh, I’ll just take the hit, she’ll cover me.’ That’s not how this works.”
“I thought we were a team,” he fires back, sudden, wounded. “Isn’t that the point?”
“It is,” you snap. “Which is why you don’t make me watch you run into fire, Kennedy.”
The name cracks across the wet street. The streetlight above you flickers like even it’s flinching.
He stares at you for a half-second, rain on his brow, jaw tight, chest still rising too fast from the chase, and then something in him just… breaks free.
“I can’t not care about you!”
It rips out of him, rough and raw and way too loud for a sleeping street. Not polished. Not sweet. Just the truth dragged out of him at last because you pushed and pushed and pushed. The words hit the air and hang there like steam, bright and exposed. You freeze.
You feel the pulse thunder in your throat, in your ears, in the place behind your ribs you keep locked. The rain suddenly feels colder. The street suddenly feels too small. That one sentence rearranges everything between you.
He realizes what he said the exact second you do.
His eyes widen; his mouth opens and closes once. “I mean—” He stumbles over it, hands lifting, useless. “I mean you’re my partner, I just— I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t.” Your voice is low now. Not angry, dangerous. “Don’t walk it back.”
He shuts his mouth.
You swallow, rain rolling down the line of your jaw. “You don’t get to say things like that, Kennedy.”
That’s when he laughs.
Not the big, bright, “everyone likes me” laugh. This one’s small and uneven and kind of broken around the edges, like he can’t believe this is happening and also somehow knew it was always going to.
“You say my name,” he breathes, shaking his head, rain dripping from his hair, “like it’s supposed to make me stop.”
The streetlight above you gives another tired flicker, painting both of you in stuttering gold. The rain picks up just a little, coming in sideways now, driven by a wind that carries the smell of wet pavement and river water. Your jackets are soaked through. Your breath fogs the air between you.
But the silence that slides in now isn’t the same silence from before. It isn’t angry. It isn’t annoyed. It’s thick. Aware. It’s the silence of two people staring straight at the thing they’ve both been pretending not to see.
You hold his gaze. You shouldn’t. You should look away, tell him to get in the car, tell him to write up the damn report. Instead you just… look.
He looks back, and without the jokes, without the sunshine, it’s unbearable. Because it’s all there, finally: the way he tracks you in a room, the way he remembers your coffee, the way he followed you into a collapsing building like that was just what you did when it was you. All of it sitting in his eyes, unhidden.
Wind rolls down the street, shivering through the puddles. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. Everything else is just wet and night and him.
He takes a step forward.
Not a lunge, not a grab, not even something he could pretend was instinct. Just one, measured step, closing the distance from work partner to I can feel your body heat in the rain. Close enough that the damp from his jacket mixes with yours. Close enough that you can see the pulse in his throat.
He stops there. Doesn’t crowd. Doesn’t trap. Just… chooses to be closer.
His voice, when it comes, is softer. “You scared me,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Back there. When I lost sight of you.”
You open your mouth, but nothing worth saying is ready. So he fills the space instead, that earnest, infuriating honesty spilling again. “You tell me to wait, I’ll wait. You tell me to back off, I’ll back off. But don’t ask me not to care. I can’t do that.”
The rain hisses on the asphalt. Your heart does something painful. He’s too young for this, you think, not in age, but in the way he still believes he’s allowed to love things out loud.
You force your jaw to work. “You’re making this—”
“Real?” he offers, wry, eyes shining rain. “Yeah. I know.”
He smiles, but it’s shaky, like maybe this costs him too. “But it already was.”
Rain always makes things worse.
It softens edges, blurs streetlights, slows sirens, and it makes it so much harder to lie. You can hear your own breathing too clearly. You can see his, fogging faintly in the air between you. Everything feels closer, like the world narrowed down to wet pavement, a flickering lamp, and the stupid rookie who won’t stop looking at you like you hung the moon over Raccoon City.
His shoulders are still rising a little too fast from the chase, from the argument, from whatever this is. Yours too. The patrol car ticks quietly as it cools. Somewhere deeper in the city a siren wails and fades, like it belongs to someone else’s night. Not yours.
Then Leon says it.
“I tried not to,” he says, voice lower now, stripped of all the bright edges. “I swear I did. But I—” He huffs out a laugh that isn’t a laugh, shaking his head as rain drips from his hair. “I can’t keep pretending you’re just my partner.”
The words hit like cold water under the collar, sudden, invasive, inescapable.
You should’ve expected it. He’s been circling this for days, in the way he stayed late, in the way he followed you too close in the hall, in the way he said you don’t always have to be okay like he had any right to know that about you. But hearing it out loud still punches the air out of your lungs.
You go for the only weapon you ever trust: logic. Distance. The thing that always saved you.
“You’ll grow out of it,” you say, trying to make it sound obvious. Inevitable. The way rain stops. The way rookies quit. “You’re new. You like people. That’s not the same thing.”
He should roll his eyes, crack a joke, let you have the out you’re handing him. He doesn’t.
He shakes his head, rain sliding down his temple, gathering on his lashes. His smile shows for a second, not the big one, not the “I’m happy to be here” smile, just a small, trembling, God, I wish this was easier smile.
“You don’t grow out of the people who change the way you breathe,” he says.
You hate that it lands. You hate that something in you knows what he means, that small adjustment your chest makes when he appears in a doorway, the way the bullpen noise dulls when he’s near, the way your hand pulled him behind that desk without even thinking. You hate that your body recognizes him even when your brain refuses to.
The air goes different after that. Thinner. Charged. Delicate like glass held too tight.
You become aware of everything at once, of the rain soaking into the collar of your shirt, of the way your hair sticks to your cheek, of the way his jacket is dark with water and still steaming slightly in the cold night air. You can hear his heartbeat, or maybe it’s yours, loud in your ears. You can see the way his hands flex like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
You tell yourself to walk away. Right now. Say no. Say we can’t. Say this is the job and the job comes first. You have said no to easier things. You have walked away from softer people. You know how to do this.
But your feet don’t move.
Because he’s looking at you the way people only look when they’ve decided something, not about you, but about themselves. He’s not asking. He’s not trying to win. He’s just… telling you where he ended up.
You meet his eyes and it hits you, all at once, how young he is and how old this kind of courage is. His eyes are wide but sure, and behind the rain and the tiredness and the last dregs of adrenaline you see it all, laid bare: the fear when he lost sight of you, the admiration when you cleared that room, the way he listened to every order even when he didn’t like it, the devotion that was growing even when you were trying so hard not to water it.
It isn’t grand. There’s no swelling music, no dramatic camera pan. It’s just two people on a wet street, too stubborn and too tired to keep lying.
You swallow, throat tight. “Leon,” you start, because his name is the only thing you trust yourself to say without breaking. “This city eats people alive. It eats partnerships. It eats good intentions. You can’t—”
“I know,” he cuts in, gentle, not arguing. “I know it’s messy. I know it’s wrong on paper. I know I talk too much, and I follow too close, and I make you crazy.”
“You do,” you say, because you need him to know that part is still true.
He almost smiles. “I know. But I still—” He looks down for half a second, searching for the word. When he lifts his head again, it’s there. “I still choose you.”
The way he says it,not I love you, not please love me back, not you owe me this, just I still choose you, makes something in you lurch.
You look past him for a second, out over the empty street, as if the answer might be in the shapeless dark. There’s nothing there. Just puddles catching light and the shape of his shoulders in your periphery.
“I don’t know if I can give you what you want,” you say, quietly, because you’ve always been more honest than kind. “I don’t— I’m not—” You gesture vaguely at yourself, rain flicking off your fingers. “I don’t do this.”
He nods, too fast, like he expected that. “That’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
“It is,” he insists, stepping just close enough that his words warm the space between you. “Because I didn’t tell you so you’d say it back. I told you because I didn’t want you thinking I was just… following orders.” His eyes search yours, steady, pleading only for understanding. “I follow you.”
That almost undoes you.
Because you remember him in the hallway, in the car, in the building, saying I’ll follow your lead like it was easy. Like it didn’t cost him anything. You remember thinking he was just a golden retriever rookie with too much heart and not enough sense.
Turns out it wasn’t thoughtless. Turns out it was deliberate.
You let out a slow breath, barely more than a sigh. “You make things complicated, Kennedy.”
He huffs a laugh that’s wet and shaky. “You make things worth it.”
God, he’s so earnest. So painfully sincere. So unashamed to feel things out loud. It’s recklessness of a different kind, not the kind that chases suspects into alleys, but the kind that sits in front of someone guarded and says I care anyway.
You look at him, really look, and realize there was never going to be a different ending. Not with the way he kept showing up. Not with the way you kept letting him. You’ve both been walking toward this street, this rain, this confession since the morning you told him to get a leash and he laughed like that meant stay.
“It’s not going to be easy,” you say at last, voice tired and soft and so, so honest.
He nods. “I know.”
“You might regret it.”
“Doubt it.”
“You might.” You search his face for some sign of uncertainty. There isn’t one. Only rain. Only him. “I might.”
His eyes soften like he’s already made peace with that. “Then we regret it together.”
The rain eases like it finally got tired. What was coming down sideways a minute ago softens to a fine, steady drizzle, the kind that hangs in the air and clings to your lashes.
Leon’s watching you like he’s afraid you’ll spook.
Not afraid of you, afraid of losing you. There’s a difference. It’s in the way his shoulders stay squared but his hands won’t quite settle, in the way his breath catches halfway in, in the way his eyes keep flicking from your mouth back to your eyes, checking, checking, checking.
He doesn’t move. Not yet.
He waits, and that, somehow, is what undoes you the most. That he’d follow you into a collapsing building without hesitation but won’t cross this last inch of rain-wet air without your permission.
You don’t take a step back. You don’t even tilt your head away. You just… stay.
That’s all he needs.
He exhales, slow, shaky, full of the day and the fight and the confession he just put in your hands. Then he leans in.
Not fast. Not reckless. Slow. Careful. Every inch is a question. Here? Is this okay? Still okay? He gives you a chance to stop him at the start, and then again halfway, and then again when you can feel the warmth of him through the cold.
You tell yourself you’ll pull back.
You tell yourself you’ll stop it before it lands, before it becomes real, before it becomes something the two of you will have to carry in the morning.
Any second now. But you don’t.
Because by the time he’s close enough that his breath ghosts across your cheek, you realize you’ve been waiting for this without letting yourself want it. Every near-miss, every shoulder bump, every “stay close, rookie”, all of it was orbit. This is the center.
His mouth meets yours like a secret.
Not crushed, not frantic, just placed. A confession made in the only language that won’t crack the night in half. It’s warm despite the rain, soft despite the tension braided through both of you. He tastes like coffee gone cold, like rain, like the copper tang of adrenaline fading, like someone who ran too hard and still came back.
For half a heartbeat, you’re too stunned to move. Then your body remembers what to do.
Your hand finds his jacket, not delicate, not practiced, just a fistful of damp fabric right over his chest. He makes a tiny sound against your mouth, not quite a laugh and not quite a gasp, more like oh, surprised you’re pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
His hand comes up, hesitant at first, like he thinks touching you will break the spell, and hovers near your jaw. Then it settles, fingers splaying gently along the line of your face, thumb brushing the rain from your cheekbone. He holds you like you’re something he found in a burning building.
The world shrinks.
No squad car. No reports. No sheriff. No RPD. Just the heat of him and the cool rain and the way his heartbeat slams against your knuckles through his jacket. The streetlight hums above you; the city blurs at the edges. Somewhere, water runs into a gutter. Somewhere, somebody’s closing up shop. None of it matters.
He kisses you like he meant every word he said. Like I can’t not care about you didn’t fall out by accident. Like he’s been holding this back since the first morning you told him to get a map.
It isn’t a kiss that asks for more. It’s a kiss that says this is it. This is what I meant. It aches, not because it’s hungry, but because it’s careful. Reverent, even. He’s not trying to take anything. He’s just trying to give you the truth the way you’ll actually let yourself take it.
You tilt your head a little, not much, and the angle changes, deeper but still soft. His thumb strokes your jaw once, slow, grounding. You can feel the shiver that runs through him where your hand is fisted in his jacket. Not fear. Just too much feeling with nowhere to go.
You should stop.
You tell yourself again. Any second now. I’ll stop. I’ll pull away. I’ll tell him we can’t.
But he’s warm, and the rain is cold, and his mouth is gentle, and for the first time in a very long time, you don’t feel like someone asking too much of you, you feel chosen. You feel seen.
So you don’t stop.
You let it last. Just long enough for it to sink in. Long enough for him to know you’re kissing him back, not letting him. Long enough for that stubborn, bright, rookie heart to understand you didn’t just tolerate his confession, you accepted it.
When you finally break, it’s not dramatic. You just breathe.
You pull back an inch, maybe two. Your fingers are still knotted in his jacket. His hand is still on your jaw. Both of you are breathing like you ran another alley, short, hitched, trying to catch up.
His forehead tips forward until it’s resting against yours, rain dripping from his hair onto your nose, both of you laughing these tiny, ridiculous, breathless half-laughs that come from relief more than humour.
He whispers, voice rough from holding it all in, “God… I really like you.”
You huff, but it comes out softer than any insult you’ve ever thrown. “You’re an idiot.”
He grins, wide now, unstoppable, stupid-happy even in the rain. “Yeah. Your idiot, though.”
You don’t say no this time.
The next morning you tell yourself nothing’s changed. You walk in exactly on time, hang your jacket on the same hook, brace for the usual RPD chaos — phones, printers, someone swearing at the copier. The bullpen looks the same: too bright, too loud, too gray. Nobody here knows you kissed a rookie in the rain. Nobody knows your heart is doing something stupid about it.
Then you get to your desk. There’s a coffee waiting. Not the burnt communal sludge, a real one, still steaming, your first name messily scrawled on the side. Next to it: a folded sticky note.
It says, in all caps: “FOR STAYING ALIVE. – L”
and underneath, smaller: “p.s. if you don’t like this coffee I will cry in the locker room (quietly)”
You snort. Out loud. “Something funny?” someone calls. “No,” you say way too fast, already sipping. It’s good. Of course it is. He paid attention.
You feel him before you see him — that Boy Scout gravity. He leans on your desk like he owns the spot, hair still damp, uniform crisp, smile criminally soft. “Morning, partner,” he says, just for you.
“You bribing your mentor now?” you mutter.
“Bribing?” he gasps. “That was a romantic gesture.”
“This is a police station.”
“Yeah, and you’re still drinking it.”
You flick the sticky note at him; he fumbles it, laughs, tucks it in his vest like evidence. Then he strolls off and, way too loud, goes, “Morning! Don’t mind me, just keeping my officer caffeinated!”
Half the bullpen looks straight at you. You glare at him like you could set him on fire. He just beams. You take another sip, stare very hard at your report, and tell yourself nothing’s changed. Your pulse, annoyingly, says otherwise.
i’m so serious when i say nalu is the goofiest ship in fairy tail and also the one that makes me lose my mind the most. like look at them. look at these screenshots. they are so chronically unserious it’s actually romantic. why are they always matching each other’s chaotic energy??? like they weren’t just meant for each other, they were engineered in a lab to be the two most ridiculous people in the guild and then fall in love about it. the synchronized screaming. the dramatic hand-holding like someone just proposed. the way natsu sparkles while lucy looks five seconds away from homicide. they are so stupid. they are SO STUPID. and yet so in sync it makes my brain short-circuit.
they’re soulmates in the most obnoxious way possible. not in a soft “we complete each other” kind of way but in a “we got kicked out of a restaurant for sword fighting with breadsticks” way. and they’d be laughing the whole time. they match each other’s every step, every tone, every over-the-top facial expression like they’re one shared creature split into two hot idiots. i love them so much it physically pains me. like this isn’t even about romance anymore. this is about divine comedy. this is about two people being so chaotic together that the universe just gave up and said “fine. fine. you win. be together forever.” and they will. they will be so annoying and dramatic and in love until the end of time. and i’ll be right there cheering them on
I think somebody needs to check in on natsu like mentally because between gray "active suicide risk" fullbuster, erza "nah I'll be fine" scarlet and Lucy "everyone wants to fucking kill me" heartfilia hes the only one out here keeping these people alive.
it’s CRIMINAL that there isn’t many fairytail fanfics like wym😣😣 fairy tail got some of the most DROP dead GORGEOUS men I’ve seen and only me and like 5 others are thirsting over them??💔💔
Hello! Mathiyu here! I haven't posted much here in Tumblr. But! I'm more active on twitter so come and check me out there! Also, I now have a Patreon. If ya guys want to support me and my art journey, come and support me there. Anyway, here is a Fairy Tail Nalu Doujin (Ongoing). Enjoy
Fairy Tail is so fucking funny to me, because the main characters are literally this:
Gray: Seems like a normal guy, but then you notice he strips constantly, without even realizing it. Has attempted to kill himself multiple times.
Lucy: Ex-heiress who was surprising well adjusted to spending, just trying to not be homeless, is so done with everybody's shit. Doesn't even have the energy to hide it anymore.
Erza: Also seems normal, but just hides it better, murdered people for strawberry cake, actually an idiot around her peers.
Wendy: She's 12 but she's unironically the most emotionally and academically intelligent, and normal.
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