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𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐼 ♱ leon s kennedy.

⋆.˚ summary: Two years into a professional partnership that’s become something neither of you can quite name, you find yourself dreading an upcoming wedding. The plus-one requirement becomes a crisis when you realize your ex-boyfriend will be the groom. After a drunken confession at a bar outing, Leon offers to be your fake date. As you prepare for the wedding through outfit shopping, the line between performance and reality begins to blur.

⋆.˚ pairing: Post-RE4!Leon S. Kennedy/Gender Neutral!Reader.

⋆.˚ word count: 9.3k.

⋆.˚ content warning: Alcohol consumption (you get intoxicated at a social event), Mentions of past romantic relationships/ex-partner, Anxiety/social anxiety, Workplace power imbalance (you are Leon’s superior officer), Implied emotional trauma (references to Leon's past missions, though not detailed), Physical proximity/tension (non-explicit).

⋆.˚ authors note: this is an unfinished first draft of part one. i am currently finishing the entire fic, bordering on 20k, there will be significant time-line changes in the final product. whole version will be posted on @dhazefawn. i apologise for the change.

Field coordination centre of the DSO, May 8th, 2012.

The afternoon sun filters through the windows. The warm golden rays graze the clinical white walls of the office. They stand tall, caging the analysts to their own little desks covered in misplaced files and unfinished reports. You can hear someone cursing at the broken tea kettle since you started working at the DSO.

Your attention isn’t stuck to the broken tea kettle for long. You peek from your cubicle, eyes trailing over your co-workers. All of them are in their own bubble. You receive a brief, confused side glance from a disgruntled colleague next to your own cubicle, and you decide maybe it’s time to stop the people watching. You dip your head, returning to your own desk.

Your own bubble consists of a series of finished field analysis reports of cases you’ve provided intelligence support on and a small envelope invitation you haven’t dared to open. Cut and clear. Crystal clear even. Always do what the higher-ups demand of you.

These specific cases weren’t supposed to be different from the others you’ve provided help on. A decade of work in intelligence has made you an experienced agent, but only behind a headset, repeating information over and over in some field agent’s ear, hoping they succeed and return safely.

But these cases weren’t cut and clear. Not because of you. Or maybe, yes. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop the corner of your lips from curling into a small smile. It will soon be two years since you’ve been assisting Leon Kennedy on cases. Unlike your co-workers, you’ve learned that behind the man who only speaks in short sentences with wit a little too sharp, there is someone who is actually tolerable to be around. Or talk over communications. But you haven’t complained yet, and neither has Leon, so you count that as another win under your belt.

Plus, he makes scheduled visits to your cubicle to gather report files from you. He doesn’t need to come to you just to collect it face-to-face. You’ve offered to send it digitally. But he mumbles some excuse about being precise and leaving nothing up to chance. You don’t question it much. Not to mention, he’s developing a habit of bringing you snacks as a thank you. Last time it was a pasty from your favourite café, you mentioned once in conversation with him. You’re surprised he remembered.

Unfortunately, your faint smile sours quickly as the baby blue of the envelope catches your eye again. The golden ink sparkles and curves into a beautiful font.

“We cordially invite you to our wedding

Saturday, the fifteenth of June

At two o’clock in the afternoon

The rooftop gardens at Meridian Lofts

Please RSVP with plus one by June first.”

Who doesn’t love weddings? Especially a childhood friend’s wedding? You can go back home, go through your wardrobe and spend days perfecting your outfit before sharing a beautiful day with family and friends.

The problem is a plus one. You never got the importance of plus ones. Particularly when you never had anyone special to bring. And since this is a wedding full of your childhood friends with their own spouses and partners, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Not to mention the groom being celebrated might be an old fling. Fling is an understatement. You hope the files on your desk will somehow drown you before you have to look at that man again and admit you haven’t moved on with someone else.

“Oh, congratulations to your friend. A summer wedding is best, if you ask me.”

You almost jump at the sudden noise. You turn in your chair, almost falling in the process.

“Sorry if I scared you.” Your department head stands right next to your cubicle. She lays a hand on your desk, eyes jumping from the case files stacked upon each other to the envelope. “You know, you have enough break days to go. It’s not like I keep you all trapped in this stuffy office building. Speaking of that, redecorating is needed.”

“Of course, Marston.” You finally calm your beating heart. You spin back in your chair, facing the desk. “I know I have time. It’s just the planning and RSVP’ing. Not to mention the travel fees.”

“We save half of this country from being turned into some biological mess, at least they pay us as much as the field agents.” Marston clicks her tongue before pointing a finger at the case files. “Is that Kennedy giving you trouble?”

“You ask me that at least every month, Ma’am. It’s been almost two years. He’s alright to work with.”

“With how much you sing his praises in your reports, working with him is more than ‘alright’.”

“I’m just telling the truth.” You shake your head, trying to avoid her amused gaze. “Leon has never let me down.”

“That’s nice to hear and all. You two are probably the only pair I could name who actually get along as field and intelligence agents.”

You can’t help but feel a strange sense of pride at her praise—a bloom of heat in your chest that spreads through your whole body, sweetly warm. You smile as you look back at the case files on your desk.

“Don’t get too excited, you might make everyone here jealous.” Marston chuckles. “Alright, enough riffraff, back to what I came over here for. A few senior agents are having some get-together in a bar, and before you ask, yes, alcohol is allowed, but it’s the fancy kind, as your dear co-workers put it.”

“Oh, finally!” You lean back in your chair, clasping your hands in excitement. “I was suggesting we all go out at least for once. Everyone’s so gloomy, and this will cheer a few people up.”

“Okay, busybody.” Marston hums and turns to leave. “I for one think an old bottle of Chardonnay back home alone with my wife will suit me just fine.”

“Don’t remind me of weddings.” You groan, the quiet incoming doom of humiliating social interactions hanging over you. “Plus ones are so stupid anyway.”

“Not if you chose the right one!” Marston yells over to you even through the hallway.

You drop your head on the case files. They make a soft pillow, not considering the rather macabre information stored in them. Your hands clench, finger nails digging small crescents into your palm. If you push any harder, you might draw blood.

Who even invites an ex to a wedding? Goddamn you, Adam.

You raise your head. You try to gather your thoughts as your brows furrow in faux confidence. You could go alone. A plus one isn’t demanded. It’s just implied. Rather obviously and on-the-nose with its demand.

Or you could try to find someone to drag there, hoping to make your pathetic problem interesting enough to them so they could help you out of it.

You tilt your head. Thoughts are rushing through your head at an alarming speed. Your hand finds the nearest pen, and you fidget with it, slowing the thoughts down.

The ceiling is too tall. The office lights are too bright. The buzz of your co-workers is too loud. The building seems like it’ll press in on you, caging you in.

You try to focus on one singular point to bring your thoughts away from being humiliated at some wedding for arriving alone and leaving alone. A small calming trick you learned from Leon when he stopped by once. Find an anchor, hand on, don’t let go and breathe.

Your eyes lock onto a familiar mess of sandy blond hair. A mess on someone’s head, honestly. You’ve tried telling him to take care of himself more, but the disgruntled look he gives you after jumping through hell and back on missions makes you forgive his unbrushed hair once in a while.

Leon stands out in your department’s office like a sore thumb. He’s stuck behind a few of your colleagues. They haven’t noticed him, or maybe they have, and they’re giving him trouble as they always do. Leon only needs to move a step to the right to get a whole view of the office. His icy blue eyes trail over cubicles before landing on yours. He has a small cup of coffee clutched in his hand. He moves it away from the crowd, basically covering it with his whole frame as if a single cup is worth the effort.

You guess you really rubbed off on him with your café habits.

The second you two lock is just the moment you notice you aren’t clenching your hands anymore.

You rise from your chair. You wave a hand at him to wait for you. You grab a few of your report files and head towards his way.

Leon stands locked in the spot you first noticed him in. An annoyed glance is thrown at your co-workers every time he thinks they won’t notice. You try to stifle a laugh at the sight.

“You look so rattled, Leon.” You can’t resist teasing him. “Are you lost and need my help again?”

“I can navigate this building fine. But everyone bumping into me isn’t helping.” He raises a brow at you, but you can tell the sarcasm in his tone is without its usual bite. “Glad to know you find my struggle amusing.”

“The path to my cubicle is one full of many dangers.” You say, hand on your chest, while you grab onto his sleeve to lead him out of the crowd. He follows with no complaints. “Nothing like the missions you’re used to, Leon.”

“I’ve realised.” He quips, and there’s the familiar tone of comfortable teasing you’re used to from him. “And the agent at the desk is even more terrifying than anyone I’ve ever fought. They give me a run for my money.”

You slow down in the middle of your step, looking at him with an impressed grin. A few of the people tucked away in their cubicles glance at the two of you walking past.

“Cheeky, Leon, very cheeky.” You comment, and tug him with a bit more force, and he pretends it knocks him off his balance just to humour you. “Be careful for the agent not to write you a bad report and get you fired.”

“Oh, no.” He rolls his eyes playfully. “I’d never. I need their mercy to validate my competency to the whole of DSO.”

You two finally reach your desk. You sit back down, pushing away from the desk so Leon can shuffle in, and he leans a hip on the desk. His eyes trail over the office one more time, specifically eyeing the big windows parallel to your cubicle.

Your eyes follow his own. You can figure out what he’s thinking right now—threat assessment in your own office. You know he means well, but sometimes you wish he’d take a second to stop and rest.

You raise your hand to graze to touch him, but you stop just above his own hand. He seems so hyper-focused on every possible weakness in this building. He stands over you, you’ve noticed, backing you to a corner where every direction is covered and safe for you. You’re afraid—as ridiculous as that sounds—you might push whatever fragile boundaries the two of you have built if you touch him right now. You think speaking might be the better choice.

“You know we’re completely safe here, right?” You start, completely unsure of what direction to take this conversation. Your hand finds the surface of your desk, and you start tapping in a mindless rhythm to calm yourself. “I work almost all day here, so they owe me, us and everyone good security. You don’t have to stand on guard—”

“—I bought you coffee.”

“What?”

Well, there goes your plans for a motivational speech. Not that you were ever good at those, and he probably doesn’t even want to hear it. What do you know about what he feels after the mess that was Spain? Well, you do. You’ve written dozens of assessments about him as his superior, but that doesn’t exactly translate into closeness, even if he does bring you coffee when he visits.

“Cortado.” He says, straightening his spine and turning his back to the windows. “You mentioned last time you liked espressos, so the barista suggested adding steamed milk to it.” He offers you a warm cup.

“I thought that was for yourself.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Okay, you caught me.” You chuckle. “Thank you. Coffee is something I really need right now.”

You grab the warm coffee cup from his hands, and for a second, his fingers linger on yours. The cup isn’t as hot as you’d imagined. It’s perfectly warm, just like the temperature you told him you favoured.

“Thank you.”

“You said that already.”

“Coffee warrants two thank yous.” You add and put down the cup on your desk, far away from the files. “Are you here for the reports?”

Leon doesn’t answer you as quickly as you expected him to. His gaze lingers on your desk, but now what he came for. His eyes lock onto a particular wedding invitation you wished to hide. You can almost imagine the questions and his own thought-up answers running through his head.

Leon turns his gaze to you. Suddenly, you feel bare under his gaze. You’re used to meetings and briefs where your own superiors push back at your layers, but this is somehow different. You’re not uncomfortable under his gaze. You almost squirm in your chair. It’s mostly from the fact that he can see how much this small piece of paper has soured your mood.

“Are you—”

“—invited to a wedding? Yes.” You start tapping on the desk. Again.

“I was going to ask if you were okay.” He says matter-of-factly, as if that one small question hasn’t completely turned the conversation on its head.

Leon tilts his head, his blonde strands falling over his forehead. The hair sticks to the skin. You wonder if he rushed to get here. To get to you. With your new favourite coffee order, which he just introduced you to. The thought brings you a momentary bliss before you force yourself back to earth from some ridiculous dreamland.

“I’m fine.” You click your tongue, hoping your tone doesn’t give your true feelings away. “Anyway, did you hear about the bar hangout the office is having?”

“…No.” Leon scratches at his neck, and you feel a tinge of guilt.

“Well, I’m telling you now. And I’m bringing you with me.”

“You don’t have to.” His eyes widened a bit. “I don’t know anyone well enough there.”

“Except for me.”

“Except for you.”

“Wear your best casual fit. It’s a bar, not an official meeting. I look forward to seeing you not in a suit or a button-up for once.”

Leon’s lips curl just slightly. It only lasts for a moment before it’s gone just as quickly as it came. You smile, satisfied that you, or your stupid comment about his clothes—not that you think about his clothes often—was the reason he smiled in the first place.

“Alright.” You move in your chair. “You came for the last case report, right? You know, I can just send you an electronic copy whenever you need it.”

“I know,” Leon answers, but he doesn’t give a reason for why he visits.

You don’t press it.

The Manila files are organised with a perfect system. You hand over them with a sense of pride in your chest. Leon takes them, and your fingers linger on each other again. It only takes a single second for the touch to disappear.

“You’ll be there, right?” You question, pulling one of the few threads of hope that Leon might enjoy a night out with you. “I’ll message the details to you.”

“If you don’t leave me alone with your colleagues, then maybe.”

“I’ll be glued to your side, protecting you from them. A prince needs a knight to protect them, after all.”

He rolls his eyes. But you know there’s no malice behind it.

“Then it’s a yes.”

“You just can’t say no to me.”

“Don’t push it.”

+++

Bar “rendezvous”, May 10th, 2012.

The bar is exactly as Leon had imagined it.

The dim lights crowding the walls are placed sporadically around the room. The faint yellow hue spreads around the booths, covering them in a warm glow. There are a few candles placed on the circular tables, creating an alluring presence that Leon knows all too well to look at with a tinge of scepticism.

He’s been wandering around the booths looking around. He calls it people watching, but you told him it’s slightly concerning for others to see an almost 6’0 feet man staring—no, glaring—at them. He thinks he’s been doing well; he’s only looked at both the entrance and exit a few times since he got here a few minutes later than he was supposed to.

Not to mention he’s dressed up to the perfect balance of casual and professional just because you told him to. A cream ribbed knit sweater and medium-washed grey jeans. He feels a strange and heavy weight on his heart, like an expectation on how you’ll react and what you’ll say.

Leon wonders how you look this evening as well.

The two of you have been working together for almost two years. You’ve been the primary intelligence agent guiding him since he started working for the DSO for most of that time. Communicating over comms hasn’t exactly given him an excuse to see you other than during office visits, but those are sparse at best and, from your co-workers’ view, questionable and unnecessary. As if you don’t welcome him every time you walk him from the department entrance to your cubicle.

He scans the bar just ahead. The counter is built of dark burgundy wood, the surface covered in glasses of all sizes. There are lamps placed on it, similar to the wall lights.

People are already seated, some at the bar, some in the booths—all of them nursing the drinks Leon hopes will be enough to get through this evening.

He’s been contemplating leaving early, knowing the people he’s supposed to spend time with won’t exactly want him there, but the thought of you made him reconsider. Leon couldn’t just leave with no warning, especially when you’re here. First, you invited him, and it would be rude to bail on you. Second, the evening might not all be for nothing if he makes sure not to leave your side.

Leon’s brought out of his thoughts as a familiar voice reaches him. It’s like an addictive cigarette—rough at the edges and wrapped in velvet. He can recognise your voice anywhere. He’s so used to you speaking in his ear—the proximity and intimacy of guiding him as if you were right next to him.

Sometimes he does wish for you to be there next to him, to not spend nights alone with mission reports. He doesn’t want your handwriting and words on those files to be the only thing he’ll get to touch that is yours.

Leon follows the sound of your voice and how the tone finds its way through the bar’s crowd. His steps—previously slow and deliberate—have turned quick and shaky now. His eyes darted around the building, looking for your figure. When his eyes land on you, his breath lodges in his throat, turning into something heavier and different. A feeling he cannot piece together.

You are seated between your colleagues. There’s one empty seat next to yours, probably reserved for one of your friends. Leon stands a few steps away from the booth, the buzzing crowd blocking his view of you. He can make out the colours of your clothes matching your complexion. Your hands articulate and move with a sense of freedom he’s never been able to replicate as you talk with the people around you. The lamps hung on the walls form a dim halo around your form, the light highlighting you from the rest of the crowd.

Leon finally breathes; the heaviness on his chest dissipates only for a second before it spreads throughout his body, weighing him down. He’s content with this—seeing you with people who cannot contain their laughs around you as you wrap your arms around them as if they’re long-time friends, unlike him, who cannot even bring himself to even think about being touched by you without his jaw clenching and skin flushing with an uncomfortable heat.

He takes a step back, turning to leave. The moment only lasts for a second, but it feels like forever. The constant chatter of people in the booths, the clinking of cups, the crowd shuffling around the room—all of it—is drowned out.

Nothing can reach his ears. He really should have taken a drink from the bar first. A high-pitched ringing replaces the silence. The same deafness you feel after firing a shot—something that he hopes you never have to do. He’s fine with being the one with blood beneath his fingernails if you stay safe behind the comms, in your secured office. He’s fine with your voice being the last thing he—

“Leon!”

He stops, steps now full of hesitation. It only takes the familiar sound of your footsteps—which he could recognise anywhere—to make him turn your way. You’ve left the booth. Your co-workers are invested in a conversation with each other, only a few of them sparing you and Leon a glance.

“Where are you going?” You move closer to him, and Leon stiffens. “Sorry,” you raise your voice over the sound of the bar, “I tried getting your attention, but you didn’t hear me. Why didn’t you let me know you arrived?”

“You—” He tries gathering his words, but stills as his mind goes blank, “—seemed busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You could have sent a text.” A small pout finds itself on your lips. Leon notes the glossy sheen over them; it catches the light as your mouth moves. “I was worried you were bailing on me.”

“You don’t look worried.” Leon clenches his jaw; he can smell the faint aroma of a saccharine drink on you. “You don’t need to worry. It doesn’t matter.”

Speaking of looking, he only now takes in your appearance. Dark brown fitted long-sleeve crop hugging your torso, and the grey tailored trousers hanging off your hips with a belt. The slightly exposed midriff catches his eye when it shouldn’t.

“You sure have a lot of ideas about how I should feel and worry, Leon.” Your voice snaps him out of his moment of—he doesn’t even know what to call it. “But look at you—” you take a step closer, closing in on him and backing him into the closest booth’s entrance. “—you sure as hell have a lot of ideas where to look. It’s amusing to see you scramble to pretend to be professional as if you weren’t watching me.”

Leon blinks. More than he usually does. You laugh at him, and the sound makes him feel the warmth spreading from underneath his collar to his ears. He hopes the dim lighting will hide how his face might flush in a few minutes.

“What?” He breaks eye contact first, rare for him—he knows. “You look fine.”

You raise a brow. The airy confidence in your figure slowly dissipates, and you cross your arms across your chest. His shoulders tense at the sight because he definitely didn’t mean fine, he meant—

“I saved a seat for you.” Your voice comes out quieter, and the sound of it makes Leon’s spine straighten. “It’s the one right next to mine.”

So, it was for him.

“You can take any seat you want. You’re not obligated to sit next to me.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“—Oh, no,” you cut him off, the words said through gritted teeth, “I’m going to get something stronger to drink myself. Have fun, Kennedy.”

You turn around away from Leon in an instant. He catches a slight glint in your eyes, and he hates the chance that it might be tears. His hand raises to catch your wrist, but he stops himself, his hand left outstretched as you move with anger in your steps. Angry at him. You called him Kennedy and not Leon. And he deserves it all. He drops his head, knowing how ridiculous he acted and looks right now.

When he raises his gaze, he cannot find you in the crowd. Your co-workers haven’t noticed that you haven’t returned either, too busy to pay attention to anything but themselves. Only one woman from your booth raises her head, obviously watching you and Leon. He remembers her from the analytics department. She squints her eyes at him, and he feels the shame deep in his voice.

Who’s he to judge? Leon bites his tongue. He’s the one who made you cry and literally run away from him. You’ve shown him nothing but kindness, and the one time he could show you his appreciation beyond his own thoughts, he fucks it up. Severely.

Leon doesn’t know how long he has stood there, but he knows he has to move and find you. His steps are instinctive, as if an invincible string is pulling him the right way. His eyes darted from one corner to another, looking for your face in the crowd. The people blur into each other, nothing or no one standing out.

You had mentioned getting a drink. A strong one at that. The heavy feeling from before has taken its spot on his chest, and his breath comes out harder and harder. He tries to find you amongst the people sitting on the bar-stools.

A single figure sticks out—seated alone, nursing what looks like shot glasses placed on the counter. The familiar way you tap your hand on the wooden surface makes his shoulders drop.

Leon hates that he’s the reason you’re hunched over the bar, getting drunk and trying to calm yourself down so you can return to your booth. He knows you’ll plaster on a tight smile and press crescents into your palm.

He finds his way to you; the last few steps are softer to not agitate you further. A small hiccup leaves you. Leon’s brows furrow. He tugs at his collar, unsure how to speak to you. Your gaze is glued to the drinks in front of you.

“Shot glasses aren’t the best anchors.” He starts and mentally scolds himself the second the words leave his mouth. “It’s supposed to be something that brings you a moment of clarity.”

“Alcohol is bringing me clarity, Kennedy.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well,” you click your tongue, “it’s bringing me enough clarity to throw the glass at you.”

“You’d be right to.”

You turn your gaze away from the glasses. Leon finally lets out a breath when you look at him. Your tense face finally softens, but only a bit. You gesture to the seat next to yours, and he wastes no time taking it.

The two of you are silent for the first few minutes. Leon’s too hesitant to say the wrong thing. You don’t seem to have the energy to talk back. He hasn’t thought of how to even begin apologising.

The bartender shoots the two of you a look, but Leon waves him down. You don’t need any more drinks tonight, and he’d rather be sober by your side tonight.

“I’m sorry.”

He’d rather blurt it out.

“You don’t need to apologise.” You clench your fist again. He can imagine the crescents. “Listen, I shouldn’t have gotten in your personal space like that. I know you don’t especially enjoy it when people do that—”

“I don’t mind when you do it.” Leon raises his hand and grazes your arm. You straighten, and he coughs. His hand doesn’t leave. “You—” he hesitantly grabs your clenched fist and loosens it, “—you look more than fine.”

You stare back at your intertwined hands. Your fingers feel like a perfect puzzle piece in his own.

“Really?” You mumble, voice weak in a way that he wants to fix right this moment.

“You look beautiful.” He says with no hesitation. “I should have said that the moment I saw you.”

“The moment you were staring at my midriff?”

“And you say that I’m the cheeky one.”

You laugh again. He lets out a sigh of relief at the sound.

“I’m sorry I made you cry.” Leon’s voice sounds so quiet that he surprises even himself.

“No,” you start, and he thinks you’re about to deflect again, “I mean, yeah— you were an ass, but I was slightly drunk—”

“Slightly?”

“Don’t start.” You tut. “But I’ve had a rough week. And I’m just in for tougher future months. I’ve been more emotional because of that. The alcohol takes the edge off for only a few hours.”

“What’s been bothering you?”

You bite your lower lip, and Leon forces himself to look away.

“You don’t want to hear about it. It’s nothing.”

“You sure have a lot of ideas on what I want.” Leon’s lips curl. “Now, who have I heard saying that?”

“Touché, Leon. Touché.”

“Tell me.” He tries to show the sincerity in his voice clearly. “I want to hear about it. Maybe I can help.”

“Can you magically spawn a date for me?”

“What?” He coughs. You want a date? A partner? For what? For the foreseeable future? As in someone to be with? “…You— you should have no problem with that.”

“Points off, Leon. You’re drastically wrong about that. I can’t find someone as a plus-one date to my friend’s wedding.” You hide your face in your hands. “I’m basically doomed. If I don’t show up with someone on my arm, my bastard of an ex will be satisfied, and I can’t have that considering he’s the groom!”

Oh.

You meant the wedding. Leon remembers the invitation on your desk, which he saw on his visit to your office a few days ago. He can feel a strange weight lifted off his chest, and a small snort even leaves him.

“You’re laughing at me.” You widen your eyes at him and deadpan. “Leon Kennedy, you are laughing at someone clearly drunk and in distress!”

“No—” he raises his hand in defence while trying to stifle his chuckle, “—I’m not.”

“Then why did you snort!?” You groan. “I should have finished those damn shot glasses. Throwing them at you seems like a perfect idea.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“And why not? I can aim very well. Maybe not as good as you, mister, but I can hit the bullseye that is your stupid handsome face even if I’m drunk.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

Leon watches as you bite your lip again. The corner of your ears flushes just slightly. You groan again and hide your face in the crook of your arm.

“I said something stupid. Plus, I’m drunk. You’re taking advantage of poor little old me right now.”

He moves his hand from yours, gently tracing the exposed skin of your cheek peeking from your arm. “C’mon. I might have a solution to your problem.”

Leon thinks he should have taken a few drinks himself. This would have been so much easier to say if he had alcohol in his system, but he wants you to believe that he’s completely sober while bringing this up.

“So you can spawn a date in?”

“Wouldn’t I be a better candidate than a,” he trails off, his voice unsteady, “spawned in option, who you don’t even know?”

You raise your head suddenly. Leon moves to give you space. For a moment, he thinks you might refuse or plain chew him out for what he has proposed—being your plus one to a friend’s wedding, whom he doesn’t even know. A friend who, apparently, is getting married to your bastard ex. He’d try anything he knows to make sure you’re not crying alone at a bar, but this is also something he’s doing for himself. A chance of selfishness—to be by your side because you would want him there.

“You’re serious?” You ask with a tone too fragile for his liking. “You’re not saying that to just cheer me up, right? Or are you drunk?”

“You’re the drunk one, sweetheart, not me.”

“Am I hallucinating?”

“No.” Leon laughs. “I’m being serious. It’s all up to you.” Please say yes. “I’m not forcing your hand, but if you do need someone—” let it be me. “—I wouldn’t mind coming with you.”

You stare at him for a few seconds that feel like a century to him before you open your mouth. Leon expects an outright rejection, but instead, your eyes tear up.

“Sweetheart, no.” He scrambles closer to your seat, searching for a napkin. “The last thing I wanted to do was make you cry again.”

He doesn’t find a napkin and decides to use the fabric of his jumper to wipe the tears. Leon gently grabs your chin, softly moving the fabric across your wet cheek.

“You’re close.” You mumble.

Suddenly, his face feels flush again under your gaze. “Don’t cry again.”

“You weren’t lying, right? You’d come with me?”

There’s this desperation in your voice. Maybe from the alcohol in your system, or the high emotions from tonight, but Leon knows it brings no comfort to you or him to hear it.

“I’ll never lie to you again.”

“You’ve lied to me before?”

“Tonight. When I told you that, you looked just fine.”

You snort, dropping your head on Leon’s shoulder. He doesn’t move away. A faint aroma almost escapes him. Clean woods—cedar and sandalwood with muted jasmine. Your shampoo. He’s the doomed one, not you. You’re laughing, head on his shoulder. Your scent is so close. His hand is still near your cheek. He’s not sure if all of this is because you’re drunk or not. He hopes not.

“You should tell me your answer when you’re sober.”

“I want to go home.” You admit. “I hate this bar. I suggested another, but they all demanded this one. But these two seats are fine. I like them.” You raise your head from his shoulder. The conviction in your voice is admirable, if not a little silly.

“Why do these two specific chairs survive your wrath?”

“Because we’re sitting here.” You say it like it’s an obvious fact. “Duh.”

“Duh.”

“Stop parroting me, Kennedy. It’s rude.” You raise a finger at him.

“Come, you wanted to go home. I’m not letting you go alone.” Leon stands up, offering you a hand to grab on to.

“How gentlemanly. If only I knew I’d have a knight in shining armour to sweep me off my feet.” You sit up in the chair, but almost trip over your own feet due to the alcohol.

Leon’s quick to catch you. He steadies you on your feet, making sure you regain your balance.

“Two left feet, it seems.” He quips. “Are you sure you’re ready to walk? How much did you even drink? I didn’t know you were a lightweight.”

“Write that down for the wedding as a note. I can’t say no to a pretty fruity drink.” You start trailing off, chattering to Leon about Cosmopolitans and Margaritas. “Oh, I also love it when they have those cute little straws. I saw a straw shaped like a heart once.”

Leon leads you to the coat racks. You gesture to the tailored overcoat on the far end. Leon leans you against the wall while he grabs your coat. His hand grazes your shoulders and back as he helps you put it on. You shiver under his touch, and he has to restrain himself from lingering.

“We should at least tell your colleagues you’re leaving.” He offers.

“I told them I was going with you.” You say as if your words didn’t flip the entire conversation on its head. “Didn’t know it would end like this, though. New rule of thumb: if your handsome co-worker accidentally makes you cry, he gives you a pity date.”

“It’s not a pity date.” Leon grabs the collar of your coat gently, making sure the fabric is snug around you. “And I don’t want to make you cry ever again. And, I didn’t offer the date because of that. I offered it because I wanted to. I still do. Get back to me about it tomorrow when you’re not about to throw shot glasses at me.”

You’re looking up at him with a different glint in your eyes now. Leon thinks it almost looks like a sparkle. He deems that it suits you well.

“I’m making sure you get home safely.”

“Going to walk me home?”

“Yes. Knight in shining armour, remember?”

You two-step out of the bar. The icy air bites at Leon’s cheeks. He sees you flush because of the night breeze. He offers his arm. You raise your hand and loop it around his arm. You shuffle closer to him. He hopes that at least some of his warmth comforts you.

“I don’t remember telling you my address, Leon.” You giggle, but there’s a slight tone of challenge in your voice.

“It was in your employee file,” Leon answers while his free hand scratches at his neck. “Marston gave it to me.”

You two walk down the busy road in tandem. It feels as if the moving crowd is just background noise. Leon hears none of the buzzing people. For once, the outside world is not a threat, at least for now.

“Of course she did.” You grumble before laying your head on Leon’s shoulder again.

+++

Somewhere in Washington, D.C., May 19th, 2013.

A red-brick stone flat building stands moderately tall. Ivy creeps up its facade; it consists of four stories, like it’s been claiming the building for decades. Maybe longer than Leon can imagine.

There’s a strange feeling of intimidation pressing down on his chest. The street outside is sparse of passers-by, considering the rain. Lucky for him, Leon is kept warm inside his car. He shifts in the leather seat. An expensive seat.

His eyes wander around the visible block. There’s a couple, one’s clutching a dog in their hands, collar forgotten. The other—from the flats’ entrance—is beckoning their partner to rush in the door. There’s a melodic sense of normalcy to them. The feeling from before becomes heavier.

Leon shifts his gaze away from them. He grabs his phone, checking the time for the fifth time this minute.

9:47 AM. You said you’d be ready around the 45-minute mark, but he showed up at 9:30 just to be sure. He had forgotten how long those few minutes can stretch into forever. Twelve minutes, for him specifically, is too long to be spending without seeing you walk out of that door. He thinks maybe you’re planning on rescheduling this wedding outfit shopping day. Leon wouldn’t complain. It is raining.

He knows you hate the rain. Especially when it gets your clothes wet and shoes dirty. You told him that one time when he visited your office. You were hunched over in your chair, wet wipes in hand, as you complained about your ‘poor loafers.’

At least he’s got an excuse to take you wherever you want now. He double-checks the passenger seat again—the seatbelt is secured, the glove box is empty if you want to put something in it, and the car has been cleaned just a few days ago.

Leon checks the time again. His phone screen lights up, flashing 9:50 in front of him. Only three minutes. He leans on the head restraint with a nervous sigh.

Movement catches his attention from the corner of his eye. He hears a string of curses from a figure in front of your flat’s entrance before he realizes the person is you. You’re struggling with closing the door while balancing an umbrella and clutching a bag with its sling.

Leon exits from his car.

You turn at the sound. “Oh, Leon!” Your previous demeanour changes in an instant, it makes him hesitant in his steps. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you wait. It’s been such a hectic morning.”

“No, I just arrived.” Leon offers to grab the umbrella from your hand. He opens it, tipping it mostly towards you. “Twenty minutes is nothing.”

“You’ve been here for almost half an hour already?!” You snap your gaze away from the closed door and stare at him with your mouth agape.

“Close your mouth, sweetheart.” He breaks eye contact with you first.

“You should have at least texted to let me know.” You snort. “I can’t believe I kept you waiting in the rain.”

You and Leon move towards his car, the umbrella still tipped towards you. A few rain droplets fall on his hair and coat, before hitting his face. He scrunches his nose, and you notice. You stop, grabbing his hand where it grips the umbrella with unnecessary strength. His knuckles whiten as you tilt the umbrella back to his side.

“I can’t have you getting sick.” You swallow the heavy feeling down, now aware of the proximity. “I need my plus one in perfect shape, not with a runny nose.”

“I don’t get sick,” Leon answers. “And I don’t plan on leaving you alone to fend for yourself at that wedding.”

He gestures to the passenger seat door. You offer to grab the umbrella, but he shakes his head. You raise a brow in amusement as he opens the door.

“How gentlemanly.”

“I’ve been receiving a lot of praise from you.” The corners of his lips curl in that effortlessly handsome way you’ve got used to seeing. “Is this favouritism? Thought that wasn’t allowed in your department, especially because you’re technically my superior.”

“It’s deserved, but don’t let it get to your head, Kennedy.” You look up at him from your eyelashes now, the view of him towering over you from the drizzle outside, while you’re seated inside, makes your body flush. “You’re not afraid of HR, are you?”

“No, but they’d probably come after me for kidnapping you or something from the bar last week.”

“You did usher me, drunk and distressed, away from them.” You raise a brow, the playful sarcasm seeping into your voice. “What will the people say? What a scandal. Enough for office gossip for the next few months.”

“I’d better get in the car, or I think you’re keeping me talking out here to actually get me sick.” Leon closes the door with a smile.

You settle into your seat, leaning towards the driver’s spot. Your eyes follow him as he strides in a few steps from the side of the car to his seat. He opens the door and gets in, handing you the umbrella to put in its sleeve.

“I’d imagine you being sick is probably the only time you’d let yourself have a break day.” You quip, turning to face him.

He looks behind the car, one hand on the passenger seat and the other on the steering wheel. “I get enough rest.”

“I worry.” The words leave your mouth before you can even rephrase them. “Sometimes, I mean.”

Leon stays quiet as he reverses the car. You try to figure out what thoughts are swirling behind his eyes. They are dim with a light you haven’t seen before. Not entirely a bad surprise. It only now dawns on you what kind of situation you’re in. How special and rare it is.

You’ve never seen Leon outside the office. Conversations between you two about the normal things, such as the weather and shopping, were sparse. And now here you are—talking about getting sick, as if you’ll see a red-nosed Leon nursing herbal tea.

Or something even more ridiculously tasting of normalcy—a luxury you both have been robbed of because of the job, you making that said tea.

“I know you do.” Leon finally speaks. “I’ve always come back in one piece, haven’t I?”

“Barely.”

“I’ve got you there to keep my head on a swivel. You never let me get cocky.” He says over the engine’s hum.

“You’re already too cocky.” Your voice came out soft, directed at the windscreen instead of him.

Leon doesn’t respond immediately. The rain patters against the windscreen in a steady rhythm. He focuses on the road ahead, navigating the wet streets with the kind of precision he brings to everything. You watch the city blur past, the nervous energy from the morning slowly settling into something else.

Twenty minutes later, Leon pulls into the parking garage of a boutique in Georgetown. The transition is almost jarring—from the intimacy of the car to the fluorescent brightness of the structure.

This is real now.

The font above the boutiques entrance loops beautifully in cursive as it reads Sage & Stone. Velvet cream curtains cover the large windows, lacy bows scrunching the fabric at the edges. Only a few mannequins can be seen from outside—all of them wearing something viscose and charmeuse.

“I didn’t even know there was a boutique here.” Leon’s the first one to break the silence.

You turn your gaze back to him. “It’s a gem, truly. Not a lot of people know about it. Good for us, though.” A smirk appears on your lips, and Leon’s shoulders fall at the sight. “We’ll be the most eye-catching pair there.”

You’re already out of the car while Leon is slowly catching up. He’s still thinking about the word pair. The reality of the situation finally sets in. You two are walking into a boutique he’s never seen, about to buy clothes for an event he didn’t think he’d get a chance to visit with you.

The large glass doors open at the push of his hand. He gestures for you to go in first, and you tilt your head slightly at him, a playful smile playing on your lips. He tries to picture that in his mind forever.

“You sound like you’ve already thought about what we’re going to wear.” Leon stays a step behind you, his eyes wandering around the building. “I do have tuxedos back at home.”

“Ah, yes.” You keep your attention on the few mannequins standing next to the hangers. There are silk dresses along with velvet suits with embroidery around the room. “Your boring black and white suits. The dress code is semiformal, cocktail attire. Have a little fun, Leon.”

Leon raises a single brow at your words, but a smile plays at his lips anyway. He follows your gaze to the hangers, wondering what you have in mind.

“I’m starting to feel a bit intimidated.”

“You should.” You nod your head at him. “I will not let you out of this building until we find you a perfect suit.”

“And you, as well. Or this will be just unfair.”

“You’ll get to see me in silk, Leon.” You throw him a faint wink over your shoulder, and he feels his heartbeat quicken. “Don’t worry your little head over it.”

A sales associate approaches, sensing your purpose. You take charge immediately—pointing to the forest green patterned pieces, the silk charmeuse, the tailored jackets. Leon watches you move through the racks with such certainty, such confidence, that he realizes—you know exactly what you want. And you know what you want for him, too.

You pull a sage green blazer from a hanger, turning to Leon. “This. Try this.”

Leon takes it without argument. Your fingers brush as the fabric exchanges hands. His hand moves more slowly, trying to lengthen the moment. Your eyes find his, a silent question in them. The moment slowly dissipates as you gesture to the changing room.

“Go on.” You instruct, already three steps ahead. “You try on the suit while I find those cream trousers I saw from the window. It’ll bring out your complexion.”

“You’ve already planned all of this out, huh?” Leon stands in front of the changing room, one hand already parting the curtains and the other gently holding the blazer.

“What makes you say that?” You tilt your head at him, feigning confusion.

“I was thinking we’d start with your outfit first.”

“Oh, for god’s sake.” You murmur, fingers trailing his blazer’s fabric as you take one step closer to him. “For once, let someone else treat you. I’ll pick something out, and you tell me what you think. But first, I want to see your outfit.”

“Alright, alright.” Leon manages, watching you move away from him.

The sales associate returns, the cream trousers in their hands. You pick it up, hand grazing the intricate embroidery.

That’s probably expensive, he thinks.

“I hope you know I plan on treating you today, not the other way around,” Leon says, eyes on anything but you.

“I get paid more than you.” You call over your shoulder. “Being your superior and all. So indulge me, please.”

Oh, he’d indulge in you. But he wanted to start this morning off with you having time to dress up, have fun and finally get the worry of the wedding off your shoulders.

“I’m still paying for your outfit.”

“Then I’ll pay for your blazer and trousers.” You turn, sticking out your tongue at him.

“Mature.” Leon laughs as he takes the trousers from you. He wonders how many times he can get away with his fingers brushing against yours.

He steps into the dressing room. You lose sight of him and fall into a state of impatience not even a second later. You could take a seat and wait for him to come out. Or you could try to find an outfit for yourself. Truth be told, you’d been imagining how he would look dressed up more than you have kept yourself in mind.

“You truly have a special style.” Leon’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

“Are you done already?” You get up from your seat, wondering how the time passes so quickly.

He steps out. The blazer is tailored, fitted through the shoulders, structured but elegant. The cream trousers are well-fitted, hitting at the ankle with a clean break. The sage green and cream complement his complexion in a way you haven’t seen in any other piece of his clothes. You swallow, trying to compose yourself.

Leon smooths down the blazer. He looks as if he feels out of place. It only lasts for a second before he pushes the foreign feeling down and settles into the outfit.

“Cat got your tongue?” He quips, his hands pulling at his collar.

“Don’t get too cocky again.” You take a step near him, hands moving to his collar to fix it. “Or as you said, I’ll have to humble you.”

You move the fabric a bit loose. You can feel the unsteady rise of his chest right below your hands. Not only that, but you wonder if he can feel the quickened beat of your heart, too.

“Thank you.” Leon’s voice comes out carefully. “Your choice is,” he tries to find the right words, “just right.”

“Not ‘just fine’?”

“Never ‘just fine’.”

You take a step back, only now realizing how close you two were. Leon coughs, hand grazing his chin before falling to grip the blazer again.

“What about you?” He questions, eyes trailing over the many hangers around the room. “You must have planned something for yourself.”

“I am ever so thorough.” You nod your head at him before gesturing to the closest clothes rack to your right.

A forest green patterned suit hangs from it. It stands out from the other pieces of clothing with its damask embroidery. The colour matches his, but only your green is richer and deeper. It contracts his blazer more than it matches it. He can imagine how eye-catching you will be, and he’ll be right by your side.

“Try it on.” His hand finds your arm.

“I—” you look from the suit to him, “I already know what it’s like. It’s not a big deal. I know this is all over the top. You didn’t even need to tag along. I appreciate it, and I don’t want to bother you further by watching me try it on—well, not while trying it on. You’ll see me after I’ve finished putting it on—”

“You’re spiralling, sweetheart.” Leon’s hold on your arm becomes even firmer. It serves to ground you.

You let out a sigh.

“I can be picky about outfits, you know.”

“But you like this one.” He smiles at you, and you feel your body flush. “I want to see it, come on.”

“Alright.” You finally relent.

“I’ll hand off the blazer and trousers after changing. By that time you’ll be done, and I’m sure you’ll look—”

“‘Just fine’?”

“—Beautiful.”

Your eyes widen. His hand on your arm feels hotter through the fabric of your clothes. For a moment, it feels like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. You cough, and Leon moves to clear the way to the changing rooms.

The sales associate returns. They hand you the suit with a faint smile before they rush off to gather bags for the purchase.

This is going far better than you imagined. The usual tension you see in Leon’s shoulders seems to disappear and is replaced with something casual. Almost domestic. You don’t want to fool yourself into thinking that this is more than it is, but you can’t help but cling to the image of him in this state.

You disappear from Leon’s line of sight as you pull back the curtain. A few minutes pass. He’s been pacing back and forth—sometimes catching onto your voice carrying through the curtain, and other times talking to the sales associate about charging his card for your suit as well, along with his, which is already in a far too fancy bag with a bow. Sage & Stone is written in golden cursive font across the bag’s ivory colour.

Leon hears the curtain move and snaps his head in your direction. You step out of the changing room hesitantly. There’s a different demeanour to you now, one of nervousness. As if you’re wondering a bit too much about how you look when he wishes he could tell you over and over again how you look otherworldly.

“So,” you start, voice a bit unsteady, “what do you think?”

You stand in front of the ivory curtain. The colour of your suit is deep green with baroque-like details woven into the fabric. The trousers are long and elegant, hitting perfectly at the shoe. The pattern catches the light. The silhouette is confident.

“It looks perfect.” He takes a step closer to you, and your spine straightens by instinct. “You look perfect.”

You step closer, searching his face for honesty. Leon doesn’t flinch. He holds your gaze steady.

“You’re sure?” Your voice comes out small.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

The words land differently than he probably intended. You both feel it. The sales associate reappears with the ivory bags, golden cursive gleaming, and the moment breaks.

“We’ll take both,” Leon says before you can protest. His card is already out.

Twenty minutes later, you’re walking out of Sage & Stone with matching bags—sage and forest green coordinated without planning. Leon carries both, and you don’t argue this time. Outside, the rain has stopped and Georgetown glitters.

You’re thinking about the wedding. About walking in together. About how Leon looked at you in that suit, like you were the only person in the world.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For today.”

Leon turns the key. The engine hums to life.

“Anytime, sweetheart.”

And he means the entirety of it.

⋆.˚ authors notes: well my fingers hurt. this was supposed to be a single one-shot about leon being reader’s fake date, but i planned way too many scenes and there were alot of emotional beats i wanted to represent. part to will contain the wedding scenes. i want to thank my two mutuals ari and jo for witnessing my descend into madness as i wrote all of this.

⋆.˚ taglist: @yuunarii-arii @coffeelovingreader @princeintheshadow

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