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@fizz-writes
okay let's actually do this properly
Where do you write your fics/stories
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instant connection .ᐟ.ᐟ
di!leon x reader - long-distance relationship - part 1
next part
leon's a liar.
he doesn't mean to be. he tells you he works in security because it's easier than explaining the shitshow that is the DSO. you'll ghost him in a few messages anyway - and if you don't, he'll do the honors.
leon. 6'0''. works in security at no. undecided on kids. doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, long-term relationship, open to short. his first picture is of him throwing a peace sign to the camera, hair immaculate. (he'd had to crop out the hideous monster, a writhing mass of flesh and teeth, and now bullets. leon had realized very quickly that most of his selfies were ones he sent to hunnigan and ranged from drowned cat couture, 'forgot my umbrella today' to 'i'll help you train if you want to be a field agent, you're missing out', encouragement in the same frame as his latest monstrosity.)
the only thing completely true on his profile is his name and his status as a non-smoker and newly minted teetotaler. (according to his sobriety chip, he hasn't touched a drink in eight months. he keeps it in the same pocket he used to stash his flask in.) he's probably six foot in his shoes, he figures. that's only a half lie. 'undecided' should be 'unlikely', but that hadn't been an option in the drop down menu. his therapist says he needs to keep himself open to happiness, not to hold his dreams under water and drown them the moment he dares to have hope. it sounds kind of like bullshit, but undecided is the closest he's letting himself get to optimism for the time being. it's the same deal with long-term, open to short - blind optimism undercut by what he knows life has in store for him.
companionship isn't in the cards for him, not in any meaningful way, and that's fine. you get used to it after a while. it dulls out, gets hazy, only really creeps in on lazy weekends when he leaves the window cracked, swept in on sweet-smelling spring breezes.
it's one of those days when he opens his dating app to review his scant few likes. he clears the cobwebs from his profile only often enough to keep it active (there's that hope again). activity was few and far between, usually saved up to have claire or hunnigan go through his options and point out red flags that he would gladly sail right past - but that day, a cavern had opened in his chest. he only knew how to fill it with validation.
you were half-way across the goddamn country. you'd probably liked him weeks ago when you were passing through. seemed like a safe enough bet. more than likely, you'd never respond. even if you did, this would never work out. the distance was crazy.
so of course he messages you.
all right, what's wrong with you?
kind of a weird thing to say to a stranger, but you take it in stride and turn the question back on him when you respond an hour and a half later, the notification so surprising to him that he has to reel back through your profile to see what he's actually dealing with.
the distance makes it safe. there's a buffer between you. unspoken, mutual understanding that this is impractical and a waste of time.
the messages get more frequent. the stilted conversation melted to daily updates, and he'd exchanged phone numbers with you out of convenience. the app was a pain in the ass. he didn't want to get guff for being on a dating app during work hours, but texts were easily hand-waved. daily pictures escalated to weekly calls, which mutated into scheduled movie nights. there were a host of classics he needed to show you. his contribution to society was making one more person culturally conscious of leon s. kennedy's greatest hits.
leon remembers exactly where he was when you'd sleepily confessed that you weren't talking to anyone else. posted up in a hotel in belgium, getting ready for his operation. it was the middle of the night for you. the day loomed ahead of him, loaded with hostility and viscera. you were half asleep. he could have told you anything and you would have hummed and forgot it, nestled into your pillow. he tells you the truth instead, that he'd deleted the app you'd met on, that you're the only one he's talking to as well. it's the closest to commitment he can do and you take that promise to your dreams.
since then, he warns you when he'll be away for a 'business conference', unlikely to respond.
(conference sucked, he messages you from his hospital bed. he's fresh off assignment chest wrapped tight in bandages. he'll be out in a few hours. nothing serious. part of him aches to reassure you about something you didn't even know you had to worry about. execs tried to eat me alive out there.)
leon realizes he's fucked when he pays more attention to you, pinned to the top right corner of his laptop, than the cheesy horror-comedy you'd picked out for movie night. one hand itches for the bottle and the other itches for you, imagining what it would feel like with your weight dipping the mattress next to him, how his hand might fit against the arc of your hip - the movie on the big screen, not his laptop, still ignored in favor of watching you.
"are you even paying attention?" your voice crackles over the speaker, competing with the honking of a clown nose. he's lost the plot of the movie, doesn't quite understand where all the clowns came from (outer space, he thinks, but that would be ridiculous). he's too busy replaying your voice in his head, imagining it slower, sleepier, pressed into his shoulder.
"yeah, of course."
"uh-huh," you hum doubtfully.
you encourage him to pay attention to the next scene, pointing as if that will do anything when there's so many miles between you. something about the practical effects. he tries, honest to god, but his eyes keep drifting up to you.
he's not a monster. he waits til the movie is over to spring his stupid idea on you. leon respects the sanctity of film, the intimacy of showing your favorites with another person and the anxious hope that they'll understand the piece of you you're trying to share with them.
but he can't get the idea out of his head, and he'll make it up to you with a thorough analysis of the movie next time you have a movie date because if he doesn't say this now he's going to pussy out.
"listen, i was thinking," he ruminates, taking his time to chew his words. plenty of time to back out. leon's grown good at identifying what sort of anxiety is brewing in his gut - perks of the job - and he knows he'll kick himself if he back out now.
"that's rare."
"hilarious. i'm serious, i've been thinking. i've got some time off built up. if i don't use it by the end of the year, they don't pay it out. company's a bunch of cheap asses."
he's talking in circles and you've already reached the ending. he leans a little closer to the screen, hopes the look in your eye is glee and not fear.
"so..." leon trails off. plenty of room to back out. if you don't grasp this he'll just ask for travel tips and lick his wounds somewhere warm and tropical.
but you don't offer that. you sit up a little straighter. he swears that's a smile that you're fighting to keep down. "so...how soon are you thinking?"
casual. nice.
"as soon as possible." less casual. shit. "i was thinking a week. is that--?"
"that's great. can you let me know the dates?"
"yeah. yeah, of course."
this is going too well. too smoothly.
leon takes a breath, combs his fingers through his hair.
"we are talking about me coming to visit, right?"
you laugh at him. he's never been so happy to be laughed at.
"yeah, leon. you're coming to visit."
"just making sure."
it's impractical. it's unlikely. his therapist is going to have a field day next session. he still hasn't figured out what to do when you find out that 'security' had been a very misleading description of his work, or when you figure out that he's only 5'10'' on a good day. none of it is fair to you, he realizes, but booking his flight is his first step in trying to do right by you.
"i'll pick you up from the airport," you insist.
"i want a sign with my name on it."
"i'll put 'kennedy' on it and wear a suit and sunglasses so people think you're a big deal."
"i kind of am a big deal."
you roll your eyes. "oh, my mistake."
if only you knew that was the truth.
dividers from @/adornedwithlight
Venomous // NSFW Leon Kennedy x fem! reader
Summary: An attack during an attack leaves Leon injured and increasingly delirious. After extraction, he’s whisked away, and nobody’s fucking telling you what’s going on. Finally, you get a phone call. It changes everything.
WC: ~5k
CW: NSFW, like REALLY NSFW, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, Leon is injured, fuck or die, sex pollen, sex venom, shaky safety practices, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, first time (together), handjob, unprotected p in v, creampies, multiple orgasms (Leon), he's a hopeless romantic at heart
Notes: MINORS DNI
“You say you saw the suits.”
“Yeah, in passing.”
“You didn’t think they were important?”
“It’s a fucking lab. Labs are rife with hazmat suits. We’ve never had to equip them before.”
“There were warnings posted all over the exit.”
“There were zombies all up on our ass.”
The splattering offspray from Leon’s last-minute shot paints your back like a gory Jackson Pollock. The infected hits the floor, tripping two more.
It would be more helpful if there weren’t about a thousand of them closing in.
You’re running side by side with Leon, shoes eating up the sterile white floors, trying to divine an exit through the branching arteries of the lab. He has to veto a turn into a side hall when more shambling figures lunge forward; he grabs your arm to tug you away with him, but it’s an unnecessary precaution. You’ve already matched his footwork.
He glances behind as you run.
“Where the fuck are they coming from?”
You’d like to fucking know.
“And why are they all runners?”
You’ve dealt with your fair share of speed-boosted infected; limbs windmilling, clawing and careening, all bursting energy and no finesse.
These aren’t blisterheads. They have stamina. They’re keeping up.
You twist and shoot one whose fingers are uncomfortably close to swiping the back of Leon’s shirt. The nearby white paneled wall goes bright, splotchy red.
“Intel’s getting a new one ripped if we make it out of this,” you pant, breath dry and ragged in your throat. Your lungs are burning.
“We’re making it out,” Leon tells you. Conclusive, no room for argument. He dodges left, hand once again grazing your arm to pull you with, but you’re already there, a perfect shadow.
This hall is wider, brightly lit with glass cases set in between the wall panels.
You’ve only got eyes on one thing as you run.
EXIT
It’s a final sprint.
You grit your teeth, breath loud in your ears, arms and legs pumping hard, trying to build a gap that allows for a sudden smack into the double doors, a loss of momentum and reversal of motion to slam the barrier closed.
‘Slam’ turns out to be optimistic. It’s a hydraulic close. Glacially fucking slow.
“Fuck! Force it!”
You almost bash heads with Leon, throwing your combined weight against the doors as the calamitous wall of infected catch up, arms reaching through the diminishing gap, scratching and clawing at you.
With a roar of effort, the doors finally give way under pressure and close with a crunch. An arm, hand, and various fingers fall onto the concrete.
“Bar it! Bar it!” Leon’s braced against both doors, his body a wedge, jarred by the furious thumping from the other side.
There are massive pneumatic rod locks on either side of the door. The control panel is dark.
“There’s no power!”
“You’re armed!”
Oh, right.
BANG T-SHUNK
Smoke curls from the barrel of your gun. The blasted hole in the control panel sparks weakly, fizzes, then goes dark.
Leon pushes away from the secured doors, rubbing at his ear. Your head’s ringing like a struck bell and you’d been back at arm’s length, not parallel with the barrel.
“Say something?”
“Something.”
“Yeah, can’t hear shit.”
"You only look like it.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
He’s flipping you off.
You grab it like a pinky promise, linking middle fingers, and he rolls his eyes.
“Alright. Let’s bounce,” you say.
He pulls you back. Urgent, abrupt. It bumps you against him.
“Wait.”
You’re in a greenhouse.
Rows and rows of lush, overgrown plants stretch unfamiliar leaves towards a glass-paneled sky. The walkways between rows are made of industrial metal grating, a stale funk rising from the darkness underneath.
No breeze is stirring the air. The back of your neck starts prickling; your animal brain tugging on your metaphorical hem and pointing.
The plants are rustling lightly.
Leon half-turns his head towards you, keeping his eyes on the jungle ahead.
“What’s the sitrep on the door?”
It’s still thumping against the locks, battered by the relentless undead. You glance at the panel you’d shot, burst and gutted, the wall above it blackened.
“Fucked.”
“Other doors?”
It’s just wall. Wall, and wall, and wall, smooth and inhospitable.
“Negative.”
“How long can you hold your breath?”
“I don’t think that’s the concern.”
You’re playing back the last hallway. White walls broken by glass panels, streaking by as you run. Behind every glass panel, a bright orange suit, thick like leather.
Bite-proof.
“Fuck.”
“So you tried to bypass it underground.”
“So we tried to bypass it underground,” you confirm. You watch the man nod, taking notes. He’s a leftie.
“Good thinking.”
“Yeah, well. Apparently not.”
The metal grating isn’t light. Thankfully, you and Leon aren’t weak.
The daylight sits like oil on top of water, only greasing weakly off of the reflective metal of more walkways below; descending levels disappearing into the dark.
“Oh, good. Can’t see the bottom.”
“Endless possibilities,” Leon says. “Cover me.”
The first level is an eight foot drop. Leon swings his legs into the gap, scoots forward, and eases himself down slowly, like he’s waiting for something to file a violent complaint. When nothing does, he drops onto the walkway, the metal clanging despite his rubber soles.
He shines his flashlight forward.
“Ugh.”
“What?”
“Love what they’ve done with the space.” He pockets the flashlight, reaching up to you. “It’s a charm you have to see in person.”
His hands are firm on your sides, your shirt riding up a little as he supports you down onto the platform with him. He absently fixes your rucked hem as you shine your flashlight into the gloom.
“Ugh,” you agree.
Roots.
Long, white, spidery roots hang from the ceiling in lengthy clumps and bundles, like massive, cobwebby chandeliers.
Leon’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing.
“Hey. Look.”
He steps forward, reaching into the nearest nest of gauzy filaments. He pulls his hand out, fingers curled around a narrow, dark plastic tube.
You come closer with the flashlight.
The dark color is red.
“It’s warm,” Leon adds, horribly.
The tube snakes off into the darkness below. You point your flashlight down and catch a glint off of something flat, circular, and shiny.
Leon’s separating more tubes from the leggy mass of roots. Only the one is red, but the others don’t look any less… organic.
“God. Which way do you think they run?”
He glances at you. “Three guesses.”
“Plants don’t bleed red.”
“Not typically.”
You share a resigned look, then he brushes past you, face set.
You turn to find him making quick work of the stairs down to the lower levels, hand on his gun.
You check your pistol's chamber and follow.
“A line of tanks.”
“Life support tanks, yes. Dozens.”
“Which way were the tubes running?”
“Both ways.”
“So…”
“The tanks were feeding the plants, and the plants were feeding the tanks.”
“Life support, you said. So there were … humans? Inside the tanks?”
“Yeah,” you say, looking away. “Used to be.”
There’s a thick film of slime on the tank, like growing snot. Your flashlight can’t make out anything coherent inside.
Leon shines his flashlight down the row; cylinder after cylinder, standing like a row of human-sized batteries, all mucky with slime and tickled by the trailing ends of roots from the massive bundles overhead.
Somewhere ahead, a steady dripping, echoing. You don’t appreciate the cliche.
“When was the initial outbreak?” Now that you’re on solid ground, your voice seems to suck right into the floor.
“All the lab logs and entries stop around six months ago.”
“So no one’s been down here for half a year.”
“Yeah.”
Leon shares a long look with you, mouth tight. Then, hesitant, he wipes a window through the muck on the nearest tank.
The beam of his flashlight illuminates the chamber. You can see a vague shadow suspended inside, like a bug in rough, raw amber.
He steps back, jaw tight.
“Dare I even ask?”
He shakes his head. “It’ll put you off soup.”
You shine your flashlight upwards; the root balls catch it and glow, high overhead.
“What was so wrong with good ol’ hydroponics?”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Leon says, heading off down the line of tanks.
“Twist my arm.”
“You didn't see it?”
“It was behind one of the tanks. In the dark.”
“You didn't hear it?”
“It was a little noisy at the time,” you say, annoyed.
Third tank from the last, everything goes spectacularly tits up.
Glass shatters outward, slimy and wet as it ricochets off your defensively raised arms. The body in the tank falls forward and swipes for Leon’s legs.
It’s not like the infected you’re used to, desiccated and dry as jerky.
This one is wet. This one is dissolving, skin sloughing from muscle sloughing from bone. Entrails spill from its body cavity, slippery, spreading across the hoary concrete as the disgusting thing writhes for a claim on your partner’s ankle.
Leon stumbles out of reach, gun aiming at the mucky skull. It explodes like a sixpack in a hot car and you’re shouting, ducking behind your arm again—
That’s when the other thing strikes.
Leon shouts in pain and tries to tear free. The pale, rubbery thing keeps hold of his shoulder like an overexcited dog with a rope toy.
“Leon!”
It’s too close to his head and he’s thrashing, you don’t have a clear shot. Something glints in the shadows behind his hip.
The hatchet. He’s already grabbed it.
A roar, a swing, the song of a sharp blade slicing clean through something organic.
The pale thing hits the ground with a sound like a rotting squash, the vine swinging empty into the darkness behind the tanks.
Leon falls to one knee with a grunt, the hatchet clattering onto the concrete.
“Leon! Leon,” you’re touching his back, crouching down with him. He’s breathing hard through his nose, clutching his shoulder. The fabric is darkening under his hand.
“Let me see. Leon.”
You shove his hand clear, unzipping his collar and yanking it aside.
His skin is patterned with circular rows of bleeding dashes. Lots of them.
“What the fuck.”
The pale, rubbery thing lies flaccid on the floor behind Leon. At first glance, it looks like a starfish collapsed on itself.
At second glance, you start to see the teeth, fine and triangular, in diminishing rows like a shark.
Pink with blood.
“Shit. Hey.”
Leon’s still on one knee, head down. You push his hair back, leaving a bloody streak on his skin, and tip his face up. There’s sweat on his forehead.
It takes him a moment to focus on you.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
He grunts. His pupils are a little too big, even for the dim lighting, and they’re not reacting right when you pass your flashlight closer.
You’re trying not to panic.
“Can you get up? Can you walk?”
He lets you haul him to his feet but shoves you off when you go to duck under his arm. You don’t take offense; it’s a good sign. He’s steady enough on his own.
“Grab that,” he tells you, voice rough. He’s holding his shoulder again, pointing down at the beheaded plant. You pick it up by the little stem of vine, grab his hatchet, and follow him close, ascending fast while he calls for extraction.
You don’t wait for your debrief to finish writing.
“What did the labs say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What did Medical say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What, with a potato? Where's the sense of urgency, here?”
“At last report, Mr. Kennedy was stable,” he says, capping his pen.
“He was half delirious coming off that chopper!”
“They’ve determined he’s in no immediate danger.”
“How can they know if they’re still running fucking tests?”
You get your name in an admonishing tone. You stand up, your chair screeching against the floor.
“I wanna see him.”
“He’s in precautionary isolation.”
“I was exposed to the same bullshit he was. I wanna see him.”
“You weren't bitten.”
“What, you think he’s gonna bite me?”
Your debrief just looks back at you, calm and level, his hands folded prim over the closed folder containing your account of the whole goddamn shit-spackled mission.
“He’s in precautionary isolation,” he repeats.
Your teeth grind, a muscle in your jaw jumping.
“Are we done here?”
“Yes. You are free to go.”
Medical stops you at the door. They aren’t fooled by your purposeful stride, your bored but intent expression. They hook your arm and yank you away like it’s goddamn Looney Tunes.
“We were told you might try that.”
Fucking debrief.
So now you’re sitting at home, dialing the Medical desk every fifteen minutes, certain from the complete non-activity of the past four hours that they’ve filtered your number as spam.
Assholes.
You should go to bed. Medical’s kept you both alive thus far, through hell and high water. Leon’s in good hands. Stable. No immediate danger, they said.
You rotate your phone in your hand, over and over. Upside-down, rightside-up. Staring at nothing.
You call the labs.
Some poor idiot actually picks up.
“I-I-I can’t give you that information,” he stammers, when you demand an update on Leon. On the biting plant. On fucking anything.
“I’m his partner! I was ground zero when it happened!”
“I-I can’t verify that over the phone.”
“Then I’m coming in,” you say, prim. You hang up on more panicked stammering, tossing your phone aside on the couch.
You’ve barely made it to your feet when your phone starts ringing.
Incoming Call Leonnedy
You stub your toe on the couch in your scramble to pick up.
“Leon! Are you okay?”
Immediately you can tell he’s not.
“I need help,” he says. Croaks.
Cold sweat breaks on your skin.
“Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“I’m… I can’t…” He gasps.
You’re a whirl of activity. You’re grabbing your wallet, your keys, pulling a jacket on over your pajamas. There’s no fucking time to change.
“Leon, where are you.”
“Home.”
“What?” You stop cold in your mad dashing, gripping the phone too hard. “They sent you home like this?”
“They said I could take care of it.”
“Take care of what? They won’t tell me fucking anything, Leon–“
He groans through clenched teeth and oh boy, Medical’s gonna find out just how creative you can be when it comes to revenge. You shove your feet ungracefully into some shoes and grab for the door handle.
“The venom,” Leon’s panting in your ear, and then he gets to the zinger. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
You feel it like lightning, a surge throughout your entire body. Your visual of his situation, based on the noises he’s making, takes a dramatic turn.
“Leon.”
“It’s been six goddamn hours,” he grits out.
“Jesus christ, can’t you just–”
“I’ve tried,” he says. “I’m just goddamn edging myself.”
“Did you call Medical? There’s gotta be something they can–”
“Fucking useless,” Leon says, confirming your hypothesis. “They told me to hire an escort.”
“What?”
“I’m not— fuck— fucking doing that.”
You thump your forehead against your front door, your grip on the doorknob tight enough to crush.
“Leon, if you… there’s no shame. They’re professio–”
“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t…” He breaks off, breath hissing through his teeth, and then fails to elaborate.
That’s alright; you’ve got a pressing question.
“Why’d you call me?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. You just have to listen to him breathe like this.
Your vivid imagination is a fucking curse.
"I trust you,” he finally tells you. “I know how this… I don’t have… I trust you.”
You’re partners.
No, you’re coworkers. What he’s asking is… can he ask this? What happens to your partnership in the aftermath? Can you go back to–
“Please,” he breathes in your ear, and tops it with your name.
You wrench the door open.
Before you hang up, he gives you the code for the garage door, and fair warning.
You’re still not prepared.
As partners, you’ve seen each other in various states of undress. Usually partial. Usually because you’re bleeding somehow. Always clinical.
This doesn’t feel like the far end of the same spectrum. This feels like a g-force journey into a different dimension.
Leon’s on his couch, head back, knees wide. Taut like a bowstring.
Completely, stark, buck-ass naked.
His shoulder looks like a bisected watermelon, his skin dewy and pink, dotted with the dark little toothmarks from the venomous plant.
His chest is heaving, his hips restless.
His cock is flushed dark, painfully engorged, thick and pulsing against his stomach. There’s a wet smear on his skin; when his cock lifts, straining, it trails a sticky little string of precum.
“Christ,” you rasp, tossing your jacket aside.
He lifts his head and his eyes can barely focus on you. He looks on the verge of passing out, but he reaches out, reaches for you. You shove a bottle of lube out of the way on the couch cushions and take his outstretched hand.
“I’m here. What do you–“
“Touch,” he pants, barely coherent. “Touch me.”
And here you are in the deep end, no time to brace, no time to breathe. You’re touching him, chamois soft skin, hot and unyielding. His hips jerk on a gasp, a groan dragging from somewhere deep within as he lets his head fall back on the couch.
The hot, swooping sensation in your stomach physically bends you, punches your breath out.
You’ve never handled a dick this hard in your entire life.
You’ve maybe never handled a dick this big in your entire life. He’s long and thick, the head flared, cerise and glistening. You pass your thumb over his slit, smearing through the precum, and his stomach tautens as he pushes up into your hand, his breath rushing out hot, hissing back in. He’s desperate.
He breathes your name. His ass keeps flexing with the helpless motion of his hips and his eyes are closed, forehead knotted.
It’s intense concentration. His world narrowed down, only as wide as the circle of your fist.
Six goddamn hours.
You tighten your grip, trail your other hand up the lightly furred inside of his thigh, teasing his balls before stacking your fists and starting to pump him in a steady rhythm that answers the flex of his body.
His hand lands on your thigh, searing, his fingertips firm on your flesh and pulling. Your knee presses tighter against his leg.
He’s just grappling for a hold on something, for an anchor. His other hand is doing the same thing to the arm of the couch. You just hope he doesn’t move his hand any further to the left on you or he’s gonna find you a little too slippery to hold onto.
Fuck, you’re only goddamn human.
You jerk him faster, his hips starting to meet you in earnest, his body rolling as he chases his disobliging release.
And why couldn’t he get there himself?
What if… what if you can’t get him there, either? You don’t know anything about the venom, they’re still running tests. Maybe this is the result. Maybe he’s just… stuck like this, heightening, exacerbating, until he, what, pops?
What a fucking epitaph that would be.
No, you’re not scripting headstones. That’s not happening.
You start to twist on the upstroke, a flick of the wrist, and Leon moans loud.
“That’s it. Come on, Leon.”
His balls are tightening, drawing up, his forehead beaded with sweat, his mouth open. He’s right on the edge.
“Look at me.”
He opens his eyes, glassy as they are. You make sure he can see you, and then you bend low.
His skin is velvety soft around the firm rounds of his balls. You fit your lips to one of the shapes, touch your tongue to it, tasting the salt of him.
He cries out, thick ropes of cum hitting his chest, his stomach, spurting and spilling down his shaft, smeared by your hand as you milk him through it, relieved.
You can’t stop your breathy laugh, almost lost under his aereous groans. He just keeps going.
“A little pent up?”
He doesn’t quip back. The situation is dire.
His dick gives one last pulse, the final beads of his release dribbling down the head of his cock. You rub it away with your thumb.
There’s a very noticeable issue.
He’s still incredibly hard.
When you meet his eyes, they’re a little clearer. He’s still sunset pink and breathing hard – messy, now, too – but he can track your face better.
“Do you feel any different?”
“Fuck. Barely.”
"What if you're stuck like this?"
“Don't say that," he says. You’re still stroking him, slow, like an afterthought. He drags his hands through his damp hair, hissing when it stretches the scabs on his chewed shoulder.
"It was venom, do you need some sort of antivenom?"
He doesn’t appear to be listening. His hands grip the back of the couch, his hips rolling, cock pushing through your sticky fist.
You grab his hips and force them down.
“Leon.”
He bucks hard against you, bratty.
"You think I know?”
“Don’t give me an attitude.”
“Don’t fuckin tease me,” he snaps, unwisely.
You move fast.
A whump, a gasp, the silence of breath caught in the shadow of a predator.
His breath fans out over your face; slow, tremulous.
“I’m doing you a favor,” you remind him, low, your face inches from his. “I could just leave.”
He’s not moving, trapped under you.
You’re straddling him, your fist tight at the base of his cock.
“What do you say?”
“Fuck.”
“Leon.”
“I love you.”
It rattles you like a gunshot, strikes you and spreads.
It takes your advantage, crumples it up, and throws it in a trash compactor. And then it lights that trash compactor on fire.
“That’s not fair,” you breathe.
“Sorry,” he whispers, and kisses you.
He’s upgraded your permissions. You kiss him back, heated, and let go of your leash.
He breaks from your mouth to gasp when you sit on his hips, his hands catching your waist and gripping.
“Shit.”
“So we’ve learned that I’m not a monk,” you say, a verbal roll of the eyes.
It’s not just a few tepid inches of water in your basement. At this point, your flood’s halfway up the damn walls.
He rocks his hips, rubbing himself against the soaked fabric of your pajama shorts. You keen and pick up the motion on your own.
God, you’re aching.
“You should have said something,” he says, breathless.
“That wasn’t on the invitation.”
“Aren’t you a saint.”
“Yeah. Because when you said ‘I trust you’, I heard ‘take advantage of my compromising situation’.”
“Fair,” he says, then pulls you down to speak in your ear, his scruff a ticklish rasp against your skin. “Fuck me.”
Well don’t you make the perfect pair. He’s hard as granite and you’re wet enough to sink a dinghy.
Taking off your clothes is too much fucking bother. You just shove the wet fabric to the side.
He doesn't watch where you’re taking his cock into your body, the hot, hard length of him sliding in tight past your pussy lips.
He’s watching your face. You don’t know it until you’ve got him in to the hilt, your mouth falling open on a sigh, your forehead smoothing out as you gyrate your hips, a delicious little circle, fully seated on his lap.
"Oh my god, Leon."
He comes.
Your name is somewhere in the long groan sieved through his clenched teeth before his mouth drops open, diced breaths tumbling free as he pulses inside of you, so deep, so hot and thick.
He’s still looking directly at you.
You watch his eyes clear just a little more; sharpening, focusing. Smoke becoming a mist.
“Can I tease you about premature ejaculation.”
“No.” He starts unbuttoning your pajama top. The fabric is wrinkled at your sides where he’d been gripping, almost hard enough to bruise.
“Why, because you’re still hard?” He is, but it’s different. You couldn’t bend steel around him anymore.
“Yeah,” he says simply, and grips your open collar, pulling you down into a kiss.
You arch your back, easing him to just the tip, bottoming him out again, cycling his affected breath through your own lungs. He runs his hands down your chest, grazing your nipples, his tongue reaching into your mouth to taste your sigh.
His hips press up into you, lifting you, a gentle swell. You ride it; start to rock your hips.
The fabric of your shirt whispers down your arms, chased by the skim of Leon’s palms. Goosebumps raise on your skin.
You brace your arms on the back of the couch, riding him faster. He trails his lips down the column of your neck, his scruff a pleasant scratch, his humid breaths printing your skin.
He runs the fan of his fingers over your nipples.
“Leon.”
“Lean back,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me see you.”
You sit back on his hips, brushing your hands over the caps of his knees. He scratches lightly down the flex of your thighs as you start slapping down on him harder, dropping your head back, gasping.
“Fuck, gorgeous, just like that.”
“God, Leon.”
Your thighs are burning. He starts meeting you, hips snapping, and you look down.
It almost does you in.
Those broad shoulders, that flushed chest. Muscles rolling and bunching under his glistening skin. Hair sticking to his forehead, wet pink lips, blown eyes hooded, watching you, too.
His hands fall to your hips and he growls, fingers bunching in your pajama shorts. Feral. Like he’s going to tear them.
He hooks his arm around your back and surges up, laying you out on the sofa. You whine when he slips out of you, but he’s lifting your hips to yank your shorts and panties down, surprisingly coordinated for the way he’s wound up.
A small part of you expects them to hit the floor with a wet slap. The rest of you is reaching for Leon, impatient, empty.
He brings your knee up, hooks your leg around his hip and pushes back in, one long thrust, his breath a humid narration. You keen, head falling back against the cushions, feeling his lips at your jaw.
He digs his arms under your shoulders, his body rocking you, fluid motions pushing and pulling as he fucks you slow, deep. You grip his back, obsessed with the animal flex of his body.
You can feel every inch of him, stroking your walls. In, out, a steady tide. You arch your back, your stomach pressing to the rippling heat of his abs.
He’s still sticky. You don’t fucking care.
“Score’s two to zero,” he tells you, breath hot against your cheek. “You gonna catch up?”
“I’m not the medical concern.”
He brings your other leg up onto his hip, adjusting. Seeking.
He finds it. You groan loud, raw, and feel him smile against your neck.
“There you are.”
Your jaw hinges open, your vision glazing over as he rubs the head of his cock against the bundle of nerves inside you. He snaps his hips, jolting a gasp out of you, then goes right back to massaging your g-spot.
“You’re not real,” you pant. He nips your skin, sharp.
“River in Egypt, sweetheart.”
You dig your heels into his glutes, pressing in like spurs, urging him faster.
“Come on, cowboy– ah!”
He pushes up onto his hands, skin slapping loud as he starts pounding into you hard and fast. You were already tightening, coil building, and he’s hit your fucking warp drive.
“Fuck, fuck, like that, Leon!”
“Shit, you better hurry,” he says through gritted teeth. His hips are stuttering, rhythm starting to fall apart.
“I told you–“
His thumb circles your clit, just one rotation, and that’s it. The bastard’s got you. Screaming, even.
You come apart beneath him, your foundation shaking, walls clenching around him, wracked by seismic waves. He gasps your name, watching you climax on his dick, then slams in deep and comes with a long, stuttering groan.
The third time, it seems, is the charm.
When his phone starts ringing, you don’t hear it at first. His head is blocking your nearest ear.
“Leon.”
“Mm.”
“Your phone.”
“Mmph.”
You shift like you’re going to try to reach for it yourself, but he’s beautifully heavy on top of you, so you don’t try very hard.
You nuzzle your face into his hair and bring your arms around him instead, closing your eyes. He hums, content.
The ringtone stops, bending to your private moment.
Five seconds later, it starts up again.
“Fuck.”
You grouse when Leon shifts up, but his reach is longer than yours and he doesn’t go far.
“Huh. Medical,” he says.
“Oh,” you say, with mock optimism.
He hits answer, settling back on top of you. You run your hand up and down his back, petting him.
“Kennedy.”
He doesn’t have his volume turned up very high. You get vague shapes of words, spoken quickly, and then Leon’s short responses, felt as much as heard, his voice thrumming through you.
“Yeah. … No. … Don’t need it. … I know. … I know. … No, I’m fine. … Sure. Bye.”
“Fucking useless,” he mutters, his phone clattering onto the coffee table. “Antivenom’s ready.”
You start giggling.
“They want me in for reassessment in the morning.”
It turns into laughter, smothered into his shoulder, and he rolls into the couch crease so he can look at you.
“What?”
“All their overtime hours,” you say. “No match for your partner’s Magical Healing Vagina.”
He laughs, a real one, his hand pulling at your hip to twist you towards him, pressing you against his body. You’re both a fucking mess, and the couch might be a write-off.
It was an emergency.
“Should get you certified,” he says. You make a skeptical noise.
“There’d be a demand.”
His arm tightens around you, minuscule. Almost imperceptible. Might’ve been completely imperceptible, if his arms weren’t so big.
“Mm. We’re sticking to best-kept-secret.”
“How selfish.”
He nuzzles your mouth with his, sharing breath.
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” you mention, to his invading tongue. He retreats and lets you speak. "Did you mean what you said, or was it just self-defense?"
"What I said?"
"Don't be obtuse.”
He brushes his lips against yours, just a snag of soft, moist skin.
"I've never lied to you," he says.
"There's a first time for everything," you say. "You're skirting the question."
He brushes your hair back, studying your face. Content to take forever, it seems.
"If it helps," you say, "I can put you back under duress."
You slide your hand to the front of his hip, laughing when he flinches away.
"Ass," he says, and rolls you onto your back again, dipping to kiss you. "Yeah. I love you."
You stroke his cheek, his stubble rasping against your fingertips. His eyes are completely clear, gaze steady looking back at you.
You don't take forever to say it. The forever you want to take is the one that opens up on the other side of it: four words, a door.
“I love you, too.”
On AO3
Y'all mind if I just give our man a bad good time real quick
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JURY’S OUT
Vendetta-Death Island!Leon x Lawyer!Reader | 17.2k
Summary: You’ve had plenty of unfortunate witnesses over the years of working for the DSO’s legal team: somehow, Leon Kennedy is the absolute worst. He listens, abides by your rules, until he knows when he can get under your skin. Leon has an exciting way of toeing the line until you break, and eventually, you figure out why.
Contents: 18+ eventual smut, second person pov, coworkers to lovers, friends to lovers, office romance, mutual pining but Leon is more pathetic about it, angst, alcoholism, romantic and sexual tension, legal inaccuracies, plot with porn, gentle romance, recovery, anxious Leon, hurt/comfort, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, Leon has a praise kink, no use of y/n
Author’s note: First published fic on here and it's SUPER not proofread so let me know if anything is wrong!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3
Leon S. Kennedy has to be the most infuriating witness you've ever had the displeasure of working with.
Which isn't exactly saying a lot. You haven’t been practicing for too long, almost ten years if you were counting, and you'd been offered the position with the DSO legal team five years into your career when you were thirty-two.
It had been a shock. You were still young in the legal world, too young to be taken seriously, but you were damn good at your job. You'd known that since you started law school.
The feeling only solidified as you'd worked with the DSO. You have handled cases that would've made other attorneys sweat, heavy with substance and not enough evidence to prove worthwhile. To be fair, you didn't exactly have a choice on what you took on and what you didn’t, but it was enough of a challenge to keep you sharp, tough, and prepared for the worst.
There were moments that tested you. Your least favorite part of the job was the coaching. The dealing with witnesses, directing what exactly to say and not to say, how to pull themselves together on the stand and not look guilty of whatever was being thrown against them made you want to rip your hair out strand by strand.
Most of the time, you control the reactions well. Field agents and HR employees are used to dealing with people who openly wanted them dead. Those who worked in Logistics, Operations, or Intelligence are not. They're the hardest to work into stoicism.
Usually, the agents are good. Most of them are too exhausted from the vice grip the world has on them to care about sentencing or lawsuits. The cynicism that hangs over them is second-nature. You’ve even requested witnesses from other agencies, and they listened to your extremely important, valuable legal advice.
Except Leon fucking Kennedy.
For some reason, Leon doesn't obey your very clear, stern rules you lay out about presentation and wording. Or maybe he likes being defiant. Maybe he is worn down by the world of bioterrorism in a way that bleeds into the very facet of his being that he doesn't feel any guilt about losing a case.
Maybe, more accurately, he just likes pressing your buttons.
Because he isn't disrespectful and insubordinate all the time. Just when he knows that your eye will twitch, and your chest rattles with a sigh deep enough for your pelvis to feel, and it makes him smirk.
When you first meet, it's in the hell that you call your office. Dark circles cling under your eyes, heavy enough to weigh on your limbs, too, from the countless late nights at the office over the last week.
I love my job, you remind yourself. You love the pliancy of it all. The fact that the crux of your world revolves around how well you can talk, how swift you think in the moment. How you can mold whatever you’re working with into a certain narrative.
At times like this, you really can’t forget how awful it is. How exhausting it is, carrying everything with you, unable to unentwine the concepts of home and work.
Whatever's in your hands is long forgotten as the knock reverberates through your office. You jump. The papers fall through your fingers and land on your desk in a heap.
Fuck. Of course you forgot. You emailed back and forth with an agent from downstairs, someone in the field. Agent Kennedy had returned from a mission three days ago, and he is already back in the office.
It's only ten o'clock, and you somehow felt like the floor was already falling out from under your feet.
“Come in,” you call out, loud enough to be heard but soft enough to where the words didn’t scrape your chest.
The hinges of your door creak open, slowly at first, a reminder that you need to send a request to Maintenance because it is driving you nuts. Every time an intern opens your office it sticks with you like nails on a chalkboard.
You hardly register standing up and smoothing your hands over your slacks, straightening the collar of your blouse like it’s a habit buried deep in your muscles.
He steps tentatively into the room, loafers first, and your breath falls short for just a moment.
You had known Leon Kennedy was an attractive man. You work in a government office: people gossip. Interns whisper, excited that they got a glimpse of the DSO legend, the golden boy who saved President Graham's daughter from Spanish occultists and apparently backflipped while doing it.
Murmurs go through departments, circulating like wildfire, until they reach your office through your coworker, Miles, who drops files by your desk with a small smirk and gives you details quickly, hushed, like he knows you'd be embarrassed to be tied in on office drama.
You knew Leon was hot. You did not know that, despite that fact, he looks so haunted.
The first thing you notice are his eyes. His light blue eyes are surrounded by deeply furrowed brows and lines that seem etched into his skin, echoes of ghosts that cling heavy on his conscience. You wonder for a second how he looked when he was younger. Did he look so angry? So exhausted? Or is that something that comes with the DSO's control of him?
He looks like he wrangles ghosts in the dead of night with willpower and occasionally a pistol.
Usually, this unnerves you. But strangely, Leon seems harmless.
Leon gives you a small smile that somewhat resembles a grimace. His eyebrow is held together with a butterfly stitch and a fading bruise lingers on his jaw. Obviously, he feels like shit. He shouldn't have even been cleared for desk duty yet with the way he's leaning to one side, like bearing the weight fully is too much.
You wouldn't notice if your whole job didn't revolve around attention to detail, but his shirt is slightly untucked and wrinkled, like he didn't have time or care to iron it. Or maybe he was too tired to do so.
He closes the door behind him and approaches your desk, steps unbelievably light considering his broad frame.
"You must be Leon." You hold out your hand, grasping his firmly, and avoid the rush of emotions that come to you when you realize how large he is. "How are you? Can I grab you anything? We have coffee, water, I think tea-"
"I'm fine," Leon replies quickly, convincingly, like the idea of being taken care of is embarrassing. Then, somewhat more gently, he says, "Thanks though."
You squint across the table at him and take a seat, hand reaching out towards your keyboard as you open a document. The agents are easy, you reminded yourself. They take everything in, too unbothered to care about sitting in court.
But his gaze is heavy on you across your desk as he scoots his chair in, and he rests his folded hands on your desk before clearing his throat.
Leon is interesting in a way you can't quite decipher. Your whole life is reading people.
You can't read him.
That fact…makes you sort of nervous.
"I'm sure you've been through this before with Miles so I'll try to be brief." you write down a couple of notes at the top of the document and narrow your eyes in his direction. "I'm surprised you're back so soon. You're healing from a hip injury."
Leon tries to hide his surprise. "Think I'm running them out of PTO."
"Right," you offer him a small smile that does nothing to hide your disagreement with his words. "Let's go over some things before I get too into this."
With a clinical clarity that you typically carried everywhere, but especially in your job, you prompt Leon to tell you, exactly, what happened in North Dakota months ago when he was on an assignment. Logically, you have all of the information you need. There's no way this guy isn't getting sentenced. But it matters how Leon views this case, how he remembers it, because the way he talks on the stand is important.
He recalls the events through furrowed brows, gaze burning a hole into your desk, hands never leaving their spot on the particle board. You never interrupt. You never do, not in the first go of the story, at least. Seeing the spots where he hesitates, where he ponders over his words, was crucial. Because you have to make sure he doesn't do that on the stand.
And there is something interesting about Leon that you don't see in other agents. He cannot hold eye contact, even though his words are clear and level, like he had somewhat rehearsed it, or maybe because he reduces all experiences in his life to terminology akin to a report.
When you think you've gotten a grasp on who he is, his tone shifts, a wall flies up in his mind, and you're back at square one.
"Listen, Agent Kennedy–"
"Leon," he says. "Please."
"Leon," you oblige him. "I'm going to be honest. You are one of the most difficult people to read I have ever encountered. I don't care. But a jury does," you lean forward in your chair and force him to meet your eyes. "Because if they can't read someone, how are they supposed to trust what they say?"
Leon tilts his head a bit, like he is caught off guard by your bluntness. "They probably shouldn't."
"Don't say that on the stand. God, that's horrible." You reach toward your keyboard and type out a couple of notes on Leon: defiant, closed-off, cynical. After consideration, you add a fourth. Sad. "The defense will take hesitation as a lack of allegiance. I don't care if you believe in your job or not. Just don't make it sound like that."
"You…" Leon churns over the words. "You're very upfront."
"I'm good at what I do." You mentally wave his discomfort away. "Go again. From the top. Be more…I don't know. Sensitive? Look like someone a jury could sympathize with."
"Am I?"
"That's up to you."
For the next hour, you give him notes, ignoring the blush that creeps up his neck when you grimace at the tone that bleeds into his testimony at times. You prepare him to answer your questions, ones that had been polished in the dim light of your living room with a horrible reality show droning on your television.
He does well enough. You dismiss him with a, "Get some rest, Leon," and a bottle of water to take to his office downstairs.
You don't think much about Leon Kennedy until the trial comes up a couple weeks later. There was too much to do. You'd figured he'd been on the stand enough times before, with his line of work surrounding breaking federal laws and shooting things.
On the morning of the trial, you look around at your team. "Martina, you okay?" You ask one of the employees you subpoena'd from Logistics. "Hang on, I'll go grab you something. You're too pale."
For most people, the courtroom is an edifice of walnut wood and anxiety, arching doorways and columns of finely-carved mahogany. For you, it's, strangely, comfort. Here, you’re completely in your element.
You slip out of the conference room where your witnesses sit huddled around a table. Your gray pantsuit is tighter than usual, the white blouse under your vest properly pressed, and you resist the urge to undo the top button as it scratches against your neck.
When you return, it is with an armful of water bottles and pockets full of granola bars. You pass them out. When Leon Kennedy grabs one from you, his fingertips brush against yours, and he gives you a small smirk that makes you narrow your eyes suspiciously.
The cut on his eyebrow had faded into a light pink scar and there is no evidence of a bruise on his jaw. He cleaned up rather nicely, too, you notice. The dark blue suit outlines his physique nicely in all the ways that matters. Leon is a large man, no hiding that, but the silhouette of the wool makes him look small enough to seem meek.
Good.
Your eyes scan over the clock on the wall. "Okay, we're starting in fifteen. I'm gonna get out there. Any questions? No? Okay."
At the time, you don't think much of the look Leon was giving you. You probably should've.
When he is called out, he does a decent enough job of answering your questions with the tone you made him practice in your office, words calculated and level, and he actually makes an effort to hold eye contact with you and at times, the jury.
It's hard to ignore the thought that he is really handsome like this, but he is. Especially when he pushes away the harsh edges to his personality that often frighten others. From what you heard.
It is when he is called out for cross examination that you begin to regret not being harsher on him.
"Agent Kennedy- sorry, can I call you Leon?" the defense attorney asks, though he wasn't expecting an answer, which is obvious by the shock on his face when Leon interrupts him.
"No, Agent Kennedy is fine."
You don't like that. Not one bit. And Leon can tell, based on the way his eyebrow raises ever so slightly in your direction.
"Okay, Agent Kennedy, let me ask you some questions about this experience in North Dakota…"
The attorney is grasping at straws. You can tell, because you've had to do it before. There isn't much for him to do besides try to claw himself out of the hole the evidence has dug, because it is so damning. You hadn't been too nervous about the outcome of this case, until right now. Because Leon's posture changes ever so slightly. He leans back in his chair, head upturned, and an easy smirk graces his lips.
"Agent Kennedy," the attorney paces, turning towards the jury intentionally. "Do you enjoy your job?"
You suck in a breath and wait for the answer, which comes without much thought.
"Not particularly, no."
"No?"
"No."
"Why do you keep doing it?"
You stand up, fingertips pressed against the desk. "Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant."
Leon gives a small, almost imperceptible, amused smirk in your direction. This is exactly the perspective you do not want to give: the cocky agent who doesn't care about his job, how he does it, or who gets hurt.
Every detail matters. The way he is sitting matters. He knows that.
The fact that the defense is grasping at straws had been a comfort when you'd already brought in four witnesses and an expert to back the DSO up. Now that Leon is practically handing the straws to them, you start to sweat.
You are pissed.
As far as you know, Leon can absolutely tell. And he is deeply amused by it.
The judge raises an eyebrow in the defense attorney's direction.
He says, "Your Honor, trust me."
"Overruled. You may proceed."
Leon sighs and gives the jury a glance that makes you want to rip him off the stand by his ear. "I… I think that it feels good doing the right thing. There's a lot of bad in this world."
A surprisingly real answer. You adjust in your seat.
"It's also nice seeing my gym membership pay off when I'm doing the right thing."
There it is. The big thing you told him not to do. Joke around. The jury gives a couple of quiet, half-hearted laughs.
You clench your jaw. Hard. It’s enough for Leon to see your disapproval.
The questioning continues, but you don't pay much attention, sometimes offering an objection to a leading question or an answer that was a non-answer. The contempt flooding through your bloodstream drowns out the proceedings.
When the defense lawyer decides he's done, Leon is escorted off the stand. He sends you a small smile as he passes by. You didn't even give him a glance.
What an incredible first impression he's made with you. You had been nice when you were in your office, when you were in the conference room before the trial. You gave him patience.
You were not going to do that again. Because you know this isn't going to be the last time that you have the misfortune of working with Leon Kennedy.
Leon's horrible performance in the cross-examination is not enough to throw the case, thank God, and the jury finds the mercenary guilty on all counts. He is sentenced to forty years in prison.
Which is so fortunate for Leon, considering if you had lost the case, he would've lost the ability to reproduce.
The next day, you storm through the halls of the DSO, footsteps heavy enough to be felt through the floor like an earthquake. Somehow your badge lets you into Field Operations, which doesn't quite make sense and frankly feels like something someone could get in trouble for, so you don't mention it to anyone. Especially since it's fueling a good purpose for you.
It isn't too hard to find his office. The DSO doesn't have too many field agents—hence why they are so extremely overworked and difficult to reach—and the majority of them are out on assignments at any given moment
The light of his office floods into the hallway, door propped and blinds open. His office is on the east side of the building—lucky bastard—meaning that he gets the sun in his office until about noon.
Even though you can see him sitting at his desk, brows furrowed at the computer, file open in front of him, you check the name on the plaque outside of his office just to be safe.
Leon S. Kennedy.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
Your voice is loud enough to make him jump, and if you weren't so infuriated, maybe you'd tease him about his lack of vigilance for being a field agent. He probably has a sidearm in the drawer of his desk, because that is weirdly allowed for him, but he doesn't keep an ear out for those walking down the hall in his department.
Leon barely looks up at you before something like a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "What?"
"Don't what me, Leon Kennedy." You march, boldly, further into his office, standing between the two chairs opposite his desk. "You know exactly what. Do you think it's fun to not listen to me?"
"Kind of, yeah."
You sharpen on him. "I'm being serious."
"So am I." He finally leans back in his chair and gives you a proper look-over. If your blood wasn't already boiling, you'd maybe flush. "You still won. I don't know what the issue is."
"You could've completely," for some reason, you look over your shoulder to make sure no one's near, "fucked that up for me."
"Do you want me to say sorry?"
"No, Leon, I want you to be sorry."
He clicks his tongue. "No can do. It was fun."
"You can't just get on the stand and say whatever you want because it amuses you. That's not how it works."
"Says who?"
Your palms come down to bear your weight on his desk. You hope the height difference intimidates him, but it only seems to further entertain him. "Says me, you dumbass. This isn't funny. This is my career."
"You're highly argumentative."
"My entire job is arguing, Leon. I hope I'd be good at it by now."
Leon interlocks his fingers over his desk. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, which isn't something scandalous enough to tempt you as it is. He tilts his head toward you, and for a moment, remorse flashes through his eye. You think it's like seeing a part of him that's real.
"Okay, fine," he utters. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
“Thank you.”
Finally getting what you wanted, you turn on your heel, feeling Leon’s eyes on you as you begin the trek out of his office.
At the last moment, Leon calls out your name, successfully grabbing your attention. “How did you have clearance to get up here?”
You stop in your tracks. Then, you turn towards him, bracing your weight on the doorframe. “Who knows. Think someone messed up. Don’t say anything, though. I like to snoop.”
He chuckles. “Have fun, hotshot.”
You want to start the fight again. Instead, you curl your lip at him, heels echoing against the tile of the office with a distinct click-clack.
The second time you work with Leon, you think it will be different.
Granted, he shows up to your meeting in a leather jacket with a horrible black box hair dye job, so you don't know exactly what you should expect.
You give him a once-over before commenting, with an extreme lack of sensitivity, “I'm pretty sure you are actively sweating whiskey right now.”
He shrugs. “Whatever.”
"Want me to comment on the hair?"
"Please don't."
Rain splatters the window of your office, making the white room somehow ever more gloomy. You had recently hung some paintings up on the walls and stuffed a cactus in the corner by your filing cabinet, though it doesn't do much to brighten up the space.
Leon is very convincing about changing and listening. He leans into your questions, plays through the scenarios, and even asks his own questions about how to hold himself.
You're…surprised.
In hindsight, he is definitely just trying to get around you interrogating him about his drinking, the dark circles under his eyes, the considerable amount of weight he has lost since you've last seen him, or the way his shoulders slump with something heavier than exhaustion.
Because somehow he already knows that, if he acknowledges it, you will prod until he breaks. And Leon cannot handle breaking in your office.
So, he plays your game. And you play his.
When the time for him to testify comes around, you maybe start to believe that it will be different.
Until he cracks a smile and says, “I mean, I don't think it's fair to call him a criminal.”
Out of the corner of his eye, you shake your head, and a laugh fueled by annoyance leaves your lips. Leon smirks slightly like he enjoys your frustration.
Luckily for him, his testimony isn't enough to sway the jury to deliver a not-guilty verdict.
When you go to work the next day, you don't barge into his office to yell at him. Which, to him, feels worse than when you did.
The DSO headquarters have a way of making you feel like you are in some sort of purgatory.
No matter how often you repeat the I love my job mantra, the feelings creep into the edge of your being, carrying a certain type of shadow you regularly attend therapy to get rid of.
The files that accumulated at the edge of your desk in the days of your absence have been about halved in the time between when you first sit down and when you stand up to get your lunch.
You’d left D.C. for a friend's wedding in the middle of last week, which meant you had three work days away from the office. Somehow, in that time, your desk managed to collect about a dozen files with information for the six cases you were juggling.
Miles is on paternity leave, which leaves you with double the amount of work you normally handle and a horrible, aching pain in your chest at the fact that you were not yet married or pregnant.
Which, frankly, doesn't make sense, as you never particularly valued those things until you turned thirty. But everyone around you is celebrating milestones, and every time you open your phone and see a new post on Facebook, you want to crawl into a hole and die.
The day is a blur and you're running out of steam. Information bleeds together. Things that usually stuck with you like cattle branding fall through the cracks. Every so often, you get pages into a report and realize you had no idea what you’d just read.
Around three o'clock, a timer goes off on your desk, a horrible screeching sound that makes you wince.
Meeting with Leon in 10.
Fucking hell. Just when you think it can't get worse.
You reach over and grab a handful of files, a pink tab in the corner indicating which case they were for. Even when absolutely drowning in work, you have a system that makes your life functional.
The elevator in the DSO doesn't even play music as it descends. It feels sort of purposeful, like they limited the amount of life that could be had within the building, the amount of joy that could be felt. You'd take jazz over silence any day.
The doors open. You take a turn to the left, then the right, then pull your badge away from its home on your belt. With a green light and the buzz of an unlocked door, you're into Field Ops.
You don't even knock on Leon's office, which is a fact that flies past you as you open the door and shut it behind you.
The smell is what hits you first. Cologne is the strongest, a dark, woodsy scent that does little to hide the lingering stench of B.O., and whiskey that sticks to him.
When you turn around, you can't help the shocked "What the hell are you doing here?" from leaving your mouth.
Leon falters. His mouth opens and closes like he's finding the words. "Uh. This is my office?"
"No, Leon, I mean here. At work. Why are you here?"
"I'm…getting paid?"
You sharpen your gaze on him. "Obviously." The files fall against the grain of his desk. You gesture towards the bandage around his arm, at the blood that has dried on his shirt since he got back from a mission this morning. "You're hurt."
"When am I not?"
"I can try to work something out to get you some time off. God knows you probably need it."
"I'm fine," Leon responds, which pulls at a certain string in your heart you thought you'd buried years ago, and the realization that you care has you wringing your hands together. "Let's talk about the case."
Begrudgingly, you do, though you get up halfway through your coaching to yank the cords on the blinds and push a large opening into the window to get some sunlight and fresh air into the cramped space. Leon doesn't hide his grimace well.
"Head pounding, champ?" You comment before pulling your chair back in. Someone honks on the street below. Leon doesn't reply. "Good. Stay focused."
You return to the files in front of you with an impressive amount of precision. Leon smiles at you, and it's the first time you've seen him smile in months.
Leon pushes your buttons and goes off script. You win the case. You can't particularly say you hate his antics anymore.
This is the tenth time Leon has helped with one of your cases, and he's starting to feel pathetic.
He is thirty-eight years old. The black dye is fading from his hair, though Helena tells him that it's probably not going to go back to his usual blonde until it grows out. He still spends every night drinking until he falls asleep.
On days that he knows he has a meeting with you or a hearing at the courtroom, he wakes up a little easier. When he gets to see you, he goes to bed feeling lighter.
Leon Kennedy has a crush and he is pushing forty.
It's something he realized after probably case number five, though he was caught off guard by your beauty the second he met you.
Your office faces the west, meaning that you have sunlight in your office from about noon to when it sets, and you were cast in an insane ray of light that made you look heavenly when he barged into your office for the first time.
Now, he prefers when you come up to meet him and you have the sun on your face. He likes seeing your jaw tick when you're mad at him, or the smile that prods at your lips when he offers you a snack in the form of a stale granola bar from his desk.
You don't say anything when he buys a new box and the stale granola bars suddenly taste new.
Leon is pushing forty, and he asks Helena Harper that afternoon if you have a boyfriend.
It's in the breakroom and Helena has a forgotten paper cup of burnt coffee discarded to the edge of the counter as she hammers away at a report. Leon sits across from her, silent, as he pushes around whatever he brought for lunch with a fork.
When he asks it, Helena almost chokes on her own spit. "Leon Kennedy. Are you serious?"
"She's not married," he elaborates, like it helps his case. "There's no ring."
"Oh my God." She leans back in her chair. "You can't be serious."
"Embarrassed enough already, Harper."
"You like her. She complains about you all the time and you like her."
Every word is punctuated enough to feel like a punch to his ego. "Yes, Helena. Can you answer my question?"
After a couple seconds, she leans back and looks at the ceiling. "No. She does not. Hasn't for years."
Leon almost asks how she knows that part, then remembers that the two of you are somehow friends. Like, outside-of-work friends. Go-to-each-other's-houses friends. Which didn’t always make sense to him. You were too…not like Helena. Soft in ways that mattered, rigid in ways that sometimes didn’t.
"She really can't stand you, Leon."
"I know."
"So what's your plan here?"
Leon gives a small smile and his usual, cocky charmer persona slides into place. "I don't have one. That's what makes this fun."
So, Leon ends up in your office. Ever since Miles returned from paternity leave, your workload has halved, and it is apparent in the way your shoulders are straighter and the pinch to your eyebrows have somewhat eased. The top buttons of your blouse are undone, showing a tempting amount of skin and bone. The gold pendant of your necklace hanging in the hollow of your throat almost makes his jaw drop.
He thinks you look beautiful.
Which isn't a new revelation, just one he lets himself entertain before you go into work-mode, all focused words and narrowed eyes.
"Can you grab some papers I just printed?"
“Hello to you, too.”
You don’t look up. “Yes, Leon, hello. Can you please grab the papers for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He turns down the hallway back to where he came, and swiftly grabs the stack of paper off the printer. Miles is in his office with someone who definitely has never been inside of the DSO headquarters before, and when he catches Leon’s eyes his brows raise in a hey man, what’s up? gesture that Leon returns without much thought.
Leon shuts the door to your office and drops the papers onto your desk, which evidently you don't like, as you gather them up before they can flutter askew with the air. You let out a huff of breath and turn your attention to your computer.
"You mad at me or something?" Leon asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
A smile, or something close to it, pulls at the corner of your mouth. "I always am. You know that."
"Yeah, whatever."
The look he gives you across the walnut desk is impossibly soft, and you are not stupid. You shift slightly in your seat, spine tingling, and open a folder on your desk, trying desperately to pretend that Leon is not the most attractive man you've ever laid eyes on.
When the two of you first met, he was obviously going through some shit, with the horrible dye job he gave himself, the eyeliner, and the remarkable amount of weight he lost.
Something changed between then and now. He packed on weight again, and though some of his pants still look too small, you think it is unbelievably hot. The black hair is growing out into his usual dusty-blond, which brought a youthfulness to him that you really enjoy.
He doesn't come into work smelling like whisky and regret anymore.
Bottom line: Leon is doing better. And it looks good on him.
Instead, you clear your throat and say, "Should I even bother with the usual lecture?"
"Definitely not," Leon leans forward in his chair. Something is different about him, even though you can't exactly place it, which as usual, makes you a little unsettled. "Can we just go around to the questions? I don't necessarily need to jog my memory here."
"Leon, if I'm thinking correctly, it seems like you don’t want to spend time with me."
"I'm thinking that I have a hot date with my couch, a shitty movie, and a twelve pack of beer. Nothing to do with you."
"What's your movie of choice? I bet you love a rom-com."
Leon immediately flushes red. "Absolutely not."
"You probably always side with the men. Especially when the woman overreacts about it."
"Sounds like you know a lot about rom-coms."
You give him a look. "Sounds like someone is dodging the question."
"Speculation."
"Leon, you can't just throw in courtroom objections when you're losing an argument and backed into a corner."
"Are we arguing?"
You run your tongue over your teeth and ignore that he follows the movement with his eyes. "No. We're riffing. And wasting time. I had you grab some papers that are going home with you."
Leon lifts an eyebrow. He didn't even bother to look at the contents of the hefty stack when he took them from the printer. "You're giving me homework on my rom-com and booze night?"
"So you admit it's a rom-com." You narrow your eyes and a triumphant smirk stretches across your lips. Leon smiles, half knowing you snatched him in a trap, half knowing he walked in willingly. "But yes. I'm giving you homework."
You can't pinpoint when this, exactly, began. The joking. The banter, the light-hearted jokes that ate too much into your meeting times. But you don't…hate it. So you don't stop it.
You spend the next half-hour going over information and clarifying his answers. He always gets tense, like most of his life isn't about performance. You'd read the reports that you definitely did not need to acquire clearance for, but applied for access because you were curious. Evidently, they don't really know what you do in the legal department, because you haven't been rejected yet.
Leon is still an enigma to you. At times, truly seeing him is like looking through glass, so glaringly obvious it sometimes hurts your head. Most of the time, though, it's like wading through thick mud, the answers buried deep below. He smiles at you in such a charming way that it's nearly possible to forget all of the times that he pissed you off in the courtroom.
The case you're working on is a huge one, one that will result in either the sentencing or acquisition of a DSO executive with conspiracy and securities fraud. You are not usually stressed about work, but this one has you a little uneasy. Rarely are you a defense lawyer, and rarely are you unsure of whether or not your client is lying to you.
Leon makes you nervous in a way that makes you reconsider even putting him on the witness stand, but his perspective is really important. He helped found the DSO and has been working in bioterrorism for over fifteen years.
Either way, you're rolling a dice here. And hopefully Leon doesn't fuck this up for you.
When Leon leaves your office, it's with a small wink and a manilla envelope tucked under his arm. You hold off your smile and blush until he's far, far away, and Miles shakes his head at you when he catches your eye in the crack of your door.
You don't see Leon again until the hearing, and he touches you for the first time in the conference room in the courthouse when his fingertips ghost against the small of your back as he passes by to use the restroom.
It lights you on fire in a humiliating way, the heat coursing through your veins in the confines of the courtroom intense enough to make you down a Gatorade from a vending machine. You don't even like Gatorade.
Once Leon is on the stand, you think you have it secured. Maybe giving him homework is good.
The confidence is short-lived, however, until prosecution cross-examines him and he begins to explain how the DSO itself has corrupt ideals that bleed into the executives, and that the government itself is concealing so many things that would make the world stop. He doesn't stop talking, even when you give him a look so intense, he can feel it in his bones.
You can't hear most of it through the rush of blood in your ears. You are going to kill him. He's not wrong, to give him a little bit of slack. Like any government agency, the DSO glosses over life-ending, horrific events with an efficiency that surprises you. The morality of it hangs with you at times.
You lose track of how many times you object. It's enough to get a scolding from the judge, and when you sit down, the floor sways under you.
For once, Leon looks apologetic on the stand. You want to strangle him.
You lose the case.
The director sits you down in his office to discuss your position, though it's not in a 'you're-getting-fired' way. Just a 'you're-being-monitored' way, which is somehow worse.
You take two weeks off and barely get out of bed.
Miles brings you food about six days in.
He didn’t call beforehand, which doesn’t surprise you. Miles has always been that kind of guy. But he knocks on your door, firm, and for half a second you’re worried it’s Leon.
When you look through the peephole, your shoulders drop an inch with relief.
“Miles,” you mutter as you open the door, wearing your Very Hungry Caterpillar t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. Your hair has… seen better days.
Miles says your name and his gaze flickers fleetingly over your appearance. For being a lawyer, he has a horrible poker face, which was one of the first things you ever said to him. It’s probably why he’s predominantly a civil court attorney and not a criminal one.
“Hey,” he finally says. When you look down at his hands, the tin-foil covered Pyrex dish steals your attention. “I told Angie what happened. She wanted to do something nice.”
Angie is Miles’s wife that he met five years ago when she rear ended him at a red light. She’s a teacher. Elementary school. They dated for two years, then got married when they hit three. You weren't a big crier, but you had to wipe some tears away at their wedding. They welcomed their first child months ago and you’ve never seen Miles happier.
They’re the textbook happy, married couple, and as happy as you are for them, you’re a tad bit resentful, too.
It’s also funny to you that Miles blames the act of kindness on Angie, when you know that he’s definitely the one who proposed the idea.
You let it pass. Embarrassed Miles is worse than Nonchalant Miles.
“Thanks,” you say, and when he passes you the dish, it’s warm under your hands. Freshly made.
You really, really don’t deserve them.
Out of courtesy, you ask, “How is she? And Liam?”
“Oh, they’re amazing.” Miles gives you a smile and shoves his hands in his pockets, comfortably, like he doesn’t mind standing on your porch when it’s eighty degrees. Somehow, he never shies away from intimacy. “Liam’s sitting on his own now. It’s great.”
“That is great,” you say, and even though it is, you still sound far away.
Miles’s gaze hardens slightly and he tilts his head. He’s five years your junior, and you never really think about it until he looks so young. “How’ve you been?”
You swallow hard. “Fine. I think I’ve watched half of Pretty Little Liars.”
“Oof,” Miles winces. “It’s been six days. That’s…gotta be a record.”
“Whatever. I’m depressed. I deserve it.”
Miles raises his eyebrows in a sure gesture, then his shoulders stiffen slightly. “He’s been asking me about you.”
Suddenly, you regret having this conversation on the porch. You feel so exposed. But having Miles inside of your house is much, much worse than standing in the heat.
You don’t have to ask who. “What’ve you been saying?”
“That you’re fine.”
“I am fine.”
“The three thousand hours of shitty T.V. says otherwise.”
You can’t argue against it being shitty. “Whatever.”
Miles pops the joint of his ankle and you barely even register it before he sighs and says, “He’s worried.”
“I think you’re worried.”
Your coworker looks like he wants to walk off the porch. “Yes, I’m worried. It’s not bad that people care about you. Even if it’s me and Leon Kennedy.”
The words hit deep. The casserole dish is making your arms ache, but that’s not primarily what wants to get you off of this porch and back in the solace of your bed. It’s the panic rising in your chest, a familiar sensation that would have your hands shaking if not for the Pyrex.
One of Miles’s hands reaches out and grazes the fabric of your Hungry Caterpillar shirt before his hand locks onto your shoulder with an unyielding strength. “Just keep me updated, okay? Once in the morning and once at night. To let me know you’re fine. But if you’re not, send me the word apricot. I’ll be here.”
You would be crying if your body wasn’t entirely depleted of its water intake. This is pathetic. You’re almost forty pouting on your porch while your younger coworker comforts you.
Either way, you nod in compliance. Miles gives you a big hug like he’s used to it (which is really weird, considering you don’t exactly hug much) and then retreats back into his car.
The casserole Angie made you is the best you’ve ever had. You fall asleep with the dish on your nightstand and the light from Pretty Little Liars bleeding into the stillness of the night.
When you return to work, there's a bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase on your desk with a note attached to them.
You don't have to look at the card in the bouquet to know who they're from. They're mostly lilies, reds and whites, which is a strangely accurate piece of information that he couldn't have just guessed. It makes you think that one of your friends is a mole who somehow has a soft spot for Leon Kennedy.
With a huff, you push the vase to the corner of your desk and pull your folders out of the briefcase you house them in, diving into your work in the only way you know how: head-first.
It only takes an hour into the day for Leon to show up to your office. He knocks on the door, soft, tentative, so much like the first time you met him that it makes your chest clench with deja-vu.
You don't invite him in, though he opens the door anyway.
"I don't want to talk to you." The words leave your mouth before you can find a way to sugarcoat them a bit. Usually, you try not to be so harsh with him. He can be sensitive. Your family used to tell you that it's very good for the world that you didn't become a therapist.
Leon doesn't listen to your words, and instead closes the door behind him and pulls out the chair across from you.
"Leon. I'm serious. I do not want to talk to you."
He says your name like a plea, and for a moment, you forgive him. Then, the anger rushes through you like water breaking through a dam, and the walls fly back up. His eyes are so blue in your office and it takes a great deal of effort to not look at them. "Please. I'm sorry."
You scoff at the papers you're marking up with a red pen. "I've heard that one before."
"I mean it this time."
"You didn't mean it all the other times?"
Leon's getting frustrated. You can see it in the way his neck turns pink and his hands grow restless. In the large chair he's sat in, he looks impossibly small. "I did. I do. You know that."
"Do I?"
He clears his throat. "I know you're mad—"
"That is the understatement of the century."
"I know I fucked up, and that I pushed it too far, and that—" his head tips down to see your eyes that are burning holes into the paperwork. "—can you please look at me?"
You do, and the sight almost breaks your composure. In the years you've known Leon, he has never looked at you like this. You can't place it. His brows are pinched together and his eyes are pleading with you in such a gentle way.
"I'm so, so sorry. I hate that I did this to you. You don't deserve it, you never have. And I…I feel so bad that I put your career on the line."
The words are so genuine and imperfect and so him that it finally breaks you. With a breath, tears blossom on your waterline and you look up at the ceiling to try to keep them at bay. Leon, for once, looks like he does not know what to do.
"Close the blinds," you order through the thick emotion in your voice, something tired and humiliated at the fact that he's seeing you cry. "Don't want the interns having more to gossip about."
"Oh, no, we can't have that."
Leon gets up and yanks at the cord of the blinds, pulling both sets shut before he scoots his chair around to your side of the desk. He takes care to not let the legs scrape against the cheap laminate. Somehow, he knows that bothers you.
You open a drawer to your desk and snatch a tissue out of a box and dab at the tears before they can fall. "Leon, I know you don't always get it because this is such a small part of your job. The courtrooms, and testimonies, all of it. But this is my life. And I know it's fun for you to fuck with me but…" you swallow hard. "I am damn good at what I do. And it's so unfair that you did this to me."
Leon wants to reach out and touch you. His finger twitches with the urge, but he doesn't act on it. Instead, he lets you cry. Somehow, you still have tears left after the last two weeks. Not a lot, but enough to make Leon's chest clench.
His elbows rest on his knees and he looks up at you like a sinner being forgiven. He's not, not yet, at least, but this is a good start. You'd truly forgive him once he started listening to you.
You don't know when your relationship with Leon changed from that first time in the courtroom. You still didn't really get along with him all the time, but between now and then, he seems to understand you a little better. Which, to be honest, is a little ridiculous. The most time you've spent together is hour-long meetings in the restrictions of your walnut-clad offices with stale air.
It's the most seen you've felt by anyone in a long time.
You don't realize you've been sitting in silence until he says your name, delicately, like he can't bring himself to do it any other way. "I'm sorry. I really am."
For the first time, you believe his apology. But it's too much, too overwhelming, having Leon in your office, inches away from you, looking at you like that when you were so fucking mad at him.
The words are heavy as they leave you. "I think I want you to leave, Leon. Thanks."
Leon has not felt guilt like this since he was twenty-one.
It feels stupid to admit, but it's true. At least he thinks it is. The game he played with you was fun when you always came out on top, and he looked a little dumb. But it's not the case now. Now that your eyes are red and you've tracked tears into your makeup, he feels like the most awful person on the planet.
He doesn't drink, though. No, he knows you don't approve of that. You'd been hungover before one of your meetings, just once, and something tells him you aren't a big drinker. That, coupled with all of the comments you make in passing when you can tell he had a rough night. Somehow, you can always tell.
He likes that you're so perceptive. He supposes you should be used to it by now, but it still manages to catch him off guard when he meets your eye and feels stripped bare.
Leon cries to Helena over dinner once before you return to work. She laughs at him and calls him stupid.
The next case Leon is subpoena'd for is a petty sentencing for someone he'd brought into custody months ago. Well, petty might not be the right word. Insensitive. But it happens a lot, and most of the assignments blend together.
It's almost summertime, and the window in his office is cracked open enough to get some fresh air in the room. He never used to do that before…well, before you.
On the way to his office, you stop into Helena Harper's, and you giggle loud enough that Leon can hear it from his ergonomic desk chair.
If he could bottle sound, this is one he'd like to keep. Your laugh.
So, this is salvageable, he thinks.
You don't knock. To be fair, you never do. It doesn't really matter, since the door is open, but you walk in, hurried, like you own the place.
As a matter of fact, you do this everywhere you go. Fill up space. You have quite a presence.
It’s one of Leon’s favorite things about you.
You drop your files on his desk and pull out your computer. For once, you have your glasses on—a couple of months ago you told him the computer screens gave you headaches. They frame your face nicely. It’s his first time seeing you with them, and it makes Leon feel probably too turned on.
You sit down without even looking at him.
“Hi,” Leon offers, gently.
“Yes, hi, Leon.” you hit some keys on your laptop. “You’re staring.”
"Hard not to."
Finally, you look at him, thoroughly unimpressed, though he has a proud smirk and a light blush dusting his cheeks. "Ha ha. Can we talk about work?"
Leon tilts his head back. "Ah. My least favorite subject."
"Leon, I need you to listen to me this time." You lean forward in your seat, enough to try to grasp his attention from the spot on the ceiling. "Look at me. My job might be on the line. I can't…I can't do that again."
Leon meets your eyes with a look that is sort of foreign to you. At least on him. You've seen it before in bars, clubs, in law school whilst buried in books at a library, but not ever in the DSO headquarters. It's…soft. Longing, maybe, if you read into it.
"I have a proposal," he says, and the way he laces his fingers together on his desk makes your hands itch towards your papers, the keyboard, anything. "I'll be good."
Your stomach twists. "Oh, God. There's a but. Or an if."
"If," he emphasizes like you did, "you let me take you out on a date."
There is no fucking way. You know Leon is cocky. You've worked with him long enough to hear it firsthand. This is next-level douchebag behavior that you hadn't expected from him.
But when you look at him, it doesn't look like he's trying to be a dick. Or just trying to get in your pants. His eyes are too soft, his brows too relaxed. He seems… genuine. It makes heat flash through you.
You sigh. "Leon, I'm being serious."
Leon smirks in a way that reminds you of the first time you met him, when he was a little more broken, more desperate for connection. Maybe more earnest, too. "So am I."
"I could report you to HR."
He doubles down. "You could. Or you could let me make it up to you."
You want to argue. One of your major rules about working in an office is to never, under any circumstances, date your coworkers. There are (somehow) too many people with too much time on their hands, who want nothing more than to stir up drama. Miles is embarrassingly one of them. Weirdly, a lot of ladies in Intelligence, too.
You want to say no. Your brain is hardwired for logic, and there's no way to avoid that the majority of the paths Leon and you could go down would not end well. Nothing sounds worse than having to sit in this office with him if things fall through.
But a part of you manages to come in through the noise of what's reasonable to say, but maybe this could be nice.
Leon is an extremely good man. He's kind, too, if you avoid the times he borderline commits perjury to get a rise out of you. And something in you likes that he waited to do this until he was…better. Until he didn't roll out of bed and throw on his clothes, still reeking of vomit and alcohol from whatever hour he stopped drinking. If he stopped drinking. For some reason, you appreciate that.
You haven't had a nice date in awhile. Or a nice man in your life.
And you like Leon. God, you really do like him. It's possible that's why you were so upset over losing that case, because you felt so betrayed by him. As much as he gets under your skin, and is annoying and insubordinate and borderline rude, you feel a stupid sort of affection towards him, because you have a slight feeling that you understand him better than anyone else.
So, you ignore every instinct in your body that has your skin prickling, and say, "Fine."
He seems to celebrate a little bit, by the way his hands reach back into his lap to twiddle with his thumbs, like he always does when he is a little bit nervous, but a bit giddy, too.
"But," you interject. "I plan. You pay. I'm picky about my dates."
"Deal," he responds without hesitation. It makes your stomach flutter.
Leon reaches a hand across the walnut desk and waits for you to shake. Your palms connect, and his is a little bit clammy. You smile at him, a real, excited smile.
"We're doing lunch. Casual. I'm going to wear jeans and a t-shirt, because I'm tired of dressing up every day. We'll go to some pub with awful, greasy American food that will most definitely sit in my stomach wrong and I'll complain about it the whole time. No movies. Something… I don't know. Fun. Exciting."
"All of your requests are completely doable."
"I know. I don't fight for things out of reach."
"You do that all the time," he reminds you. "In court."
"Well, I always reach them, don't I?"
He tries to smother a smile. "Yes. Yes, you do. Saturday sounds okay?"
"Fine. I'm half doing this because I want to, half because I know the DSO will take your side if I refuse and report you to HR."
Leon gives you a deadpan look. "You would never. Bethany intimidates you."
"Bethany should intimidate everyone," you whisper, on the fact that the blinds are still open and these offices are absolutely not soundproof. At least, yours isn't. Maybe Agent Kennedy is an exception to the cheap government infrastructure. "She has the eyes of the devil. I swear."
"Whatever." The words are squeezed out through his teeth as Leon gives you a big smile. "Let's talk about the case. Gotta have time tonight to draft an itinerary tonight."
"Have you ever drafted an itinerary, Leon?"
"No." He shrugs. "But you have. Plenty of times, I'm sure."
You roll your eyes and open a document on your computer, pretending like the excitement swimming in your bloodstream doesn't make you feel twenty years old again.
You get a text around eight o'clock from an unknown number. You're in bed, pajama-clad, with a facemask drying and a Diet Coke in your hand. You sip it from a straw.
Hey. It's Leon. Got your number from your file in HR.
You grin at the screen and write out a text in record time. I see we're just violating employee code of conduct left and right.
The bubble takes way too long to disappear before you get the next message. Leon is not tech-savvy, and it sometimes makes you snicker at him.
Technically, I pulled some strings. Ingrid is especially helpful.
I don't see how this isn't proving my point. You could've just asked Helena. You two are close. You just wanted an excuse to see that photo of me from when I was thirty.
You can imagine the look on Leon's face and it brings a stupid amount of warmth to your chest. Dumbfounded Leon might be your favorite Leon. But maybe Date Leon will take the cake soon.
You aren't sure when this happened. The contentment with Leon. At first, you had been annoyed by him asking you out, even though he was long forgiven. But you were far from dumb—it was painfully obvious Leon has liked you for a long time. He’s not good at hiding it.
You also can’t exactly pinpoint when he became so transparent to you. The first few times you met, he was painfully closed-off.
Finally, Leon replies. Yeah, whatever. I need your address to pick you up on Saturday.
You didn't pull that from my file while you were snooping around in there, too?
Can only do so much with what limited connections I have here.
The idea that Leon S. Kennedy has “limited connections” anywhere makes you roll your eyes. I'm a little concerned about your lack of thoroughness for being a world-renowned fed, Kennedy.
This bubble comes faster. I hate that you just called me a fed.
The laugh tears out of your throat before you can stop it. It's probably the first time your house has heard your laugh in months, and it echoes off the wall and almost scares you. Your cat, Barty, jumps up next to you, looking slightly concerned at the sound, before letting out a comfortable chirp and curling up next to you.
You ARE a fed, you reply, and your thumbs move in circles above your keypad as you think out the next one.
Leon beats you to it. FED sounds so gross. I'm an agent.
That sounds worse. Like you're James Bond. Which you're not. They dropped you in Spain with a full magazine and a dream. I'm surprised you had enough gusteau to backflip.
Leon's reply takes a second. You hope it's because of your use of the word "gusteau." How do you know that?
You hope he can feel your smile through the screen. I get the office gossip too, Leon. I know all your dirty secrets.
For some reason, you snap a picture of Barty, belly-up, against the green fabric of your comforter, and press send.
Sorry to cut the party short but Barty and I must retire to our chambers. I'll see you on Saturday. Don’t be a stranger.
You send him your address and turn your phone on silent, not letting yourself see his response, or else you'll be up all night, grinning like a teenager.
Leon is pushing forty, and he thinks he’s going to throw up.
Earlier in the week, he had sent back: Barty is a horrible name for a cat. What’s his full name? Barthes? Bartholemew?
He didn’t think much about asking you out until it happened. For being a government agent, he sure does have a lot of anxiety issues. Shannon, his appointed therapist, talked him off of a ledge yesterday when he wanted to cancel from sheer panic. He’s almost forty, and he hasn’t been on a real date in well over ten years. Which…is kind of sad. But he wasn’t the type of man to date back then. He wasn't someone who could be a partner.
You make him want to be different. Which, for the most part, is why he stopped drinking.
Well. He mostly stopped drinking.
He’s not a liar.
You, on the other hand, never seem nervous about a thing. The only signs he picks up on when you’re uneasy is the muscle in your jaw and the way your fingers twitch, like they’re itching for something to grab.
Leon’s dabbing away sweat from his forehead with a towel in his bathroom and holding an ice cube in his hand when you call.
It’s a sudden sound, one so jarring he almost jumps out of his skin. Humiliating for a government field agent, but whatever. His phone almost vibrates off the table before he grabs it and answers before he can compose himself.
“Hello?” He asks shakily.
“Hey,” your voice crackles through the speaker of his iPhone 4 like it’s a casual Tuesday. “Need your input. Is this a graphic band-tee occasion or a…something else.”
Leon pulls himself together to crack a small smile. “I cannot believe you own a graphic tee.”
“It’s practically the entirety of my closet besides my work clothes.”
He’s surprised by this for a second, until he’s not. He guesses it makes sense. Under your hard-ass exterior, you probably feel very passionately about your hatred of synth music.
“Wear a band tee. I’ll be in linen.”
“Oh, you are so annoying. I’ll be in an Alicia Keys tee shirt and you’re wearing linen?”
He blinks. “I don’t see the issue.”
“Leon, you are already extremely out of my league. You can’t look better than me.”
“I guarantee that I never look better than you. Plus, we’re getting burgers. It’s not like we’re meeting the Queen.”
Leon doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean, and it’s especially true right now. In what world is he more attractive than you?
“Whatever,” you concede, obviously getting flustered, but Leon can only tell because he knows your voice too well. “What’s your sitrep? I can be ready in 15.”
“First of all: I can’t believe you just used sitrep semi-correctly. Second of all: I’m about to leave.”
Leon absolutely is not. He is trying not to hyperventilate in his bathroom, with his perfectly steamed shirt hanging behind him, waiting to be put on. The ice cube has successfully turned his hand numb and is fully melting through his vice grip.
“Just text me when you’re on the way,” you say, and then lower your voice gently. “And Leon? You don’t have to be nervous. This isn’t make-or-break. We’re good.”
It’s the first time you’ve said we’re good since he lost you that case. The words feel like sun on his face, warm and forgiving, and the cage around his chest loosens enough to get a good breath in.
“Okay. I’ll be there soon. Text you when I’m on the way.”
“Bye, Leon.”
He hangs up and dries his hands. When he turns around, he considers what you said about his blue linen shirt, but disregards it. Hastily, he buttons it up, fingers somehow no longer shaking, and when he gives himself one last glance in the mirror, he feels okay.
Better than okay. Good. Excited.
You throw open the door when Leon knocks and promptly turn the other direction, leaving him to utter, "Uh. Hi?"
"Come in!" you call behind you, and he tentatively steps into your foyer. "Gimme a sec. I just need…" your voice fades away as you duck into a room.
Leon is abandoned in your home. He tries not to stray far away from the spot he's been invited into. Your place feels… comforting. It’s clean, but lived-in, and there’s that lingering scent of jasmine that usually follows you around prevalent in the air.
Something chirps underneath his feet, and when he looks down, there's a small, grey cat twisting around and rubbing against his calves. Barty, he remembers.
"Hey, buddy." Leon crouches and lets Barty sniff his fingers, his voice going an octave higher. "How are you?"
Barty meows and thrusts his head into Leon's palm. With a gentleness Leon didn't know he had, he scratches Barty under the chin and behind the ears.
"I see the terrorist of the household has you fooled," you say as you shove an earring into your ear, evidently what you were looking for. "He's evil."
"You're his lawyer. Whose side are you on?"
When Leon finally looks up at you and away from your cat, surprise flashes through his eyes. You're wearing, as promised, your Alicia Keys Song in A-Minor t-shirt, which is french tucked into your jeans.
It's the most casual you've ever been around him. And, Leon thinks, the most beautiful. Relaxed.
He wants to say something. You’d be stupid to not realize.
"This is not my client," you deny, though you have a grin on your face. You reach out and grab your purse from the console table by the front door. "Okay, let's go. Stop coming onto him, Barty. He doesn't want you."
Leon hides a smile at that and smoothes his hands over his jeans once he stands. A habit.
You lock the front door behind you once you manage to pry Leon away from your cat. You hate that he's in linen, but God, he does look really good. He always does, which isn't fair, but something about seeing him in jeans and a shirt fit for Grecian sunsets is enough to have you… considering things.
You are almost forty years old. You’re not admitting that Leon’s turning you on just by existing.
You land eyes on his car. “Leon.”
“Hm?”
“This is your car?”
He smirks. “I don’t see what’s wrong with it.”
“You are a federal agent. You make probably triple what I do. You drive a Buick from 2002?”
Leon opens the passenger side door for you and gestures for you to sit down. “I know what I like. And I like this Buick.”
You really, truly, severely misjudged Leon Kennedy.
And you are still trying to be a stick in the mud about this date. But in all honesty, you were really looking forward to it. Your friends joke that you’re married to work, with how often you take cases home to mull over with a glass of wine. It’s nice to… be normal.
That, and the fact that Leon’s stupid smirk makes your stomach flip, is making it hard to act annoyed.
You duck into the sedan and Leon makes sure you're secured before he closes the door. On the inside, the car is polished clean and looks recently vacuumed. Part of you wonders if Leon keeps it like this, or if he cleaned it up for you.
Leon hands you his phone. "Play whatever you want."
You stare at the device in your hand. "This is powerful."
"That is a phone with my Apple Music open."
"An unlocked phone has power. Plenty of evidence."
"You're a lawyer. Everything is evidence to you."
He's not wrong, so you shrug, and he puts the car in reverse. "Fair." You go to the search bar and say, "You must trust me a lot."
Leon's lip upturns slightly. "Something like that, yeah."
You click on a playlist and hit shuffle. Leon's face contorts in an approving look, and he rests his arm atop the center console.
This should feel weird. Awkward. You've never seen each other outside of work, let alone like this, and you're managing to act pretty normal considering it's a date.
And Leon’s obviously freaking the fuck out. But it’s not inhibiting your mood. If anything, it’s making you like him a little bit more, if it’s even possible.
“You look like a scared dog at the shelter," you comment teasingly, eyes slightly squinted in a smile that only feels slightly out of place.
"I absolutely do not."
"Leon Kennedy, DSO golden boy, national superhero, is shaking in his boots at going on a date with an overworked, exhausted, cynical attorney. I don't know whether to be flattered or a little upset."
Leon rolls his eyes at you and his fingers tap along with the song you've played from his phone. "I'm used to handling explosives and shooting things and breaking bones."
There's an unspoken thing here that this is foreign to him, and the thought warms your chest a little bit. You'd read files upon files, mostly full of little black rectangles redacting information that you did not need, or necessarily want, to know, but there was enough substance in them for you to read between the lines.
You had a grasp on who Leon was when you first started working together. Over time, that shifted, and the Leon you know now isn't the Leon you had any clue about years ago.
"And you should be flattered," he adds, quieter this time. "Very flattered."
"I hate to say this," you cross your ankles, "but I am. And you should be, too. I don't… I haven't gone on a date in years, I think."
Leon cracks a smile, so different from the shy blush he had before, and it reminds you of the Leon that first charmed you. "So, you must like me."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"When did that change?"
You pause. "Hm?"
"When did you stop hating me?"
You want to laugh, and a small huff escapes your nose, amused, before you can stop it. "Leon, I never hated you. No matter what Helena said. You piss me off, yes, but you're too cute to stay mad at."
After that, the ride is full of teasing comments and flirting that would've made sixteen-year-old you proud. At one point, your stomach growls so loudly Leon cannot hide the laugh that escapes him. He pulls into the shitty brewery you requested, and before you can even unbuckle your seatbelt, he's yanking the key out of the ignition and jogging to your side of the car.
God, he looks good. The sunlight catches in his hair, the blonde peeking out through the strands of brunette, and you have to remind yourself to swallow.
He is stupidly good at this dating thing, you realize as he opens the door and gives you a hand to pull yourself out of his low-rider.
“You’re suspiciously good at this,” you say as you place your hand in his and grab your purse with the other. “Makes me think you practiced or something.”
“You’ve given me homework before. Is it so bad that I studied, too?”
You narrow your eyes and let him lead you into the pub, hand still grasping yours, which makes you smile slightly. You have to slap his arm when he goes to pull out your barstool, and you don’t miss the way his lower lip extends in a pout.
“You’re ridiculous. This is casual. Let me do it.”
He retreats to the other side of the table. The waitress comes over and you order two sodas. Before long, you’re stuffing a burger into your mouth, successfully smearing sauce all over your face.
“I got a question.” Leon looks up in contemplation, burger in one hand.
“Well, that's never good."
“What made you want to be an attorney?”
Instinctively, you get defensive. “What made you want to be a field agent?”
Leon senses the mood change. Then, with a breath, like it hurts him to be vulnerable, “I didn’t want to be a government agent. I just wanted to be a cop. But I ended up in Raccoon City and… Y’know.”
You do know, and immediately, you feel bad for the tone you used. You pause. “My brother was a cop.”
“Yeah?”
You wipe at the corner of your mouth with a napkin. Then, feigning casualty, you say, “Yeah, he died when I was… Eighteen? Jesus. Twenty years ago.” You clear your throat and get back on track. “And the guy who killed him got off on a very generous plea deal that I would never offer. It was my first year of college, and I was so upset, I changed my major to political science the day after the trial. It’s cheesy-“
“It’s not.” Leon’s voice is firm, eyes conveying his sincerity. “Really. It’s not cheesy.”
“Thanks. I guess I just didn’t want any families to feel how I felt about my brother. He was only twenty-two.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Been a long time.”
Leon catches your eyes in an expression soft enough to tug at your heart. “Doesn’t mean it’s any easier.”
He’s got you beat, so you shrug and make a face that’s not decipherable to him, ignoring the twisting of nerves in your chest. His hands wipe against his napkin. “My parents died in a car crash when I was young. The cop that first showed up saved my life. And I feel cheesy, too.”
“You shouldn’t. That’s important.”
“Exactly.”
Now that you’ve made it weird with the dead-brother talk, you take a moment to bask in your shame before bringing another fry to your mouth.
If you ignore the discomfort of being normal (as in, not filtering your words with legal terms and courtroom jargon) and borderline vulnerable with Leon, the date is going really well. It's not like the two of you are strangers by any means. You've known each other for, what? Three years at this point? And for some reason, you feel most comfortable with Leon at any given time.
He gives you space. He's too present. He annoys you. He makes you laugh. The most turned on you've been in years was at the feeling of his fingertips ghosting over your back. You think he might understand you better than any of your friends do. This… sticks with you.
“Wish I begged to see the itinerary,” you say through a mouth of food. “Should’ve made you get a gold star from me first.”
Leon chuckles and the sound makes you smile in an embarrassing way. “Isn’t the surprise half the fun?”
“No, Leon. Surprises are what catch me off guard and make me scramble in the courtroom.”
“We aren’t in the courtroom, sweetheart,” Leon drawls, and if he realizes the pet name he just called you, he doesn’t act embarrassed, even though you almost choke on your food. “It’s just us. And I think I did a pretty good job.”
“You always think you do a pretty good job.”
Leon gives you a look. “That’s not true.”
You take a sip of your beer and shrug. He’s right. “Yeah, whatever. I just like to push you around a bit.”
When the waitress comes back around to check on you two, Leon slides her his card, and you clock the black metal almost immediately. A teasing smirk stretches across your face. Of course Leon has a black card. He’s a government field agent.
“Don’t comment on the card,” he says, giving you a knowing look.
“Wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“Those are two different accusations, Leon.”
He smiles. The waitress returns with the clipboard of paperwork for him, and Leon quickly scribbles down a number and a signature and escorts you out of the restaurant.
When he opens the door to his Buick, you collapse into the passenger seat. He turns the key in the ignition and when he looks over at you, the fondness in his eyes is enough to melt you. Just a little bit.
The heat coursing through your veins, pooling in your abdomen, starts when Leon pulls you out of the car and wraps an arm around your waist as he guides you into the second brewery of the day. It comes off as casual, though you can sort of feel his heartbeat (or maybe it's yours) and you know that it's anything but.
“So, I'm confused," you say, at the fact that you just left a brewery.
"Shh," Leon's fingertips shift against your waist. "I'll explain once we're inside."
You're a little nervous, though you're used to suppressing it over the years of uncertainty behind a desk. Leon opens the door and steers you inside with a hand to the small of your back. Your eyes narrow as you examine the bar.
"Leon."
"Hm?"
"Is this what I think it is?"
Leon's cheeks are flushed, and for a moment, you think about kissing him. He says, "If you're thinking this is trivia, then you are correct."
Your first thought is: He is such a nerd. But then you realize that he wouldn't have brought you here if he didn't think you were a nerd. And admittedly, you love trivia. Probably too much.
"How'd you know I love this?"
"Because," he leads you to a table, "I know you."
Truthfully, you think he talked to Helena, or maybe Miles. But either way, he truly hit the nail on the head, and you are stupidly excited. You feel somewhat laid bare in front of him as you let the joy wash over you. Usually, you'd take a moment to feel embarrassed. But this is Leon. You've seen all shades of him. What do you have to be nervous about?
You sit down and stick on a nametag. It's just you and Leon on your team, but when you look around, it does seem to majorly be couples, so it's not like you're at a disadvantage.
Leon leans back and rests his arm against the back of your chair, leaning closer to talk to you over the music. It makes your stomach lurch in an embarrassing way. "You excited?"
You nod, and an unguarded smile washes over you.
Leon's eyebrows furrow. "I did good?"
The words are light, but you notice the serious undertones. Leon, shockingly, is a rather nervous guy. Probably because his cortisol levels are shot from the twenty years of government work and near-death experiences. You don't fully know what goes on in the field, but you've gathered enough to understand why Leon is the way he is.
"Yes, honey. You did good."
Leon flushes bright red and immediately takes a sip of the waters he grabbed you at some point. You giggle at him being flustered and a man's voice is broadcasted over the speakers, explaining the rules. You don't listen to much, as you're far too focused on Leon's arm behind you and the feeling of certainty in your chest that says, yes, this was a good idea.
As you expected, you and Leon blow trivia out of the water.
He did a great job with the geography and travel categories, which made sense, given that he is regularly deployed to other countries. You nailed history and literature, and sometimes Leon would say, “How the fuck do you know that?” when you’d scribble out an answer without much thought.
Combined, you’re a great team.
When it's announced that the two of you win, you let out a squeal and Leon picks you up in a hug.
You think, I am so fucked.
“You’ve read King Lear?” Leon says incredulously, one hand on the steering wheel and the other suspiciously close to your thigh.
“I took a lot of Shakespeare in college,” you explain and swallow the lump in your throat. “I’ve forgotten most of it by now. But some stuff sticks.”
Leon makes an impressed face. “I forget sometimes that you went to college and weren’t just born like this.”
“What does that mean?”
“No, no not like that,” Leon backtracks and it makes you smile. “You just seem so naturally smart. Sharp. I’ve always really liked that about you.”
Something in you flutters. “I have a question.”
“Hm?”
“How long… have you wanted to do this?”
It’s the first time you’ve asked him a question without your lawyer voice bleeding into your tone, and it kind of makes your head spin.
“What? Go on a date with you?”
“Mhm.”
“Uhh,” Leon pretends to consider your question. You can tell the motion of it is fake. “Since that first time in your office. When you noticed my hip.”
You think back to that day and what you wrote in your notes about Leon. Sad. Cynical. Defiant. Closed-off. You’d make some revisions now. Hopeful. Lost. Maybe one more: Loving.
Leon has so much love in his heart. You can see that from miles away. The issue is that everyone he’s ever trusted has betrayed him or thought poorly of him because of his addiction. You never did that, and you still don’t.
You make a noise in the back of your throat. “So, this is more than a case to you?”
What you mean is unspoken, and in that moment you realize why you misread Leon at first: because you saw parts of yourself in the reflection of him. Cynical. Closed-off. Sad. And you haven’t exactly been feeling like that since you came back to work.
Leon huffs, humored and breathless. “It’s always been more than the case. Over the years.” He glances away from the road and looks at you for a long second. “But I think you know that.”
You nod. “I know.”
Leon swallows and you follow the bob of his Adam’s apple with your eyes. “Is this… more to you, too?”
He is almost forty, just like you are, but with this look in your eyes that he’s giving you, he looks about ten years younger. A smile stretches at the corner of your lips before you can truly process it, and you’re laughing slightly.
“Yes, Leon. I would’ve said no if not.” You settle your hand against his arm that’s resting against the center console, and gently pull his hand to splay against your thigh. “You’re shaking again.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“Whatever.”
“Do I make you nervous, Leon?”
He makes a choking sound deep in his throat. “God, you’re upfront.”
“You’ve told me that before, yes.” You bat your eyelashes and keep your same expecting stare on him. When he glances over at you, you can visibly see the restraint pulling him back. “So?”
“Yes,” he relents with a sigh. “You make me nervous.”
You chuckle, though it sounds light of humor. The rest of the drive home is full of comments about trivia that are half paid attention to from both of you, considering Leon’s fingertips are lightly brushing against your denim jeans and sending bolts of anticipation through you. Sometimes, you get so lost in it that you realize you didn’t listen to a word he said.
This feels so natural. Too natural. It’s a bit unnerving, to be honest, but you don’t necessarily care. It’s been… a long time since you’ve gotten laid. Not that that’s what’s going on. Obviously.
When he pulls into your driveway, you move to gather your purse that has found a home at your feet. Leon puts the car in park and gives you a soft smile, like he's a little optimistic that this isn't it.
You look at him for a moment. Your facade falls. Then, you say, "Do you want to come inside?"
His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline and he quickly intakes a breath. "Do you want that?"
Your face contorts into something sly, and it obviously affects Leon with how he looks away from you. "Yes. I do."
When you reach over to undo your seatbelt, Leon kills the engine and undoes his seatbelt like he's getting shot at. You climb out of his Buick and shut your door, pretending not to notice him adjusting his pants before trailing behind you to your front door.
You pull your keys out of your purse and unlock the door with a steady hand that sort of surprises you, considering you have enough anxiety to permanently fry your nervous system.
Once you swing the door open and successfully herd Leon inside, his hands are on your hips.
"This is crazy," he pants. With one step, your back is flush against the door, and his head hangs close to your neck.
"And highly unethical. Fucking your lawyer."
"Jesus Christ. Don't say it like that." His body betrays him at that, though, because his grip tightens at the idea of fucking you.
"What do you want me to say, then?" Your voice has a cheeky edge to it that feels soft enough to hold, and it's a certain type of gentleness you didn't know you still had. With one hand, you brush away the hair that has fallen into his face.
Leon smiles, then gets a little serious, because of course he does. "I don't want you to think this is a weightless thing. I've wanted this for a while, and I'm trying to be the person you deserve to have."
The honesty strips you raw, and your eyebrows "Do I have you, Leon?"
"Yes," he confesses, and it makes you feel weightless. "Always have."
You tilt his head with a hand on his jaw, and when you pull him down and your lips connect, you think, this is incredible.
At first, the kiss is gentle; tentative and soft. Something you've dreamed about while watching movies and reading books. Before long, though, he's untucking your shirt with impatience and splaying his palm flat against your back, tugging you closer into him and moaning into your mouth. Each move sends waves of want through you and you yank him closer to you via his shoulders.
You move in tandem, each chasing the feeling of the other like you need it to live. He licks a stripe against the crease of your lips, and immediately you're opening up and letting him deepen the kiss into something more.
When you finally reach down and yank his shirt up to feel his abdomen, he pulls away from you, breathless with swollen lips. "This is okay?"
"I'm actively throwing myself at you, Leon. Yes, it's okay."
He dips down to press a kiss against your neck, open-mouthed and desperate, and you let out a whine when his teeth grazes the vertex of your neck and shoulder. Leon's hips buck, and you arch into him when you feel the imprint of his cock.
He pulls back far enough to look you in the eyes. "Where's your bedroom?"
"Last door on the right." You point with your hand, and before you can look back at him, his hands are locking under your thighs and lifting you up into his arms. You yelp. "Leon!"
"What?" He grins at you. "I won't break anything."
Sometimes you forget that Leon is an absolute unit of a human being, built of years of government training and field exercises that have successfully hardened his muscles beyond human perception. When he does shit like this, though, it's impossible to ignore.
His lips are on you again, wet and hot and everything you imagined it to be, and he kicks the door shut behind him before laying you flat on your back on the comforter. Down the hall comes a disgruntled mrrp from your cat, who is obviously very upset about getting his spot taken.
Leon's hands come up to push your shirt away from your abdomen, revealing your skin inch by inch. "Can I—"
"Please," you manage to breathe out, and you sit up slightly as Leon pulls the fabric over your head, leaving you in your red lacy bra. You tug at the hem of his shirt, too, and he undoes the top two buttons enough to yank it over his head. At the sight of his skin, you sigh. "Jesus."
"You're one to talk," Leon mutters before lurching toward you again, lips connecting with the skin of your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave marks.
Instinctively, your hands reach towards his head, threading through his hair and tugging at it gently. Leon groans against your skin and presses down into you, eager to relieve the tension in his pants.
"Take them off," you order as seriously as you can, but your breath betrays you and you let out a moan when Leon's lips graze your breast. "Leon."
"Be patient," he muses, and the teasing tone makes you throb. "I've waited long enough."
"I thought you were making it up to me," you comment, lips close to his ear. Your breath fans his skin, making goosebumps rise, and you can immediately tell his resolve is crumbling fast. "Or are you not?"
"I am," he says, bordering on a whine. "Please."
"Thought you wanted to be good for me," you coo, and his head drops against your stomach. With one hand, you reach behind you and unclasp your bra, removing it swiftly and exposing your breasts to the cold air of your own bedroom. "Don't you want to be good?"
Once again, Leon's tone is insistent, "I am."
"Then prove it to me," your finger traces the skin under his chin, tilting his head up to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his lower lip extended in a pout. "Take them off."
He sighs something broken and quiet, before lifting himself off of you and unbuttoning his jeans. You follow suit, undoing yours and kicking them down your legs, revealing your matching lingerie set. Your eyes never leave him.
God, he's beautiful. Something straight out of Ancient Rome, you think as he shoves his jeans and briefs down his legs in one go. Carved marble, or an oil painting, something delicate and hand-made and breathtaking. You've never let yourself think about him like this—so raw and passionately and unguarded. It undoes something in you.
"Leon, you're perfect," you gush before you can stop yourself, and you're too horny to be embarrassed about it.
Leon cracks a smile and climbs back on top of you. "Couldn't hold a candle to you, honey."
You roll your eyes. "You're stupid."
"You love it."
You recoil at the word for a moment, before letting it settle over you. You do love it. And you love Leon, in some naive way. So, he's not wrong, and you let yourself be right.
"'M gonna take care of you, okay?" Leon runs a hand down the side of your head tenderly, brushing your hair away from your face. "Just tell me to stop and I will."
"I trust you," you respond, borderline eager.
"You do?"
You smile. "Yes, Leon. Against my better judgement, I trust you. Get to work."
He does without much thought, kissing chastely down your stomach towards the apex of your thighs, only stopping to breathe every couple kisses. Slyly, he hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them down in one swift motion, and the feeling of the air on your core makes you clench, desperate and impatient. A chuckle escapes him, low and humorless, and you groan in anticipation.
Finally, he settles between your legs and draws your thighs over his arms. You're trapped underneath him, his grip on your hips tight, but you can't complain. No, you're exactly where you want to be.
He starts slowly, kisses and kitten licks to your folds, easing into you like he can't tell you're drenched. You mewl something obscene, and when you arch, Leon takes it as an invitation to dive in. He takes one hand away from your hip and pulls it under him.
Leon attacks your clit like a man starved. He learns, quickly, and a spike of jealousy flashes up in your mind when you think about where, exactly, he got this information from. But a hard suck has your head thrown back against the mattress, erasing any thoughts from your mind.
When you reach down and grasp his head, pulling him firmer into you, he lets out a groan, and it's then you realize that he is grinding into the mattress and seeking some release, too.
"God, Leon, you're doing so good."
Leon's whine is high pitched against your cunt, and it sends a jolt of pleasure through you. Before long, you're shamelessly grinding against his face, seeking an orgasm you didn't know you were capable of having so fast.
"I'm—fuck, Leon. Please."
He uses the opportunity to finally slide two fingers into you. Your toes curl at the sensation, and without much warning, you're tipping over the edge, moaning and groaning and saying words, you realize at some point. They're unintelligible to you through the rush of blood in your ears, but they really do a lot to Leon, you realize, who is whining against you as you ride out your orgasm.
When he pulls away, you crack a smile, still gasping and experiencing the aftershocks. He wipes his face off with the back of his hand and crawls back up to you.
Leon's eyes pinch together in a pleading way, and when you realize what he wants, you giggle. "That was stupidly good, Leon. Thank you."
He grins and dips his head down to kiss you, slow and passionate. Words bleed into it, unspoken but still understood, and you nearly want to cry at the meaning and vulnerability of it all.
"Can I fuck you?" Leon asks. His eyes bounce between yours, looking for a doubtful look or a flash of remorse. He finds none, apparently, and you nod eagerly. "Do you have…"
"I'm safe," you sputter out. "On birth control, I mean."
Leon exhales. "You're sure this is okay?"
"Leon, if you don't fuck me right now, I'm going to take matters into my own hands."
He grins and wraps a hand around his cock, pumping a few times to get fully stiff. He groans at the contact. "Who says I won't like that?"
"We both know you would." You lean up to kiss his cheek. "But I think I deserve to lay back. Don't you?"
Leon makes a shuddering, broken sound at your tone, and lines himself up with your entrance. Every time he seems to get lost in his own pleasure, he remembers yours. You note this mentally. "If it hurts—"
"I know, sweetheart. It's okay."
He rolls his eyes at your impatience, but begins to press into you. The stretch is immediate—Leon is big, and you knew that since you started kissing—and you gasp with each inch he pushes into you. He's whispering, too, comforting you with every move he makes. He kisses your neck; you turn to catch his lips with your own.
His hips lurch and he's bottomed out, tip kissing your cervix. You feel so full. Of him, of life, of love. It’s everything. It’s too much, but not enough. At the sensation, you moan, and when he begins moving, the sound itself is so lewd you're somehow close again.
"Christ," he chokes out. "You feel good."
"Fuck." You press your face into Leon's shoulder. You're still sensitive from your first orgasm, and every drag of his cock inside of you has another fire lit in your abdomen. "This is so worth it."
Leon is breathless. "Yeah?"
“Yes,” you insist. “God. Leon—“
“I know. I know. I’m here.”
Leon snakes a hand under you to wrap around the back of your neck, not hard, just enough to secure you to him. It gives him a new vantage to thrust harder into you experimentally. You yelp out a moan but grab at him, pressing your thumbs appreciatively into his shoulders.
Obviously, Leon had tried to stay focused to bring you over the edge again, but his breathing was hurting shallow, and short moans escaped him, some bordering on whimpers.
His grip on your neck tightens and it has the coil in your belly wound completely tight. “Please, Leon, I—“
“Come on, sweetheart. I can take it. I’m right here.”
“Leon—“
“I know. It’s okay. I’m here.”
He keeps murmuring in your ear, and he’s so trusting and gentle, when you tip over the edge once again and fall head first into your orgasm, he kisses your neck and keeps talking you through it. Your body is pulled taut, a live wire coursing through you, as Leon slows his pace slightly.
“Fuck,” he grits out. “I’m—“
“Flip me over,” you command, somehow able to talk through the aftershocks.
Leon whines your name. “Please. I’m close. I—“
“Leon.” You grab his chin in your hand. He looks destroyed when you catch his gaze. “You wanted to be good for me, right? You took care of me. Let me help you. Be my good boy I know you are.”
He shudders at the words, blood running hot in his veins. Somehow, he has the energy to grab onto you and roll over, scooting up until his upper back hits the headboard.
You’re still secure on top of him, his cock buried deep inside of you, and you press a kiss to his forehead. His eyes follow your every movement, and when they land on your face, he thinks he’s seeing an angel.
Leon has scars that you know you may never get the story to. There’s one on his shoulder, the left one, that’s deep and sensitive to the touch, you notice. That one’s the most prominent. But God, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man more beautiful than him.
You give an experimental roll of your hips since Leon has adjusted to the new position. He looks up at you like you’re something to be worshipped, and when your hips move again, his hands land on your hips. They grip hard enough to bruise.
“Thank you,” he grits out. “I— Please, I—“
“It’s okay, honey. I’ve got you.”
And you do. Leon wants you so bad it hurts, which feels ironic, considering he’s inside of you. But this isn’t all there is to you. He wants everything. The rough nights, the late hours at the office, the arguments over taking out the trash and watching horrible movies together. He was worried this would feel like the end.
No, it’s just the beginning.
You find a rhythm, hard and unrelenting, and it doesn’t take Leon long to reach his own climax with how you’re grinding against him, uttering encouragement in his ears like second nature. Your hands naturally explore. They run from his shoulders, down his pecs, then trace his abs lightly, over and over again, as you bounce and grind on him.
Logically, you could cum again. But this was better, you think, watching Agent Kennedy absolutely fall apart under you. Your tone is slightly mocking. “Leon, I’m doing all this for you. Don’t you want to cum?”
“Shit. Fuck, baby, I’m—“
“Yeah?”
He whimpers. “Please. Yeah, pl—“
The words die in his mouth as he spills into you, lips parted. You have to remind him to breathe. His hands grab at you, your hips, boobs, shoulders, before finally one hand grabs you by the back of your neck and pulls you in close. Leon groans something primal and you nip at his earlobe.
You two lay there for a moment, absolutely spent, and Leon’s neck is bright red, either with lust or embarrassment or something else entirely.
Against your biological wishes, you lift slightly off of him, his softening cock falling flat against his abdomen. Your combined juices leak out of you, but you can’t be bothered as you drip all over him.
Leon kisses the junction of your neck and shoulder lightly before rolling you over, laying you flat against your sheets. You aren’t sure when the comforter got pushed down.
Whatever.
“Where’s your bathroom?” Leon whispers and the tenderness of the moment is not lost on you.
You point with one hand. “Over there. I think I’m gonna die now.”
“Could I be charged with murder if that happened?”
You huff out a laugh. “Manslaughter at the most. Negligence, maybe.”
“You’re too smart for me.” He calls over his shoulder as he makes his way to your bathroom. When he opens the bedroom door, Barty comes trotting in, rubbing up against Leon’s ankles. “Hi, buddy. Yeah. Let’s…go out here.”
Leon leads your cat away from you and you hear the rustling of a cabinet before the tap starts to run. Before long, Leon’s returning to you, and you realize he left to get a washcloth for you.
The intimacy of it all brings a tear to your eye. You sniffle as Leon parts your legs, this time with a gentleness you didn’t know he had, and he caresses the towel between your folds and over your legs. When you whimper, he utters, “I know. I’m sorry.”
He wipes himself down and collapses next to you. When he pulls you into him, you're pliant, like putty, under his touch, and tuck into his side without any argument.
“You okay?” Leon whispers into your hairline, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.
You nod. “I’m great, Leon. You’re great.”
You want to tease him on the whole praise stuff, but you like it. So you swallow your words and let yourself melt into Leon. It’s the safest you’ve felt in years.
Leon pulls the covers over you. “Did I make it up to you?”
You snicker. “Leon, you were forgiven a long time ago. You know that.”
“I know,” he murmurs. He swallows thickly. “Are we…”
“Yes, Leon. You can call us together now. I’d like that.”
“Really?”
You give him a look. “Yes. Really. Stop arguing with me and let me take a little nap here. You’re warm.”
Leon gives out a noise of contentment, and when he settles beneath you, his heartbeat is steady. “I meant what I said.”
“Hm?”
“About wanting to be better for you. I hated the way you looked at me back then. I wanted to be the kind of man you deserved.”
The confession makes you tilt your head up to him, catching his eyes in an honest trap. You press a kiss to the stubble on his jawline and pretend the tear leaking from the corner of your eye is from yawning, which Leon doesn’t believe for a second.
“I know, Leon. You’re amazing.”
Just when you’re drifting off to sleep, four little paws climb over your back, settling on Leon’s chest. Barty has found a home here, and admittedly, you have, too.
taglist: @night-scare @leonsbestgirl @lysol1201 @eclairlvr @deadlyecstasy @nambii @cakewinswars @shortcake356
if y'all want a part two... i have ideas.
Wingman // NSFW Leon Kennedy x fem! reader
Summary: Leon’s been your perfect wingman, because there’s no way he could be anything else. Right? Right. Tonight, shit’s gonna go wrong. And then it’s gonna go so, so right.
WC: ~4.5k
CW: NSFW, minors DNI, you and Leon are friends, no mention of ages, no use of y/n, bar fight (loosely), mild jealousy, reader put in peril, implied attempted assault, reader is a strong independent woman, reader is injured, Leon patches you up, first time (together), oral (reader receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie, smearing fluids, sort of aftercare (Leon is sweet and attentive), showering together
Notes: MINORS DNI
“You got eyes on your six.”
You shift your weight, canting your hip a touch more provocatively, leaned against the bar.
“Please. It’s at least a ten,” you say. Leon’s to your right, casual on a barstool, communication hidden behind his whiskey glass; you’re addressing him but looking down at your drink, stirring your fingers through the condensation. He’s got eyes on the rest of the bar, watching you in his periphery.
At least a ten. But he’s not going to say it. That’s not his place.
You sip at your drink. “Who?”
“Black jacket. Glasses,” he says.
You turn around, leaning your elbows against the bar. Black Jacket & Glasses is definitely watching you. Up and down.
You snag your bottom lip on your glass and watch him back. Up and down.
That'll do.
“Mm. Target acquired,” you say, and push off from the bar.
Leon turns his stool around, setting his whiskey down next to a puddle of beer. He doesn’t need to watch what you’re doing, now. Next initiative; standby, wait for your exit.
He throws the last of his whiskey back, gesturing for a refill. It’ll do nothing to quell the writhing in his gut, but he’s learned to ignore it.
Fucking Black Jacket & Glasses.
Speak of the devil.
The man appears at Leon’s left, flagging down the bartender and ordering something fruity and strong. Leon side-eyes the guy, sour. He knows you can hold your own, but he doesn’t like the zero to sixty of it.
Going for blind drunk, huh? Working with some deficits?
The guy doesn’t order anything for himself. No card, no tab; he pays cash. He also doesn’t tip, folding a thick wad of small bills away before walking off. Leon snorts into his whiskey glass, the golden liquor thick and warm as it slides over his tongue.
What a catch.
He stays at the bar, hunched, a passive observer to the raucous, bustling life around him. He rations his whiskey, rubbing his thumb along the rim of the glass. Once, he catches your reflection in the mirror among the liquor shelves; your arms are up, dancing, Black Jacket & Glasses tight against your back.
He avoids the mirror.
Leon counts two more of the fruity, strong drinks leaving by BJ&G’s hand before he finally spots you heading for the door on the guy’s arm. You glance back, the usual acknowledgement. You’re leaning into Black Jacket’s side like you’re more than a few sheets gone, but your eyes are keen and alert when they meet Leon’s. You’re still in control.
Leon subtly raises his glass in a tiny ‘cheers’ gesture, only half looking your way.
You disappear into the night.
Leon looks down at his watch. He always stays for another fifteen, in case you come back.
He lifts his finger for another drink, shoulders low.
You’ve never come back.
His name is Jon, with no H. Lazy.
The hair at the crown of his head is thinning, but it’s just started, and it’s subtle. He missed a patch at the back of his jaw shaving, and he dances a little stiff, like he’s counting time or remembering choreography. To grind?
But it’s not nothing he’s working with while he grinds. So.
And he’s handsome enough. Athletic. Nice hands. You wish he had some scruff, a ticklish bristle to tease your neck while you were dancing, maybe some broader shoulders. But nobody’s perfect.
As soon as you’re out in the night air, he wraps his arm at your waist. It’s kind of tight. Not supportive, like he's just helping you walk after three (strong) drinks. No, it's a little bit… captive.
Like he expects you to run.
“I’m parked around back, baby.”
He steers you towards the dark alley that flanks the bar. There is parking at the back, but there’s also now a flag waving at the back of your mind.
It’s red.
“Ooo, hold on, hold on,” you say, and you keep it giggly. You stumble to a stop before the mouth of the alley, digging in your purse, making a show of it. “Shit. I think I left my card.” You didn’t.
His hand tightens at your waist, a little clench. Involuntary.
“It’s probably in there,” he says of your purse. “Come on, it’s dark out here. You can look in the car.”
He’s pressing you towards the alley with the bar of his arm. You keep your stance subtly wide, resisting.
“I think I left it on the bar,” you say, less giggly, more serious. “I shouldn't leave it, I’ll be right–“
You start to step out of his grasp and he redoubles it, crowding in close to mouth at your neck.
“Come on, baby. It’ll still be there tomorrow.”
“Jon, just let me–“
He shoves you past the threshold of sodium light, into the heavy shadow of the alley, and follows.
Leon glances up when the bar door swings open. He straightens, watching you push through the crowd, reading your tension, noting the hair fallen loose over your forehead.
You touch the firm, comforting heat of his shoulder, stealing his drink and knocking it back. You’ve put him between you and the door and your eyes are on it, sharp.
His eyes are on your hand with his stolen glass.
Your knuckles are busted.
Leon barely has time to open his mouth before the door swings open again, spitting Black Jacket & Glasses back into the bar.
Black Jacket & Busted Nose. His glasses are broken, clutched in his hand, and he’s holding his stomach, hunched over.
There’s murder in his eyes.
“Oh, fuck.” Leon deftly wraps you around behind him, and the motion draws Jon’s attention. Leon stands up, walling you off entirely. He’s taller than Jon. Definitely broader.
“Looks like she said no, buttercup.”
Jon’s apparently not firing on all cylinders, because he acts like he’s going to square up to Leon.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Your next problem, unless you walk away.”
“That bitch owes me for the drinks.”
“Ooh, keep talking,” Leon says, low and dangerous, just as you step out from behind him, pissed off.
“That’s not how it fucking works, jackass,” you say, putting extra sauce on the fricative. “Take the L and go, you creep.”
Jon smiles, condescending, and there’s blood on his teeth.
“I’m not leaving without my money, sweetheart.”
“Better start selling blowies in the bathroom, then, sweetheart, ‘cause you’re not getting anything from me.”
The confrontation’s drawn a small audience, because of course it has. You’re not being quiet. Some women nearby holler YEAH in dark delight, and some guy whistles.
Jon growls and lunges forward, but you’d read the intention and you’re already in motion.
You step back, pressing Leon up against the bar as you shove his empty barstool forward with your foot. Jon trips over it and goes tumbling gracelessly to the floor, tangled, and voices raise in surprise and curiosity as nearby patrons back quickly out of the way or crane to see what the commotion is.
The bartender’s not having it.
“HEY! Take that the fuck outside! Get out!”
You raise your hands in surrender, heading for the door and shouldering out into the night without looking back.
Leon eases away from the bartop. It leaves a harsh impression at the small of his back. He feels it less than the lingering weight of your body, your heat down his front.
When he steps outside, you’re not there.
Oh. No, you are, you’re just halfway down the sidewalk, doing your Fast Angry Walk.
“Hey,” you hear him say, but you don’t slow down. You’re seething.
“Fuck that guy.”
He catches up, keeping pace beside you. “Are you alright?”
“Fine.”
“What did he–“
“Unlock the car.”
You’re standing at the Porsche parked on the curb, your hand on the passenger’s side handle. Leon pulls the key from his pocket and the lights flash; you get in and shut the door, firm, knocking your skull back against the headrest once. Frustrated.
Contained. You move your hand with the busted knuckles onto your lap. It’s throbbing, hot and stinging. You hide it under your other hand, loose.
Leon gets in on the driver’s side, another car swishing past on the road, uncomfortably close. He shuts out the night and bubbles you both into an intimate quiet.
He glances in the rearview.
“What did he try.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Let me see your hand.”
You think about refusing, continuing to play avoidance, but the adrenaline is waning and you don’t want to pick a fight. Not with Leon. You sigh through your nose and set your hand on his waiting palm.
His thumb is gentle, running parallel to the broken skin. Even in the low light you can see the dark beginnings of bruising.
You don’t regret it. You’d do it again. Harder.
“We should be icing this.”
“I’ll live.”
You both look up when you hear shouting down the street; Leon ducks to see by the rearview and you lean forward to check the side mirror, looking back towards the bar. Jon is out on the curb, arms waving, belligerent. He’s standing in a perfect rectangle of yellow light from the door of the bar, propped open by whoever threw him out. His broken glasses are on the sidewalk; he bends to swipe them up, still raging, but the yellow light narrows into nothing and then leaves him in the dark to yell at the disinterested brick facade, alone.
You sit back, shutting your eyes.
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“What a waste of a night.”
You hear Leon’s clothes rustle; he’s checking his watch.
“Still early.”
You roll your head to look at him, his face in shadow save for a vague streetlight-orange highlight tracing his jaw, his nose, catching the shine on his lips.
You lift your busted hand.
"I should be icing this.”
Leon starts the car.
“Roger.”
So, everything’s gonna be a trial now.
It's your dominant hand you’d busted on that jackass’ face; it’s turning the simple task of unlocking your apartment door into an impossible puzzle of painful workarounds. You give up and try your non-dominant hand. You’ve almost got it, and then you fumble and drop the keys onto the coir mat.
“Come on.”
You hear a car door and then Leon’s coming up the steps behind you, taking them two at a time.
“Here.”
He unlocks the door and swings it open, leaving the keys hanging in the deadbolt. You grab them on your way past but leave the door wide open, heading for the kitchen. You thought it was a clear invitation but Leon isn’t following. You roll your eyes and call out to him.
“Mr. Chivalry. You got somewhere to be?”
You’re carefully arranging your busted hand flat on the countertop, weighing it down with an icepack, when he joins you in the kitchen. He’s left his coat in the foyer.
Thank god. You didn’t want to be alone.
“I’m hungry and I’m not putting in the effort,” you tell him, bending over your phone on the counter and pulling up a delivery app. “What’s good one-handed food?”
“I could always spoon-feed you,” Leon says, leaning back against the sink and crossing his arms. You throw him a look.
“Let’s save that for the nursing home.” You scroll past a menu photo that snags your attention; you scroll back up. “Ooo, fuck. We’re doing that.”
You put the order in and straighten up, lifting the icepack and checking your hand. It’s even more stiff than it was, cold and swollen. You eye the purpling bruises, the cracking scabs, the violent picture it all makes in the bright light of the kitchen, and remember the crunch of the would-be one-night-stand’s nose, the way it seemed to reverberate up your arm.
Leon’s mind seems to be on a similar track.
“Remind me never to piss you off,” he says.
“Yeah, you’re not an asshole,” you say, stashing the icepack and heading down the hall to your bedroom. You wanna get cozy before eating your weight in expensive takeout.
So then of course you can’t get a handle on the fucking zipper of your dress.
Leon’s quietly perusing the exploded gallery that is your fridge doors – photos, postcards, receipts, novelty magnets, save-the-dates, recipes, stupid doodles on post-it notes – when you come back out.
“I’m starting to regret my life of crime,” you tell him, and turn your back. “Help.”
His fingers brush your skin as he gets the zipper started. You keep your head tipped down, holding the front of the dress in place as the sides come apart and gape open at the back.
“Hey,” he says, and you feel his fingers press by your low shoulderblade. It burns and you flinch, turning your head like you can see anything without a mirror.
“What is that?”
He pushes the fabric aside, his thumb tracing a frame around something on your skin.
“That bastard forced you into the wall, didn’t he.”
“Goddamn it,” you mutter. You need a mirror.
He follows you to the bathroom, watching you twist to try to see your back, catching the tiny slump of your shoulders when you see it.
“Great.”
There’s a livid scrape the size of a matchbook where you’d caught the brick wall of the alleyway. It’s red and raw like rug burn.
Leon’s tone is tight, to match his jaw.
“Where’s your first aid?”
“Under the sink,” you say. You’re not going to argue, not going to insist you can do it yourself. It’d be a difficult spot to reach even with full mobility in both hands. You can let him take care of you.
You stand out of the way, still holding the front of your open dress, feeling a bit like a child watching someone else clean up your mess. First aid open on the sinktop, Leon rotates you gently, hands on your waist, to put your back in better lighting. You hear a foil packet tear open.
“It’s cold,” he warns you, and he’s right. You hiss when the antiseptic touches, stinging against your raw skin, but he soothes the wipe over it until the burning fades and all you can feel is the way he’s touching you. Careful, thorough.
Tender.
He rips open a card-sized bandage, places it methodically, smooths the adhesive edges down. You shiver, your skin raising goosebumps under his fingers.
“Okay,” he says, quiet. You open your eyes. When did you close them?
“You’re not gonna kiss it better?”
You go to throw him a smirk in the mirror, because you’re joking.
He must've missed it. He’s getting down on his knees.
Your pulse picks up.
“Leon,” you start to say, but you don’t know where to go with it. You were kidding. Maybe you don’t want to be. Don’t stop?
Don’t stop.
His hands are on your hips. There’s heat coiling low in your belly.
He kisses over the patch of the bandage. It’s not right. You can’t feel it.
“Lower,” you whisper.
His lips are warm and soft brushing your skin, his breath humid, his scruff a pleasant rasp that makes you shiver hard. Your breath tumbles from your open mouth.
He slips his hands under the open sides of your dress, palms dry against your naked skin, fingertips pressing in. He kisses over your spine, follows the low curve of your ribs, climbs to your shoulderblade, his mouth leaving wet impressions. You’re swaying, body warming, your heart thumping wildly.
“More,” you breathe.
He stands to mouth at your shoulder where it meets your neck, his hands sliding over your stomach under the dress, hugging you back against him.
You let go of the dress. He slides his hand up between your breasts, tips your head back. You receive his tongue with yours, meeting his kiss, and your body ignites.
God, you’re already soaked. You can feel the air of the bathroom cold against the wet fabric of your panties. You’re also feeling something else, pressed flush as you are against Leon’s front. You shift your hips, rubbing your ass against his fly, and he breathes hot into your mouth. You smile, grinding firmer on the hardening line of his cock.
“What’s that on my six?”
His fingers slip into the creases under your asscheeks, squeezing you, lifting as he rocks against you.
“It’s at least a ten,” he says, voice smoky and right by your ear.
“Damn right.” The roll of his body is hypnotizing, but he’s still wearing far too many clothes. You reach back, tugging his shirt from his waistband, and he lets you go so you can turn, helping him take it all the way off. He wraps it around his wrists, belting it under your ass, keeping you trapped. Like you want to go anywhere.
“Fuck, look at you,” he says, low.
“You’re one to talk.” The jingle of his belt echoes, your fingers deft as you open it, open his jeans, pushing the sides wide. You run your hand over his shaft, already straining the front of his boxer briefs, and he watches your face with half-lidded eyes, lips parted. You lean in, brushing his lips with your own, stealing his groan when you dip your hand under his waistband and squeeze him, so hot and full and satin-soft.
His hands are back on your ass, twin handfuls pulling and squeezing as he kisses you, and you laugh into his mouth.
“Can I interest you in something?”
You feel his teeth, nipping at your lips.
“Bend over the counter,” he tells you.
“Fuck.” Yeah, you’ll do that.
He smooths his hands down your back, going wide to avoid the bandage, and hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs. You step out of them, kicking them to one side, and feel his hands on your thighs, widening your stance. He kisses the rise of your ass, gently squeezing the flesh in his teeth, and travels lower.
“Hips back.”
You give a breathy moan at the first touch of his mouth to your drenched pussy. He kisses you there, firming his tongue to tease your clit, laving back through your folds and sucking light, releasing with a pop. You cry out when he turns his head, breaching you with his tongue, humming, fucking you with it before easing back, breathing out hot against you. You feel his teeth scraping your ass cheek again.
“Fuck, you taste sweet."
“You’re gonna spoil your dinner,” you gasp out, almost delirious. You moan when he rubs through your dripping slick with his fingers, slowly pushing one inside you. You rock back against it, fucking yourself on it, greedy.
“God. More, Leon. Stand up.”
His second finger stretches you; your hips stutter, breath hitching, then you press back and take him to the knuckles, groaning.
“Fuck.” He’s thrusting shallowly into your grip, your good hand tight around his cock, his waistband shoved down under his balls. You look back over your shoulder, watching the flushed pink head of his dick as it pushes through the tight circle of your fist, his tip leaking. You rub your thumb through it and he drops his head back, the luxuriant roll of his body almost too much for you to watch, his belt buckle clinking, cold against the back of your thigh.
“Jesus, Leon.”
You twist your wrist on the upstroke and he gasps, looking down at you, chest flushed pink, eyes completely blown.
That’s too much.
His back hits the wall; you’re shoving his clothes down his legs and off, his belt smacking the baseboard when you fling his pants away. You grab his shoulders and he hauls you up onto his waist; you belt your legs around him, your hips shifting as you try to catch the head of his cock where you desperately want it to go. He adjusts his grip on you, reaching down to line himself up, and you both gasp as he breaches you.
He lets you sink down on him, easing you, careful, pushing up with shallow thrusts. You take all of him, every throbbing inch until you’re flush against his pelvis. He stays there, letting you adjust.
You stir your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, looking down at him.
“I think you’re fired,” you tell him, a little shaky. He just looks at you, studying you, half his brain too blissed out to function.
“You’re a terrible wingman,” you say.
“Yeah?”
“How is anyone supposed to compete?” You rock your hips, biting off a groan as his cock strokes along your walls. He can reach deep, thick and hot inside you. “Fuck. You’re not supposed to ruin me for anyone else.”
“Oops,” he says without a shade of remorse, and snaps his hips in a short, deep thrust. You cry out, bouncing with it, and he does it again. And again.
“Oh my god, Leon, ruin me,” you whimper.
Your ass hits the cold sink countertop, Leon leaning forward to brace as he starts fucking you in earnest, your legs falling wide from his hips. He gathers them back in, blunt fingernails scraping down your thighs, and you press your hand to the mirror behind your head, body rocked by every thrust, the countertop unyielding against your tailbone. You can’t find it in you to care.
Leon reins it back for a stretch, going slow and deep, dipping his head to kiss the swell of your breast, drag the flat of his tongue over your nipple, circling it, sucking. You keen, digging your heel into the small of his back, sighing as he sucks lightly on your other nipple, scraping his bristly cheek along the skin of your chest to bury his face in the side of your neck, bracing his arms on the countertop again. The sound of skin slapping skin picks up, echoing around the bathroom, obscene.
“Since I'm not on payroll,” he starts conversationally, against your shoulder.
“You volunteered,” you say, breathless.
“I hated it,” Leon says.
“What?”
“Playing wingman.”
You push him back so you can stare at him. “You never said–“
“Yeah. Cuz I'm a quitter,” he says, gruff. “And I'd love to let you down.”
He pulls you up, down off the countertop, slipping out of you. He bends you over, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, lining up and pushing back in slow. He brings your leg up, the side of your knee against the countertop. You sigh, then moan loud when every new thrust starts slapping his balls against you.
“Oh, fuck, Leon!”
He grips your ass, his breathing harsher, fucking into you hard and fast. You feel the coil start to build, your toes curling, canting your hips just so, pushing yourself back against every thrust.
“God, like that,” you whine, face pinched in desperation as you near the edge.
“That’s it, shit – I can feel you,” he says, and then his fingers are circling your clit and you cry out, clutching at his arm. “Come on, sweetheart, I got you.”
And that’s you gone.
You crash down into a white-out orgasm that has you jerking and writhing beneath him, groaning brokenly, grasping at the countertop, grasping at him. He curses around your name, drapes himself over your back and fucks you through it, slow and rocking, then manages only a few more rapid thrusts before he’s bottoming out and pulsing inside you with a guttural moan, hot cum coating your walls that still convulse with aftershocks.
You both slide down onto the bathroom rug, gelatinous and spent. Leon slips out and you feel his cum following, trickling out onto your thigh, but it’s not on the rug so it’s not worth moving about.
Neither of you so much as twitch when the doorbell rings.
“Food’s here,” you say, eyes closed.
Behind you, Leon hums and drapes his arm over you.
“Don’t get up all at once.”
“Thanks, I won’t.”
He kisses your shoulder. “Shower?”
“Seems excessive,” you say, your eyes still closed. They flare open when Leon drags lazy fingers through the mess spilling out of you, smearing it up onto your stomach.
“You’re a monster.”
He smiles and pulls you to lie on your back, bending to kiss you slow and deep, fingers dipping inside you, gathering more of his cum. He paints it onto your thigh in little circles and swirls, languid and ticklish, and you can’t even be mad. The shower’s right there.
You pull his hand from between your legs and press it flat to his own chest, dragging it down.
“Better start the water. Our food’s gonna get up and walk away.”
The hot water stings your busted knuckles.
You hold your hand clear, smiling quietly while Leon massages shampoo into your hair and then tips your head back against his shoulder to rinse. You sigh when he runs his slippery, soapy hands all over your body, kissing your shoulder, your neck, your mouth.
You turn in his arms, push his wet hair back from his eyes, run your hands down his face. The pad of your thumb fits perfectly at the corner of his mouth; you run it along his bottom lip.
“Can I be honest?”
“Probably unwise.” You can see his eyes tracing arbitrary paths between your freckles; over your cheeks, nose, forehead.
“You’ve always been my metric,” you tell him, quiet. “I was always looking for someone like you.”
His gaze settles on yours, a pinch forming between his brows.
“And where was I?”
“Out of my league.”
He snorts. “You've gotta be shitting me.”
“Don’t give me that.”
He holds your chin, tips your face up to kiss you.
“Couldn't read me for shit, could you.”
“That's not fair, you're trained to be unreadable.”
“Guess I played myself.”
You study him, searching his eyes.
“What?”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I told you.”
“No, I mean, when the door was wide open,” you say. “When I broached the subject of a wingman. Could’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”
“It wasn’t right,” he says. “You were looking for fun.”
Your brow creases. “What are you looking for?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then,
“Keeps,” he admits, quiet.
Your heart does something probably medically suspect in your chest.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You kiss him, winding your arms around his neck, loose.
You’re smiling.
“Good.”
On AO3
Well this was a bolt-out-of-the-blue two-day rabid writing experience,, Fs in the chat for my other WIPs 😔
Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 🧡
Taglist: @lencix346
When Leon mentioned using chamomile tea to get some sleep, Lys brought him a special kind straight from her home country
Hi ! I love your works and wanted to ask if I could request Leon Kennedy x reader! who is an extreme cuddle bug. What I'm thinking is the reader being really touch starved and not being able to sleep without being near Leon so she even clings onto him when he has to write reports late at night . Now idk if this also makes sense to you but yeah ignore this if it feels a little weird. Anyways have a great day / night !
Omg yes! Tbh this is so me. I'm always trying to bug/cuddle with my partner lol. This is written with Death Island era Leon in mind, but any older version of Leon works too. Summary: Leon is working late, trying to finish some reports. You decide that he should probably stop for the night. Masterlist
Cuddlebug - Leon Kennedy x Reader
The way your hands slip around him is familiar and warm.
At this point in the relationship, it’s pretty much expected that you’d sneak into his office while he worked on his mission reports. You’ve always adored holding him, something that he’s become quite fond of, and today seems to be no different.
“Done with your work yet?” Your words are muffled as your head nuzzles lovingly into his shoulder.
He gives a small, breathy chuckle. “Not yet. Still got a few more pages to do.”
“Aw.” Your head tilts a little, giving you acces to kiss his cheek. His stubble seems to tickle your skin, judging by the way you scrunch your nose. “That sucks.”
A smirk forms on his face. “It sucks less now that I’ve got you with me. Can’t sleep? It’s late.”
You nod. He can feel your hair brush up against the skin of his neck. “Yeah. It’s hard to sleep without you.”
Blue eyes finally glance up from his paperwork, looking at you. You’re clad in your pajamas, the fabric soft and inviting against your skin. Your hair has been taken down from its usual style, your face washed. Ready for bed, obviously. But he knows that without him by your side, sleep is going to be hard for you.
He hums, tilting his head into yours. “How about we move this to the couch? I can work on my laptop. Sound good?”
Another nod against his shoulder. “Yes, please. That sounds great.”
.
.
.
He has to admit, the plush fabric against him is lulling him to sleep, even as his fingers type lazy words on the old keyboard.
It doesn’t help that you’re beside him, cuddling up to him with your arm around his chest and your legs tangling into his. Though you’re not asleep yet, he can tell that you’re definitely getting there, your eyes going heavy and limbs settling into him. When your head rests heavier into his shoulder, you let out a cute little yawn. It makes a smile come to his face.
“You’re making it hard to get my work done, Honey.”
A content sigh comes from you, leaning further into him. “That’s a you problem, Dear. I’m not doing anything.”
The words make him chuckle, trying to blink the sleepy feeling from his eyes. The words on his computer screen seem a bit blurrier now, as if his brain is trying to shut off for the night without his approval. When he glances at the clock, it reads as 12:34 at night.
Has he really been working that long? He started at 5 PM.
He turns his head a little, about to say something to you, when he hears a little snore.
Your head is against him, slumped in a way that can only mean that you’re deep in REM sleep. Lips parted, you’re sleeping against his chest, just like when you’re both laying in bed at night. He can feel your warmth seeping into his skin.
Leon tries to focus on his screen again, but the words are refusing to unblur.
Yeah, maybe he should stop for the night.
With a yawn, the laptop gets closed and pushed aside, his body slowly peeling you off of him as he stands. When he picks you up, it’s careful and tender, making sure not to wake you as he starts to walk up the stairs to the bedroom. All the while, you’re asleep in his arms, still trying to cuddle against him, even in your sleep.
He lowers you unceremoniously onto your side of the bed, tucking you in. It doesn’t take time for him to join you on his side, pulling you close to his chest. The way you snuggle into him is automatic. It makes his chest tighten, that sweet feeling of care and love bubbling up in his chest.
His eyes close, adjusting one more time to get comfier before he starts to nod off to sleep.
In his arms, you stir just a little, one eye cracking open to peak at him.
“Love you, Dear.” Your words are slurred with sleep.
He smiles, kissing your forehead. “I love you too, Honey.”
Your writing is genuinely my favorite I LOVEE your characterization of Leon sm!!! I get so excited every time I see you post!
If you're taking requests, I've had this idea simmering in the back of my mind for a while of Leon finding out his partner of several years is secretly super tatted beneath their combat gear! He discovers their ink when they get hurt on a mission and he actually sees their body for the first time.
I would especially love a sort of friends to lovers vibe with it too, if possible!! Smut is up to you but I LOVEEE how you write angst and hurt/comfort so please go crazy with that!!
Thanks so much for all that you do!! Can't wait to read more of your work!!!
Hello, hello!
So sorry for the wait but I've finally done it! Although it is disastrously not proof read. Sorry in advance!
But here is what I've had in my draft folder labeled: Agents, Codename: Old Man and Dragon Tattoo
Words: uh I forgot...like 1.5k??
Yeah, you're dirty and exhausted, wiping literal mud off of your palms and tactical gear, but it was successful enough that nobody died.
The back of the DSO transport van smells faintly of gunpowder, ointment, and sweat. The city lights blur past the tinted windows as the driver navigates traffic back toward headquarters. He's only visible through a small, narrow window that's half-opened.
Across from you, Leon sits with his forearms resting on his knees, dropping into himself like he can't bother holding himself up anymore. The kind of tired that settles into a person after decades of this work.
You lean your head back against the wall and close your eyes.
For a few blessed minutes, neither of you speaks. It's just the bumps on the road, the cold metal on the back of your feverish scalp, and the quiet of the van.
"How long?"
You crack an eye open to find Leon. He hasn't moved, but his eyes are on you.
"How long, what?" you ask.
His gaze doesn't move.
"How long have you been bleeding?"
You immediately look down, which is a mistake. The dark stain spreading beneath your tactical vest becomes impossible to ignore once you've seen it.
You almost wince, then pull it back. You look away, but there's nothing to look at. Only the white interior of the van bed.
"...It's not that bad."
Leon exhales, the way a man does when he's attempting to remain patient.
"Take the vest off."
"Leon–"
“Jesus, kid, just,” he moves closer, one hand on your vest, “can you listen for once?”
“I get the grumpy old man today, huh?” you ask as he undoes the Velcro on your vest.
You sigh dramatically, mostly because it amuses you. Leon remains entirely unimpressed.
A few moments later, your vest lands beside you.
His eyes narrow.
"Shirt, too."
You stare at him.
He stares right back. His face is steady and professional. He's not flustered or awkward or even remotely affected. If anything, he's too serious. Too controlled.
“You got a real bug up your ass today, you know.”
"Yeah, yeah, make me the bad guy when you're the one who got stabbed."
Your tongue clicks.
"Really more of a scratch."
"Congratulations," Leon says dryly. "You've discovered a new shape for a stab wound."
Despite yourself, you laugh. At the sound, his mouth twitches.
It's a victory, no matter how small. Then it's gone immediately.
"Shirt."
You grumble under your breath and obey. The moment the fabric clears the injury, Leon's expression changes.
The first thing Leon notices is the color. Not the blood.
The ink.
His hand stills and you immediately know why.
"Oh."
A smile tugs at your mouth. "Oh?"
Leon blinks, then his gaze shifts slightly from the injury to the tattoo disappearing beneath the rest of your shirt.
"You have tattoos."
You stare at him. After several years of working together, dozens of missions, countless stakeouts, and approximately six thousand shared coffees, that is apparently the revelation that's finally broken him.
"You say that like I've been hiding a second head."
"You've been hiding..." His eyes narrow. "...all of those."
You glance down. Fair enough. What little skin is exposed is covered in black ink. The edge of flowers winding along your side. A section of script. Something that looks like stars disappearing beneath fabric.
You snort.
"Leon."
"No." He points. "When exactly were you planning on mentioning this?"
"I wasn't aware I was required to submit body modifications to my partner for review."
His mouth twitches.
"You've known me for years,” Leon said.
"You've known me for years."
"Yeah."
"And?" you continue.
"And somehow I never noticed you're secretly covered in tattoos."
The disbelief in his voice is genuine, which is ridiculous, and weirdly flattering because Leon notices everything.
Everyone knows that.
You've seen him identify a threat from half a city block away. Seen him remember license plate numbers after a single glance. Seen him recognize people he met once fifteen years ago. Nothing escapes him.
Except apparently this.
You fold your arms.
"What can I say? You're not usually in the habit of staring at my torso."
“Wish that was true, kid.”
The words seemed to leave his mouth before his brain could stop them.
Silence, immediate and prolonged.
You feel heat climb your neck.
The driver suddenly becomes very interested in the road.
Leon's gaze doesn't leave your tattoo.
"...Right."
Leon clears his throat, then returns his attention to the wound with the focus of a man trying very hard not to think about anything else.
He moves closer, kneeling in front of your seat. The van rocks gently beneath the motion.
The problem is that now you're thinking about it too. The years between you. The strange shape of your friendship. The way Leon always remembers your coffee order. The way he automatically reaches for the door when you're carrying equipment. The way he checks your apartment windows after difficult missions without ever mentioning it. The way he calls when he can't sleep. Not to talk, just to hear another person breathing on the line
Neither of you mention how many times you've patched each other up over the years, or how natural it feels to be in each other's personal space.
His hands settle lightly against your side. You watch him inspect the wound as concentration settle over his features. You watch him mentally catalogue everything. He's tracking things like depth, bleeding, bruising, infection, risk…
The same way he analyzes every threat.
Except now the threat is pain, and you're the thing he's trying to protect.
"You should've told me."
The words are quiet.
You shrug.
"I was busy."
You spare one looked at him and somehow it conveys an entire lecture.
You grin. Leon does not, but his thumb briefly brushes against uninjured skin as he reaches for a bandage.
"You know," you say, "most partners would start with 'good job.'"
"I'll put it in the report."
You snort.
“Use the phrasing “my beloved partner and best agent around’.”
Leon hums absently. His touch never wavers despite the movement of the vehicle.
"You realize," you say after a moment, "you treat every injury like I'm made of glass."
His hands pause, then continue.
"No. I treat every injury like you're important."
He keeps his eyes fixed on the bandage.
You look down at him and see the concentration etched into his face, and for the first time, a terrible realization occurs to you.
Maybe you've spent years convincing yourself that Leon was simply observant, simply kind, simply Leon, because the alternative required admitting how often his eyes found you in a crowded room.
Leon finishes cleaning the wound. His fingers brush against another piece of ink near your ribs.
His gaze catches on it.
"What does this one mean?"
The question surprises you, because Leon never asks questions he isn't prepared to remember forever.
You tell him.
Then he asks about another, and another, as though each answer matters.
He finishes bandaging the wound as the city lights move across his features in soft flashes. "There." You glance down. "Happy?"
"No.” His eyes finally moved from your torso. He stares at the wall like it's suddenly interesting. “Just less unhappy."
You laugh.
And for the first time since climbing into the van, Leon's shoulders loosen slightly.
Mission complete.
Partner alive.
And, unintentionally, and after all this time, friendship strengthened into something one step deeper.
the fight never ends / i can't face the dark without you
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ breaking benjamin - without you
(gn reader / comfort / 1.1k words) moments shared with leon after he has a nightmare
LEON KENNEDY PRESSES HIS HAND AGAINST THE WARMTH OF A CERAMIC MUG JUST TO FEEL IT BURN. steam billows into his face when he leans over the top. truthfully, tea had never been his thing. he drank cheap diner coffee when chris forced him out to chat and cleared any tiredness of the night in the morning by splashing cold water on his face.
but cold water doesn’t feel right tonight. not when the bathroom of your apartment is connected to your bedroom where your sleeping body still lies, peacefully dreaming. the pipes are old, leon reasons. their creaking would wake you. or the rattle of the door hinges he still hadn’t fixed. or the ache of the floorboards protesting against his weight.
and he really doesn’t want to feel any colder tonight.
leon lets his eyes flutter shut, content to feel the warmth for a little while longer. the nerves in his hands must be shot, he thinks. or maybe it’s something in his head. this wasn’t a new behavior, but it was something he had done his best to ignore. he had wasted a few years stuffing it down with alcohol. more recently, it had been boxing.
leon sighs. it’s almost soothing in a way. like the feeling of first dipping into a warm bath after a long day.
he leans his weight against the countertop until his hips press into the rounded edges of the marble. there’s an old ache in his knee that only ever returns when it’s about to rain. you had teased him about it once — he was “better than the news.” leon laughed. your fingers massaged the muscle until he could support his weight without complaint.
the mug cools as time passes. the tea no longer steams. leon raises the cup with shaky hands and takes a slow sip. it’s soothing when it hits his throat. the sweetness lingers in his mouth. he lets his eyes flutter shut for just a moment, relaxing his trembling hands once again.
quiet never lasts long. not around leon, anyways. he doesn’t move when the floorboards creak nearby. your footsteps are gentle, but not silent. you knew how to sneak around without being heard. this was a choice; it’s a decision to make yourself known. something in his chest warms.
you make your way to leon’s side, leaning against the countertop beside him. you don’t touch him. not yet. but you stay close enough that he can hear the rustle of your clothes and your own hands pressing against the countertop’s surface.
“couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice quiet.
leon blinks. his eyes flutter open, staring down at the mug once again. he focuses on the still water inside. he focuses on maintaining the steady rhythm of his breathing. “no,” he finally murmurs. “just… thinking.”
you nod, though leon doesn’t see it. instead, you shuffle slightly closer, letting your knuckles brush against his own. he lets out a breath that comes out shakier than expected. still, his shoulders relax ever so slightly when he does. you don’t push further. you just wait.
leon wraps his right hand around the mug once again, downing the rest of the tea before it goes cold. the ceramic clatters against the countertop when he sets it down. leon cringes, sending a mental apology to your neighbors about the noise.
“it’s supposed to storm in the morning,” you say, almost offhandedly. “might be able to skip your run.”
leon lets an amused huff escape him. it’s easy to read between the lines. skip the run, sleep in instead. he nods, shifting to look at you. you’re tired. he can see it even in the darkness: you blink at him sleepily, half-leaning against the countertop as if you’ll collapse without its support. the idea of you dragging yourself out of bed at an ungodly hour of night just to stand beside him in your kitchen makes leon’s cheeks warm. it almost flusters him.
he moves, gingerly taking your hand into his own. his hands are calloused and hardened from years of weapons training. still, you hold him like he’s something fragile. like someone that deserves to be protected. he offers you a reassuring squeeze and a soft smile. “yeah, maybe i will.”
you shuffle closer, leaning against leon’s chest, now. he accepts you with open arms. he shifts to rest his right hand against your waist, pulling you in until you’re tucked into his hold. you let out a soft sigh. there’s solace in his warmth. leon’s lips brush against your cheek when he leans in, pressing a chaste kiss against the skin.
for a few moments, the world stops. leon holds you impossibly close. his hand slips beneath the hem of your t-shirt to trace miscellaneous shapes against your bare skin. your eyes flutter shut as you lean into his hold. you feel the steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling. he lets out another deep sigh, willing the monsters in the darkness to stay hidden for just a little while longer.
you stay there for so long that you nearly fall back asleep against leon’s chest. rain begins to patter against your windows, interrupting the otherwise peaceful night. leon is almost grateful for the drizzle. maybe he will skip his morning run.
“still thinking?” you mumble, finally breaking the quiet.
leon can’t help but smile softly. his hand raises from your waist to instead cup your cheek, gingerly tracing against your skin. you lean into his touch, still half-asleep. “not anymore,” he murmurs. “come on. let’s go back to bed.”
you nod, eager to follow his lead. leon’s hand falls away from your own to instead rest against the small of your back as you retrace the steps back to your bedroom. the sheets are almost cool when he finally settles back onto his side of the bed. you’re quick to follow, tugging the blankets up to tuck them around him. leon chuckles but doesn’t protest. instead, he waits until you finally curl into his side, resting your head against his chest.
you drape one hand over leon’s waist until it curls naturally against his side. your ear is pressed just over his heart. leon hopes you can’t feel how quickly it beats when you’re pressed against him.
leon waits until your breath evens out and sleep overtakes you once again. your chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. his hand snakes beneath your shirt once again, desperate to feel the warmth of your skin against his own.
“thank you,” he murmurs into the darkness. it’s only response is the continued patter of rain as leon finally slips back into sleep.
notes: please leave feedback if you enjoyed!! does writing for re9 leon technically make it old man yaoi, returning to my roots briefly because i've had this idea sitting in my google doc for far too long, and the re fandom is always so kind to me ily guys
if you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, or rebloging !! and if you want to support me, consider checking out more fics here <3
this place is a shelter (leon kennedy x f!reader) cw: 18+ mdni, nsfw; soft morning smut + angst
Grief was fickle.
It waited, lurking, while you believed you had finally, finally sensed movement on the horizon, sunlight punching through its choking cloud, only to hunt you down in the din of a crowded room. In the silence of morning coffee.
At two in the morning when there were no distractions left.
You didn’t remember falling asleep. Only the tears. The way you’d collapsed beneath them.
And him, a steady presence behind you, his breath a comforting whisper in your ear. Holding you through it without asking for an explanation you couldn’t give.
It was there he remained, pressed flush to every curve; his bicep your pillow, his chest warm and rising in an even rhythm against your back.
Solid. Constant. The one certainty where the concept didn’t otherwise exist.
Your eyelids peeled open to the pale blue light of early morning filtering through the curtains. Your favorite time, or had been, in the way the world was still quiet, a bated breath before routine.
Now, an invitation for the familiar, heavy weight on your chest. The tightening beneath your ribs, the lump that you struggled to choke back.
Grief was fickle, yes. But so were you.
The movement was small, almost instinctive, when you canted your hips back into him.
A soft groan vibrated through his chest as his hand immediately settled over your stomach, his lips brushing the shell of your ear with his hoarse reply.
“Mornin’ to you, too.”
Something inside your chest let go at the familiarity of it, so relieving that it only urged you onward.
Another shifting movement, more insistent now, pulled him to full awareness.
The mattress dipped as he rose just enough to glimpse your face, the glassy, pale blue of his eyes stark under sleep-weighted lids.
Again, you pressed into him. “Please.”
He registered the dried tears, his thumb trailing their path, gaze lingering like he was searching for remnants of last night.
The line between his brows deepened.
“It’s okay,” you murmured, reaching back to rest a hand against his cheek. Leverage enough to crane your neck for the kiss. A confirmation and invitation.
He leaned into it. Your tongue parted his lips—gentle, no demand in it—and something in him gave way, a quiet loosening that you could feel immediately.
His fingers traced above the soft skin of your belly button, then moved lower, slow and deliberate. Just shy of the barrier he was clearly aware of. Not unwilling to cross it, but watching, reading. Waiting for any hesitation.
You exhaled into him, sharp and unsteady, grounding your hips a final time.
The restraint didn’t snap so much as fall away.
He edged into the light cotton, callouses dragging against sensitive skin, lazy in the haze of still skirting the edge of sleep.
Your breath caught against his mouth as you opened for him.
Slick warmth waited where he stopped to collect, then returned to circle the swell that pulsed with the frantic beat in your ribcage
Hand cupping the nape of his neck, you arched against his hand, and his answering groan met the staccato rhythm of his strokes. Urgent yet gentle, taking his time like he was hellbent on making sure you stayed here with him instead of dragged back by your own mind.
And you felt it—the weight receding, steadily backed into a corner as the world around you narrowed.
You came on a cry as his arm flexed beneath you, his palm meeting your forehead in a gentle stop to keep you pressed against his shoulder, his breath hitching in your ear.
Nimble, shaking fingers reached blindly for his waistband, your underwear simultaneously tugged away. Freedom for you both, his smooth firmness a brushed promise against your back.
His lips caressed your neck as he adjusted and you guided. Slow, steady, the sensation drawing a moan in tandem. He pulsed once, testing, then gradually bottomed out, slicing the coiled heaviness in your core, your pleasure a sharpened sword.
It always devastated him, the way your bodies met—so perfectly carved for one another that there could be no question where each belonged.
He didn’t hurry, a low noise in his throat as he savored it, his eyes languidly tracing the curve of your lips as they parted around his name.
Arm hooked under your knee, he edged your leg upward, wider. You met him with soft reverence, his opposite palm sliding along your jaw, your face arching upward to meet his—awash in bliss and nothing of the pain he’d witnessed only hours ago.
Then his name, again spoken like a plea.
It was his undoing. His pace stuttered, driving harder.
Refuge was too inadequate. It was sanctuary, this small bubble you occupied. Blankets tangled among the whisper of skin; I love you on hushed sighs. A complete un-anchoring from reality.
His fingers combed into the hair at your temple—not pulling, but firm. A heel to hold you closer still for the sharp angle of his hips to coax your release.
It came hard on a shattered breath, a devouring wave that built and eddied, built and eddied, pulling with it the last of grief’s tendrils from where they’d rooted too deep.
He held you while you rode through it, his hand anchoring into the flesh of your hip as he followed moments later on a broken exhale, hips stuttering, your name a prayer.
You captured it with a gentle bite, a stroke of your tongue, and he claimed you in return—a deep, grounding kiss.
Chests heaving, your eyes met in the comedown, your noses brushing as he pulled back, his thumb stroking gentle lines along your jaw. It stopped at the curve of your lower lip, pushing lightly.
No words, but the silence wasn’t empty.
Then, his arm, wrapping like a vice but softer around your middle to tug you again flush to him, back to chest, his thigh splitting yours. Grounding you there like distance was a threat.
"I've got ya," he murmured, a warm graze of his lips against your neck.
All you could do was nod, fingers intertwining with his across your stomach.
Grief, exhaustion, everything unspoken, had lost its hold. Not gone. Just… displaced. A pause where it wasn’t winning anymore.
Not with him.
a/n: maybe self-indulgent idk
Domestic Leon Kennedy is him standing in the kitchen at 2 a.m. in gray sweatpants, eating shredded cheese out of the bag, no abs because of all the delicious home-cooked meals you've made him.
You're sitting on the counter next to him, laughing when he makes his stupid, dry jokes, looking at him like you're utterly in love.
And he notices.
Which is how he ends up standing between your thighs, staring down at you, ruining the moment he creates by feeding you cheese out of his hand.
nowhere to go, she’s just along for the ride
Summary: Life has battered & bruised you, so you aren’t expecting to find solace in a bar-regular, and yet you do.
Pairing: re4!Leon x bartender!reader
WC/Tags: 4,552 / one night stand, semi(?)strangers to lovers, p in v, heavy kissing, hand holding, talk of abuse, implied physical abuse, MDNI
A/N: I listened to FME by Ethel Cain when writing this. For day 18 of @juneofdoom ‘how long have you been like this?’ Comments & likes are always appreciated
His cheek is still tender.
The punch had come out of nowhere, some asshole that had heard about the ‘new special agent’, and wanted to make a statement. Of course. This isn’t the first time, and wouldn’t be the last. Doesn’t mean it isn’t annoying. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
The beer he’s nursing is his third. Normally he doesn’t drink, but it’s the weekend which means he doesn’t have to wake up at four am the next day, that he can indulge in a hangover, so he plans on having probably a dozen and then stumbling back to base. It isn’t the best plan but it also isn’t the worst, and besides, it’s not like he has anything else.
Leon swallows the last of the bottle, placing it on the bar top before raising his hand. You had been expecting it, and walk over quickly, tilting your face. “Another?”
He nods once, sharp and quiet. His eyes are dull, not from alcohol yet, but something deeper. The bar’s dim light catches the faint bruise blooming along his jawline.
He doesn’t smile when you tilt your head. Doesn’t thank you either, just watches as you grab the next beer, twist off the cap with practiced ease, and slide it over. His fingers wrap around it, cold glass against calloused skin, and he brings it to his lips without hesitation this time.
Your cheek is also tender. You didn’t bother to cover it up with makeup, the swelling had already gone down and the bruising was light. The actual pain was more than skin deep, but that didn’t matter. That kind of bruise doesn’t show.
Rag in hand you wipe down the counters, toss away old coasters as Leon sips. You’ve seen him before, but this is the first time you’ve seen him stay, seen him drink. Normally he has a beer or two and leaves, but now his eyes bore into the wood of the counter like it holds the universal answer.
“Stare at it harder,” you jab, if for nothing but boredom. “Maybe it’ll speak to you.”
Leon blinks. His expression is flat, unamused. The kind of look that could freeze a man’s spine. A beat passes before he takes another sip from the beer bottle, longer this time.
He doesn’t respond with words, just sets the bottle down with a soft clink and finally looks at you properly: tired eyes scanning your face like he’s reading between the lines of the bruise on your cheekbone, how quickly you moved to refill his drink, how casually sharp your tone was despite it all being fake lightness.
His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. No comeback. Just silence heavy as lead in an empty bar after midnight.
You aren’t sure where the tension came from but it’s thick. Heavy. Your stomach flutters with that gnawing want to be ravished, to be held and maybe not squeezed so tightly; but your boyfriend, exboyfriend, doesn’t fuck like that and you aren’t sure if you really deserve that anyways. That kindness.
Leon finishes his bottle and asks for another in a quiet voice. You hand it to him, preparing to move on when his eyes move to your face.
“When do you get off?”
You blink at him, curious if he’s feeling the pull too. He looks lonely enough. “‘Bout an hour.”
He nods, the beer already at his mouth. “I can wait.”
“You making assumptions?” You ask, leaning a hand on your hip.
His expression cracks into a small smile, and it looks odd on his face. “Am I wrong?” Heat crawls up your neck and you look away, dropping the rag to the counter. The dirty bar floor suddenly looks very interesting. Leon chuckles and his beer clinks on the table. “Didn’t think so.”
The chuckle still hangs in the air as Leon leans back on the barstool. He’s not handsome in a flashy way; his face is all angles and shadows, with barely there stubble, but tiny smile makes him look younger. Softer.
He watches you avoid eye contact with quiet amusement before taking another sip of beer.
An hour isn’t long, but it feels like one when your pulse is hammering.
You grab a mop from behind the counter, not because you need to clean now, but because standing still feels too hard under his gaze. The clatter of metal against tile fills the silence while he sits there calm as ever: two bottles down, no sign of slurring or clumsiness yet, the man can hold his liquor better than most soldiers.
After a minute or so, he speaks again without looking up: “You got someone waiting for you?”
“Aside from you?” You reply, and shake your head. “No, not anymore.”
He doesn’t reply, and you go back to mopping.
When your shift ends, you empty out the trash and return inside to wash your hands. You can feel his eyes on you as you move, and you try not to look up, try not to imagine what it’ll feel like to have his eyes on your bare skin.
Closing the register, you return the key before spinning to look at him. You inhale, coming around the bar and approaching his right side. “Mine or yours?”
Leon stands like his back aches, which is odd considering he can’t even be in his 30s yet. The barstool scrapes against the floor as he pushes it back. He’s taller than you expected up close, broad-shouldered, solid like a soldier should be, but his movements are quiet.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a set of keys, military-issue keychain with dog tags clipped to it, and turns them once in his palm before looking at you.
“Yours,” he says simply. “I’m on base.”
His voice is assuring, like that settles everything. Like this is already decided and all that’s left is walking out together under the dim streetlights outside.
He pockets the keys again without another word, then holds out his hand toward you. You blink at it and consider him, consider yourself because what if he’s crazy? What if he’s harder than your ex, harsher? You aren’t sure if you can stomach that right now.
Taking his hand you lead Leon from the bar without protest. He nods to his car, and you get into the passenger seat as he turns it on. You give him directions, and he doesn’t speak as he drives, just obeys in a quiet manner.
When he pulls in front of your trailer, a good 10 miles from the military base, you get out first. Your cowgirl boots kick up dirt as you close the car door and fish your keys from your purse. Leon follows you, quiet as ever when you push open the trailer door.
The trailer is small, tidy in the way your shoes are lined up by the door, a coat hung neatly on a hook. There’s soft lighting from a single lamp, and faint music playing low on an old radio: something slow and nostalgic.
You kick off your boots near the entrance. Leon steps inside behind you after removing his jacket. He doesn’t take off his boots but pauses just inside to scan the space: no photos on walls, no cluttered surfaces. Just order.
He shuts the door gently behind him.
For someone who carries guns every day and has seen war zones firsthand, he moves like this moment matters more than most.
He isn’t rushing. No grabbing at you yet, not even when you turn to face him in that dim light wearing jeans and that thin sweater that hugs your shoulders just right.
“Live alone?” He asks and you nod.
“Yeah,” you reply. “It was my dads ‘til he left.”
“He coming back?”
You shrug. “That was a few years ago, so. Don’t think so.”
Leon nods, his eyes travel over you once, then meet yours again, dark blue meeting hurting loneliness, and finally, he reaches out for you.
His hands are warm.
Large, calloused from years of combat training and gripping rifles in the field, but his touch is careful. One hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone where that faint bruise still lingers. The other settles gently on your waist through the soft fabric of your sweater.
No words.
Just breathes between you growing heavier in the quiet space, then he leans down slowly and kisses you.
It’s not aggressive or hungry like most first kisses after tension like this would be. It’s soft at first, testing lips meeting yours once, twice, a third time with slightly more pressure as his mouth moves against yours with surprising tenderness.
Your hands find his belt and his moves to the hem of your shirt.
He doesn’t move exactly slow but he doesn’t move fast either, your clothing falling to the floor in pieces. Toeing off his shoes, he tugs at his jeans while you find a condom. You sit on the couch, a tattered red one your mother had stitched more times than you can count, and lean back, your head on the arm rest. Leon rips the wrapper with his teeth, sliding the rubber over his length and his hand dips between your legs, pressing over the only fabric left on you. You shiver at the touch, and he tilts his face, watching your reaction.
“The one that gave you that,” he asks, and nods at your face. “He still around?”
You shake your head. “Nope.”
Leon grabs your panties and you lift your hips, helping him pull them down. “Good.”
You spread your legs further, one thigh pressed to the back of the couch and the other tipping over the side of it, foot planted on the ground as Leon leans over you, between your legs. With the condom on and the panties are gone, Leon hovers over you, kneeling between your thighs with that focused intensity he probably uses in his line of work, but now his attention is all on you.
He leans down first to kiss you again, deep this time, and one hand slides up your bare leg from ankle to hip while the other cups the soft skin of your breast.
No roughness, testing how you respond, mapping warmth and shivers like a man relearning tenderness after years of hardship.
His mouth trails lower, over your jaw and throat, to your collarbone, then slower as he kisses down your chest. His breath ghosts over sensitive flesh just before his lips finally brush where you want him, and then he’s kissing there too.
Your lips part as he licks at your nipple, a hand coming up to brush through his hair. His face tilts up to yours and a smile blinks across your mouth.
“The one who gave you that,” you nod at his bruise. “They still around?”
“Unfortunately.”
You make a tsking sound. “You should give em hell.”
Leon exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but not completely. He doesn’t smile at your words like someone would if they were joking.
“Already did,” he mutters before lowering his mouth again, this time catching your nipple between his teeth gently, a small bite that makes you gasp, then soothing it with warm swipes of his tongue. His hands are busy now: one sliding down to grip your hip firmly while the other trails lower over your stomach and belly button.
The way he touches isn't rushed or frantic; every movement is controlled.
Like even in intimacy, Leon S. Kennedy operates with precision, a soldier who knows exactly how to handle something fragile without breaking it, unless ordered otherwise, and he seems very focused on not hurting you.
His head lifts and his mouth finds yours.
You find you like the way he tastes.
His hips are bracketed by your thighs, and your hands run down his chest as he positions himself at your entrance. You try to relax, try to keep still and not make a sound, but then he’s pressing in, filling you, and you can’t help the moan that escapes.
His eyes, half-lidded before, focused on your face, darken instantly. You aren’t sure you like that. He freezes just halfway in, letting you adjust to his size, jaw tight with restraint. You can feel the tension coiled through his shoulders and arms where they brace above you.
For a second he doesn’t move at all, slow inhales through his nose as if counting seconds or praying silently. He kisses you again, tongue swiping at your lip, and slowly pushes the rest of the way in until there’s no space left between you.
A low groan rumbles in his chest, quiet, like he didn’t mean to let it out. His forehead drops to yours as he stays buried inside you, giving your body time. His mouth moves with yours while his hips begin to rock forward in small increments. No urgency yet.
Each shallow thrust is testing friction, heat, and when another soft moan escapes your lips? He feels it against his own mouth and something shifts.
His hands tighten slightly on your hips before one slides up under the curve of your back for leverage, then he starts moving properly, deeper rolls of his pelvis now that match a steady rhythm.
“Shit,” he grunts, his pace picking up, and your nails dig into his upper shoulder. His thrusts are deep, full, and you let your head drop, eyes flutter before his face leans close to yours. “What do you need?”
His question catches you off guard, and you blink at him. “W-what?”
His hand comes up to your jaw, thumb running over your bottom lip. “How do you like it, so I can get you there?”
The question is unexpected, not because Leon isn’t capable of tenderness, but because men like him, tough guys, soldiers who’ve spent years in survival mode, they usually take what they want without asking.
But not him.
His thumb stills on your lip. His breathing is heavy now from the pace but his focus hasn’t wavered. Those blue eyes are sharp even as sweat starts to form at his temples.
He’s waiting for an answer, and you aren’t sure what to say.
“I-” you inhale, then grip his wrist and move his hand to your throat. A muscle in his jaw jumps and his hips slow to a roll, making your lashes flutter.
“That what you like,” he murmurs, and he’s so close his mouth brushes your as he speaks. “Or what he liked?”
The hand on your throat doesn’t squeeze. It just rests, warm palm against your pulse point, thumb pressing lightly into the hollow of it like he’s checking your heart rate.
He studies your face, the way you breathe faster now that his touch is gentle pressure instead of force, and then kisses you again slowly this time, a deep kiss with more feeling than friction.
When he pulls back slightly to watch for any sign, any hesitation or discomfort, he rolls his hips once more deliberately slow and asks again. “You want me to keep going?”
With shaking fingers you grab his wrist and pull his hand from your neck. He lets you instantly, and when you lace your fingers with his, you wonder if he’ll judge you, or ignore the intimacy of it completely.
He does neither.
Instead, with his fingers still intertwined with yours, he drags your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your knuckles before settling your joined hands back by your head.
Then, he fucks you.
His hips are sharp, quick, and you’re gasping as you clench around him, your fingers squeezing his while moans pour from your lips. He drops his head to the crook of your neck, grunting into your skin as his hips snap against you.
The change is sudden, gentle fingers to hard thrusts, his mouth on your neck now with hot open-mouthed kisses and the scrape of stubble against sensitive skin. His breathing is ragged in your ear as he fucks you with a rhythm that’s relentless but controlled, like every snap of his hips is measured to hit just right.
Your joined hands stay pinned beside your head, not trapped, just held there while he moves over you, all muscle and heat.
He doesn’t kiss you again, not yet. He’s too focused on chasing this feeling, the tightness around him when you clench involuntarily from pleasure, the way your moans vibrate into his shoulder where it rests against yours, how perfectly warm this trailer feels despite its sparse walls.
When you come it’s white hot and fast, your legs locking around his waist and your fingers squeezing his so tightly your nails dig into his skin.
Leon feels it the second you clench around him, the sudden, pulsing tightness that nearly stops his breath.
His hips stutter for half a beat before he groans in his throat, a raw sound muffled against your shoulder as your legs squeeze around him like you’re trying to pull him deeper. The pressure of your nails biting into his hand only fuels it, pain mixed with pleasure sharpening everything.
He doesn’t slow down but chases his release now, fucking through yours with deep thrusts that makes the couch creak beneath you. His jaw is clenched tight again, eyes shut or maybe just squeezed closed from intensity.
And then, he’s there too.
He moans, low and muffled and you can’t help but wrap an arm around his shoulder, holding him to you as his hips jerk, and then still. Both of you are panting hard as you loosen your vice grip on his hand, and gingerly he sits up, blinking down at you before pulling out of you completely.
The separation is quiet, careful.
He sits back on his heels between your legs, still catching his breath. The condom’s full now, and he handles it efficiently: knots the end and drops it onto the coffee table beside them with a soft thud. No shame or awkwardness in how he moves, just routine for a man used to cleaning up after himself.
Leon looks at you again, your flushed face, hair messy from being pressed into cushions, lips swollen from kissing.
Without speaking, he reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear before leaning down to press one slow kiss against your forehead. The movement is so tender, so rare to what you’re used to that you nearly flinch, your breathing shaky.
Leon pulls back a little to watch your expression. “I- sorry. If that was too much.”
You blink up at him, surprised not just by the kiss, but by that. An apology, for a gentle touch
His voice is quiet, almost hesitant, like he genuinely thinks he might’ve overstepped some invisible line. And suddenly you realize this isn’t just about sex for him either. This was connection. The thing you’d been missing since you’d last been hit, something rare for someone like him who keeps people at arm’s length.
“No,” you say softly before reaching up to cup his face with both hands and pulling him down into another kiss, gentle this time, lingering on his lips as if to say it wasn’t too much.
He kisses you back, his hand on the back of your head, running over your hair until you both pull back and blink at eachother.
You thought you’d both been looking for one thing, a one night stand, when it seems you both were craving something else entirely.
He reaches down to hand you your shirt and you take it as he tugs his boxer back on. You excuse yourself, moving to the restroom and take inventory of yourself. Your eyes are rimmed but not so dark, and there’s the smallest hickey just below your collarbone. You touch it with your finger tip, twisting your lips.
When you come back into the living room, Leon’s mostly dressed aside from his shoes, leaning back against the couch cushions that he had just had you spread out on. You walk to your fridge, grabbing two beers and handing one to him wordlessly.
He takes the beer without a word, cracking it open with his teeth like before. He lifts it slightly in your direction, not quite a toast, more of an acknowledgment, then leans back against the cushions again. The trailer is quiet now, only the hum of the fridge and occasional creak from old wood settling.
He doesn’t look at you like he’s waiting to leave. Doesn’t check his watch or shift impatiently toward the door. Just sits there drinking quietly beside you on that red couch where not ten minutes ago everything had changed.
“You know when you took me home,” he says gently. “I didn’t realize how much I’d want to stay.”
You blink, tucking your legs beneath you as you sip your beer. You need a second to process that, to understand its meaning. “I didn’t know you’d want to either.”
He turns his head slightly, watching you over the rim of his beer bottle. The dim light catches the bruise on his jaw again, still there, still tender, but right now it feels less like a wound and more like part of him.
“Didn’t plan to,” he admits quietly. “Usually don’t stick around after. But this is… different.”
It’s not romantic phrasing or poetry from Leon S. Kennedy; no flowery words about your eyes or how soft your lips are, he expresses things in actions more than declarations anyway.
You smile and give a shrug. “Don’t know what you mean.”
You know exactly what he meant, but one of you has to be levelheaded. Neither of you can afford getting carried away.
Reaching for the remote, Leon flicks on the tv as if he’s been here before, like he has a history of touching your things, and sets back. You stretch your legs out, and your ankles rest on his thighs. Eyes on the tv, his unoccupied hand runs over your skin, to your feet, the chipped polish dull in the limited light, and begins to massage.
His fingers press into the arch of your foot with surprising gentleness for hands that snap necks and break ribs in combat. The massage isn’t rushed, a mix of steady circles, working out tension you didn’t even realize was there.
The TV plays some late-night infomercial about kitchen gadgets, neither of you watching it seriously. He takes another sip of beer before setting it down on the coffee table and refocusing on his task, caring for your feet like this is normal couple behavior.
There’s something unbearably intimate about it, the quiet domesticity after sex that could’ve just been a fling but clearly wasn't. His touch lingers over every callus and dry patch without judgment, and while his eyes are on the tv, your eyes are on him.
You wonder if you could really like him, could give this a chance. You wonder if he could really like you.
Settling your head back against the arm rest, you twist your neck so you can watch the flashing screen too.
You aren’t sure how long you both sit there, but eventually Leon pats your thigh, whispering that he has to go. You’re drowsy and content as you nod, sitting up before you stifle a yawn. You watch him tug on his boots, lacing them up and then he stands, eyeing you.
Leon isn’t a man who lingers, but now he’s standing by the door with his jacket on, one hand already on the knob; yet he doesn’t turn it yet. You move beside him, tucking your arms around your middle. “Well I.,.I’ll see you around?”
For a second, something unreadable flickers across his face. Then he’s bending to kiss you again, this time slow and deep like goodbye kisses should be when they might lead somewhere else later. When it ends, he brushes his thumb over your cheekbone once before pulling away completely.
“You will,” he says with a nod. He glances around your apartment and picks up a sharpie on your coffee table. He takes your hand and flips it, tugging the cap off with his teeth before writing down a number on your skin. “I mean that.”
He holds out the pen to you and then holds his hand upright, and you can’t help smiling a little as you write your number into his skin. “Thanks for the ride home. I hate walking.”
His palm is warm when you take it, and the sharpie smells faintly like ink as you write your number in neat digits across his skin. He watches you concentrate, your expression doesn’t go unnoticed, and when you finish, he gives your hand a quick squeeze before pulling his back.
Leon hands you back the pen without a word and finally turns the doorknob. Cold night air slips in for just a second, but instead of stepping out immediately, he pauses on the threshold and looks over his shoulder at you, hair messy from lying down earlier, eyes soft with sleepiness but also something warmer beneath it all.
“Leon?” You aren’t sure what makes you stop him, what makes you call his name but he looks at you, waiting. You shift under his gaze. “How long have you been like this?”
He freezes, and you can see the muscles in his throat work as he swallows. His eyes flicker, that unreadable soldier mask slipping just enough to show the young man underneath.
“Like what?” he asks quietly, not turning fully back around but not walking away either. He’s giving you space to clarify without pressure. The night air hums between you, and you shift again, not knowing if you should ask.
“Alone,” you whisper. “How long have you been alone?”
Leon’s shoulders loosen a fraction, and he rubs at his jaw. When he sighs, it’s a quiet sound of defeat. “Since 1998.”
His face doesn’t change much, still composed and handsome, but something in his eyes dims when he says it out loud for what might be the first time ever to someone who actually listened, not just heard. He didn’t answer since my ex or since I joined the military.
No, he went back further than any of that. To before everything else had even started going wrong yet, when it all began, loneliness carved into him like scars from war zones nobody remembers but him.
You don’t realize you’re moving until you’re grabbing his hand, and squeezing it. Your bare feet are chilled on the steps of your trailer. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”
His mouth is set in a line when his eyes meet yours, and they bounce over your face. “Neither do you.”
He squeezes your hand one more time before he lets go, moving down the steps in slow succession and stepping into his truck without another word. You fold your arms around your middle as you watch him reverse.
You aren’t sure how long you stand there, watching the road long after his car disappeared. Dragging your hand eye level you read the numbers written into your skin, before closing your fingers, and pressing your fist over your heart.
x
Ao3 links
Leon K Masterlist
Leon K taglist: @yours-truly-andrea @xozoelivia
June of Doom/Swoon June Masterlist
Divider @andromeda-graphics
✸ Trip to Paradise ✸
Pairing: Post-DI!Leon/gender-neutral!reader.
Summary: Leon has never liked the rain, for more reasons than just the annoyance of getting wet when caught without an umbrella. It went without saying that he was more than unhappy when the weather unexpectedly changed for the worst during your much-anticipated vacation. But even the most chaotic of rainstorms can be lovely, and you wouldn't let him spend his good days lost in his past.
Notes: ~ 6k words. Fluff and humor. A tad suggestive. Established relationship (married!). Tons and tons of Leon being the goofy menace we know and love.
Credit: dividers by @/strangergraphics.
In your line of work, vacations were sadly very uncommon, particularly for someone with the status and experience of Leon S. Kennedy. Proper vacations that is. Ones that lasted for a straight week or even more with no interruptions or reminders of the responsibilities awaiting him at home.
Even you didn't have it quite as bad, despite your own status as a capable senior agent who could easily give him a run for his money. Needless to say, he was as excited as a ten year old on Christmas Eve when he finally received his well deserved full week of leave, and who were you to decline a spontaneous getaway with your overly enthusiastic husband? Extreme heat and tourist traps weren't really your ideal idea of relaxation, but if you got to see him smiling and having fun with no care in the world for once, you were ready to handle some sweating and crowding.
Though, judging by the irritated huff you heard from him as he checked his phone for all the ambitious plans he's laid out for you two for the week ahead, it seemed like something didn't go quite right after all. He tsked.
"-Story of my life. Finally out on a vacation with my beautiful spouse and the weather forecast shows nothing but rain for three whole days? Ever had a romantic getaway through a thunderstorm before, sweetheart?" Leon nudged your foot under the cool water, putting his phone right back onto the beach blanket, screen down, notifications turned off for the first time in a long, long while. You could hear his disappointment, frustration even. For as long as you knew him, he was never really fond of rainy weather, and he has been very eagerly anticipating his week of pure relaxation on the beach, complete with sunny skies, your warm touches, and a glass of iced, expensive alcohol to boot.
Not exactly possible with a thunderstorm on the horizon. You and he were sitting comfortably on a wooden dock just a few feet away from the main beach area. It was more your idea than his own. Crowded beaches could get a bit too overwhelmingly loud and stifling for your liking, but here, with nobody but him pressed snugly to your side with one arm draped lazily over your shoulders and a peaceful view of the ocean ahead of you, you could fully indulge in this little vacation of yours. You hadn't gone swimming with him just yet, satisfied to simply let your toes dip into the glistening, cool water below. However, on two occasions Leon did nearly drag you under with a sinister grin that could kill and a deceptively tight grip on your ankle.
You loved seeing him be his mischievous self with you, loved watching him enjoy the water and relax under the sun - only after you studiously applied a generous layer of sunscreen, of course. It wouldn't be long before you joined him properly, but for the time being, all you wanted was to simply take in these tranquil moments.
Although it looked like your plans would have to be shifted around a little.
"Can't say that I have. But hey, I never had any romantic getaways before, so I don't think a rainstorm or two will ruin your chances to impress me," you said, returning the nudge of his foot with your own, watching you two playing footsies in the water for a bit, a carefree smile pulling at your lips. You didn't need perfect weather or fancy plans to forget your problems. All you needed was him by your side. "-Besides, isn't my company enough to brighten up even the rainiest of days?"
After all, he wasn't the only one who could be cheeky. You weren't about to let him fuss and grumble his long awaited vacation away because of a few not-so perfect days ahead. And he was easy to please. A flirty comment or two and a kiss on the cheek were far more effective than one may think.
And just like clockwork, the subtle crease in his brows vanished immediately upon the contact of your lips with his freshly shaven jaw. He was always a sucker for your touch, you'd tease him about it if it wasn't so sweet to see the grumpiness all but melting out of him with just a little bit of affection. He moved his head towards you to chase after you before you could pull back completely, catching your mouth for a lingering, warm kiss that you had no qualms with reciprocating, a smile pulling at the corners of your lips into the soft exchange.
"Well... I did book this trip for dips in the ocean and drinking beers on a floatie, but if I can't have either? I'd say spending it tangled up in bed with you is pretty good compromise," he murmured quietly against your lips, your smile reflecting in his own. The ocean extended ahead endlessly in serene golden ripples beneath the overcast sunset, but the only view you needed was each other, regardless of how corny that may have sounded. Your lives were chaotic enough to justify indulging in the corniest of things as far as you were concerned. Leon leaned back and sighed, but not before giving you a peck on the nose for good measure. "...Still not my idea of a romantic getaway though."
With a lighthearted roll of your eyes, you pulled your feet up from the water, shifting to drape them over his lap in a relaxed, casual fashion you'd usually do back at home on your couch. You could feel his disappointment - and you couldn't say you blamed him for it - but you also didn't want him to spend all week moping about when he was supposed to be relaxing. And if you needed to come up with creative ways to pull him out of that? Well, you were prepared to utilize every weapon in your armory. Metaphorically speaking, of course. You wriggled your toes: "Well hey, I heard even storms can be romantic when you're near the ocean. ...Mostly."
"You're a bad motivational speaker, honey," Leon exhaled with a soft, fond laugh, his hands immediately going to caress and massage at your feet the way he always did whenever you put them there. Even as he entered his late thirties, he remained a massive lover boy. You've learned to appreciate that about him over the years and to reciprocate it in kind. For now, though, you just let him work his magic on your feet while you sighed contentedly with the sun setting and the ocean air caressing over your cheeks, dispelling any extra heat the sun may have brought.
You didn't have to look over to know that Leon wasn't exactly enjoying the view of the ocean the same way you did. But that's okay. After all, you ogled him more than enough for today while he was enjoying his time the water, wet hair slicked back and shimmering droplets of sea water clinging to his chiseled physique and all. You were even.
"...But I know you're smiling."
The first distant rumble of thunder far over the horizon was accompanied by shared laughter instead of groans of disappointment, and that's all the accomplishment you needed for today.
The first raindrops fell as you two were having an overpriced meal at a beachside restaurant. Some highly acclaimed Michelin star establishment with a name you two had way too much fun trying to pronounce in increasingly ridiculous ways on your way there. Even if you had all the money to compete, you most definitely didn't look like a high-end couple on an expensive outing amid all the well-dressed guests. Granted, you never really needed anything pricy to feel fulfilled, but Leon sure loved putting his hefty paycheck to good use, and that included going all out on his vacation. You couldn't call him an outright snob, though, unless it was about his precious motorcycles or firearms. Not when half the fun of picking out your meal options for the night consisted of you two snickering like children over stupid food puns.
But that's why you adored this silly, wonderful man. No one could make you feel as at ease as he did, and nobody could make you smile and laugh as easily as he did. He made life appear so simple just by being himself.
The dark, heavy stormclouds came on so quickly, it felt like a second ago they weren't even there, the large french windows stretching from floor to ceiling giving you the perfect view of the upcoming dark shape cloaking the last remaining rays of the setting sun that were still there, reminding you of the peace just from a mere hour ago. The wind had also intensified significantly, causing the row of palm trees that provided refreshing shade under the summer sun for the main path to sway beneath its might. For now, you were lucky to be inside, with fancy food and no rain. But you'd eventually have to leave. And something told you that you weren't coming back to your rented out cottage dry.
However, for the time being, you dismissed that forthcoming thought and instead concentrated on the pleasant and tranquil ambiance that was cultivated by the gentle pitter-patter of the first heavy raindrops against the windows. This atmosphere has only really added to your intimate dinner date. Leon swirled his glass of expensive whiskey - actual alcohol - not the cheap beach-bar swill from earlier. It felt cozy. In a weirdly luxurious way that you honestly never thought you’d enjoy. And seeing Leon genuinely having fun for a change was a relief in and of itself. You knew that his personal dislike for rainy weather went far beyond a simple preference for warmth and sunshine. You couldn't really blame him for connecting rainstorms with chaos: hurried evacuations, emergency calls back to the DSO whenever another crisis strikes, groans and explosions in Raccoon City's flooded streets, and so on.
But this? This was just… peaceful. And it was your pleasure to give him this peace.
He took a slow sip and glanced at you across the candlelit table. Soft amber light reflected in his gray-blues, his hair looking more mussed and puffed up than usual from his ocean dip an hour earlier. That, and his casually unbuttoned shirt, which gave you a brief view of his collarbones, made him a sight to behold. Though, you willfully reminded yourself to behave, at least until you got back to your cottage. Leon didn't need much to fly off the handle when it came to you, and you knew your resolve to act like a responsible citizen would fray the moment he caught on to you getting excited.
"I still can’t believe we're actually eating at this place without getting kicked out for being 'too casual.' I mean… look at me." He gestured vaguely to himself - his signature pair of dark jeans and a simple blue button-down with rolled up sleeves that also gave you a nice view of his corded forearms. No tie. Not even close to formal wear by five-star standards. Neither of you had the opportunity to put on formal attire.
You snorted fondly, reaching over the table to tap him on the nose. Although you would have preferred to kiss him properly, you still wanted to maintain at least a somewhat respectful demeanor toward the other guests enjoying their dinner. For now.
"That's because you're gorgeous enough to charm even the snobbiest of staff with just one signature Kennedy smile. Lucky me."
It was clear that you were just flirting, but you did also mean it with all your heart. Leon was one stunning man, in looks and heart alike. You must have been a saint in a previous life, because you had no idea what you did to deserve his company by your side for the rest of your days.
Leon chuckled softly, his gaze ducking a little the way it always did whenever you flattered him in one way or another. It was adorable how shy he could become after just a bit of sweet talk from you, just to turn into an absolute menace the next minute. He gently grabbed at your wrist before you could pull your hand back, bringing it up to his lips to press a soft kiss to your knuckles, his breath scattering over the simple silver band adorning your ring finger.
"Well... My Kennedy charm is a powerful weapon of mass seduction I only ever use on my very hot spouse," he said all too proudly, making you chuckle in return before returning to your menu. You didn't want to keep the poor waiter waiting on you any longer for no better reason than your husband making you swoon and lose your concentration. Again. Nevertheless, Leon cleared his throat to catch your attention once more: "I say, if we're wining and dining in the rain, at least I get to do it with an iced glass of Ardbeg Traigh Bhan."
You raised your brows as you looked up at him, catching him grinning at you with a raised toast. He's cut back on his drinking significantly in recent months, which was a very good sign, but it was also lovely to see him enjoying a glass of whiskey for leisure rather than to block out the pain for once.
"...I have no idea what the hell you just said, and I can't even tell if you butchered that name or not," you deadpanned, trying not to make your amusement too obvious. Watching him pretend to be some whiskey connoisseur was sort of comical because you knew full well that he would prefer a greasy burger and a can of beer to dry aged steak and a glass of wine on any given day of the week.
Leon huffed.
"Oh c'mon now, I know a damn good whiskey when I see it," he protested playfully, swirling the rich, amber liquid in his iced glass before tilting his head at you. "Try and rate it out of ten. If I get a score higher than a seven, I'm putting whiskey specialist on my resume."
"A vital qualification indeed," you hummed, playing along with this charade of his. Acting like idiots was half the fun of being with him, after all. Granted, whiskey was never quite your choice of beverage, but a sip or two wouldn't kill you. Besides, even though you teased him, he was undoubtedly more knowledgeable about fine liquor than you were. "-But y'know I'll be biased, I'll always trust your judgement when it comes to drinks."
You took a measured sip out of his glass tasting the rich, smoky flavor that, while certainly not fitting for your own palate, was definitely far more intricate and complex than your average cocktail or a can of beer. At the very least, it didn't taste like cat piss, so you accepted that as proof of its quality alone. Somewhere in the distance, a rumble of thunder rattled through your chest, making you glance back out the window, licking your lips. It appeared that your hopes for a lighter downpour were not fulfilled after all.
"...Really is a shame about the weather," you murmured, more to yourself than to him, really, returning his glass. "Okay, I'll rate it... Eight point five out of ten. Just for that resume update."
"Cheers to my promotion then. Productive even on my vacation. Hunnigan will love it." He raised his glass again in a lighthearted toast, the ice cubes clinking as another rumbling of thunder shook the window. The sky has now gone completely dark from the looks of it, the ocean that has looked so clear to you back on the dock now seeming more like an endless black void. However, Leon was still grinning and concentrating on you rather than the raging downpour outside. You couldn't help but feel proud of him for that, especially considering how hard things have been for him just in the past few years.
It was always reassuring to know that he could still find joy in the smallest of things, even if he did occasionally need your assistance in reminding him how to do that.
You felt his foot lightly nudging yours underneath the table, pulling you away from your little sentimental reminiscing. However, the dim lighting in the restaurant made it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying because the sparkle in his eyes was so much more noticeable than usual.
"-Hey, for the record, I really don't give a damn if it rains for the whole week for all I care. I would still rather be here with you than anywhere else."
Your heart swelled in your chest.
Now who is a sweet talker?
As expected, the food and accompanied conversation about this and that were delightful, so much so that you could easily forget about the storm outside, the muffled sounds of it lost between the exchanged laughs and the soft live jazz music flowing through the restaurant. You both enjoyed a few more plates than you had intended, especially for dessert, and may have had one or two too many glasses to drink. For someone who proudly declared himself not a sweet tooth, Leon sure was eager to steal half of the fancy cheesecake you ordered for yourself. And given the small servings, that only meant one thing. More cheesecake.
It's not like you could stay here all night, protected from the rain, though. Eventually, you had to pay the bill and actually get ready to leave, pouring rain or not. Still, Leon's grin remained unwavering as he signed the bill, leaving a substantial tip in the small black folder to boot. And as he spoke with one of the waiters to hopefully negotiate an umbrella, you were left staring out at the dark clouds overhead. You were appreciative that he used his charisma to get you two an umbrella at the very least, and his proud smile was far too cute for such a little thing, but you weren't sure if it would be of any use to you at all or if it would even withstand the fierce sea wind. Granted, neither of you were strangers to getting drenched. Simple rainwater was far superior to pure sewage water or B.O.W. blood and guts; you'd be alright even if you returned home soaked to the bone. But that didn't mean you had to like it, either.
"...You think we might get lucky enough for the rain to magically stop once we go out?" You asked, a rhetorical question at best.
"Don't you worry, sweetheart, I'll hold you real close so you won't get cold. Your own personal heater. Handy, no?" He teased, all too eagerly offering you his arm in a way that was impossible not to chuckle at. When he was tipsy, he did always become a little more doting.
You gently shook your head and pressed a kiss to his cheek: "You're only saying that as an excuse to get all nice and cozy with me."
"You got me," Leon grinned, readying his umbrella in one hand and slinging his other arm over your shoulders, pulling you in close. He smelled strongly of his citrusy cologne and smokey whiskey, which made you smile subtly against his neck. It was a fresh change of pace for him to not smell of gunpowder and copper. You sensed him place a quick kiss on the top of your head, urging you forward with a small nudge: "C'mon."
Well, here goes nothing.
You stepped outside in unison, the cool sea air hitting you like a wall almost instantly. The rain was indeed still coming down in thick sheets, instantly pitter-pattering against the poor umbrella that did its best to keep up its defense against the relentless assault. A genuine trooper. Still, no magic love spells to save you tonight, you supposed. Leon moved the umbrella further over you, letting the rain hit his now exposed shoulder. You wished you could say you were surprised by the selfless gesture, but it merely made you let out a fond, knowing sigh and shake your head. This stubborn man has always prioritized you first, for better and for worse. By now, you knew better than to argue with him about this, unless you wanted to stand here for twenty whole minutes until his resolve would finally give way a little.
Besides, the cab that he called in would arrive in a matter of minutes.
As the car steadily approached the cottage, you pursed your lips into a thin line, the little coastal house steadily coming into view through the gray haze: cozy, white and blue shutters tucked between palm trees swaying violently in the wind.
"...We're gonna have to make a run for it."
Leon raised an eyebrow at you. You felt his hand that was faithfully resting on your thigh for the entirety of the ride give you a little squeeze. "You forgot about our little umbrella friend or are you just in it for the thrill of it?"
You huffed a little when you met his gaze: "It's barely a two minute run, what's the point of bothering with an umbrella arrangement?"
"-Yeah, two minutes of getting soaked. And that white shirt of yours is gonna be transparent by the time we get there. Unless that's your goal, in which case, hey, I'm not complaining."
You playfully slapped at his bicep, trying in vain to shush him, if not for decency sake - he certainly didn't have that when it came to you - then for the poor driver up in the front who had to patiently deal with you two being sickeningly flirty for a couple that was supposed to be mature enough to know better. But you knew you couldn't hide the smile on your lips, which was like adding more fuel to the fire when it came to him. He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender: "Look, I'm just saying, you mean we grabbed that fancy umbrella for nothing?"
You tilted your chin up: "Of course not, it'll be useful for any future client who might be just like us. Good karma never hurts."
Now it was Leon's turn to affectionately roll his eyes at you, but you could see that he was not going to argue any further on this. "Such a martyr you are."
Once the vehicle has stopped at the front of the cottage and the driver was paid off for all your troubles, he leaned over to plant a totally unnecessarily dramatic kiss to your cheek, quite clearly exaggerating the prolonged 'mwah!' sound for no other reason than to annoy you. But before you could get back at him, he was already throwing open the car door, the wall of rain instantly lashing in, cold and sharp, but still smelling of that sea freshness that served as a reminder that you were here for leisure, not life-or-death.
He had to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the rainfall, shooting you a grin over his shoulder.
"-Alright fellow agent Kennedy! Operation: Dry Shirt is a go!" If there were still any chances remaining of you two maintaining a respectable image in front of the poor driver, they were officially shattered into pieces by your tipsy goofball of a husband. You didn't mind, though. His grin reflected your own as he tugged you out of your seat and quickly nudged you ahead with a completely unnecessary pat on the butt. "Go, go! I'll cover your six!"
You could've briskly made your way along the pebbled path without any needless fanfare. Perhaps even make it all sweet and romantic: hands clasped together, maybe even a jacket draped over you both to try and stay dry. Instead, you started running at full speed while laughing like nobody was watching, and in a way, it was accurate. It was hard to stop when you could hear his own laughter join you in the roaring downpour of rain coming down around you. Water splashed unceremoniously up your feet with each heavy step, and some of the cold water came from his feet pounding on the puddles beside you, too.
You've run alongside him many times over the years, in the rain or even heavy snowstorm included. However, it was never like this. Never feeling this free and careless in such a pure and childlike way.
Needless to say, you were both, indeed, soaked by the time you arrived at the front door, grinning like fools and breathing heavily despite the fact that this was one of the shortest sprints you had ever done. It was nice for your lungs to struggle for air because of laughter for once, not genuine physical exertion or pain. He unlocked the door and was ready to open it when you placed a hand on his arm. Lightning flashed somewhere overhead. Perhaps it was the alcohol, just enough to get you feeling free and tipsy, bolder than you'd otherwise be. Perhaps it was the warm sensation of delight that grew within you after witnessing so many smiles by his side today with no worries in the world. Or perhaps it was the realization that, for once, the rain did nothing to squander his good mood, that he could appreciate it for what it is, instead of what it was to him on many much darker nights before this one.
In any case, the next words that came out of your mouth were completely spontaneous and didn't require any thought on your part.
"-Hey, dance with me."
Leon paused, his hand still on the doorknob and a carefree grin still on his lips, his brows raising at you from under a mess of his windblown hair that completely decimated his usually perfectly styled bangs. You reached up to brush some of the long strands away, partly just as an excuse to touch him. His shirt was now clinging to his sculpted form, giving you a perfect excuse to appreciate some of the lines and dips you've known by heart for years now. However, you would never grow tired of appreciating him, whether he was disheveled and soaked or impeccably dressed up. And you knew the sentiment was mutual, his own gaze flickering over your drenched form with the same appreciative glint.
"...Dance with you," he reiterated, almost bemused. You couldn't blame him. That was rather cliche and sappy of you. However, he was never modest when it came to being shamelessly sappy with you before. His hand left the keys dangling in the door, finding its perchance on your hip instead and pulling you in close, wet clothes pressed together. "What, here?"
A low rumble of thunder could be heard again in the distance. It was the kind of sound that keeps on going and echoing for a while. Then there was a flash over the palm trees, and another booming sound followed. Leon didn't seem interested, though, his eyes solely fixed on you with that awaiting smile that made you feel young again. You rested your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat under one palm through the thin, wet cloth and grinning to yourself.
"Yup," you said simply, one single word that was still purely affectionate in a way that even the most ferocious of storms couldn't dare to interrupt.
Leon caressed your cheek with his other hand, and as he leaned towards you in a stupidly handsome manner that only he could pull off so effortlessly, some of the rainfall dripped from the ends of his bangs.
"I know I'm the last person who should be saying this to you, but... It would be kinda reckless, no? I don't want you catching a cold on our vacation," he murmured, voice warm and teasing despite the responsible words.
You raised a brow: "We're already soaking wet."
To further drive your point home, you flicked some of the wet bangs off of his forehead, stifling a snicker when the strand stuck right back to his face. He let out a loud sigh, obviously giving in without making much of an effort to put up a fight. Not that his heart was ever even in it, evidently.
"Sometimes you give me a run for my money when it comes to being a smartass, hun. Alright, fine. One dance, you hear?" He grinned and leaned forward to nuzzle your neck, causing you to shiver against his chest. In a typical Leon fashion, he was absolutely shameless in the way his nose dragged down the curve of your neck, soon replaced by his lips as he pressed a warm kiss to your collarbone that contrasted wildly with the coldness of the rain. That was one way to maintain your warmth, you supposed. He glanced up at you, mischief in his eyes. "...But I get a reward, too."
You felt his hand that was grasping your hip slip upwards, his fingers sliding beneath your damp shirt and leisurely tracing up and down your spine. You didn't mind the attention, grinning to yourself as you nudged his head back up, not wanting him to get too distracted. At least not yet. "Deal."
And so, you took a step back, but only to chuckle and pull him along as you abandoned the safe threshold you ran so carelessly to get to, stepping back under the pouring rain with him in tow. You squealed and laughed again when the cold water hit you, and this time you resisted the urge to hide yourself from it, instead welcoming it with open arms. You weren't sure if you could call it a dance per se. To be fair, dancing was never really your thing, and even during your wedding ceremony, you likely looked pretty awkward despite all your preparation in advance. But it's not like anyone was insane enough to be outside in this downpour to see you two laughing and twirling around like preschoolers. However, Leon made it clear that he was intent to always have at least one hand on you, and if he had his way, you would most likely be pressed up flush against him. But for now, he was content with simply having his hand on the small of your back, doing his best goofy impression of a waltzing gentleman.
The initial burst of energy was brief, but it was still more than enough. And as you two slowed down for a more intimate and tender moment, you couldn't help but feel your heart skip a beat at the way the soft orange light from the night lamps on your front porch danced across his features. Sometimes you could swear he was a living marble sculpture or something. Carefully crafted and molded for many tiring hours to achieve that impossible level of perfection for many generations to admire. But he was no timeless statue; he was alive and warm, there for you to touch, and he chose you as his sole admirer on his own accord. So you touched him, swiping yet another stubborn wet strand of hair away from his eye, your thumb brushing over the apple of his cheek in a way that was utterly unnecessary. Despite being a drenched mess, he was still cheerful and grinning. You felt yourself grin, too, draping your arms over his broad shoulders and pulling him in close. You couldn't help but laugh when you watched his nose scrunch up from a droplet of rainwater slowly rolling down the slope, most likely tickling him. You solved his plight by leaning forward to nuzzle your noses together.
It was a fairly awkward approach, but you appeared to favor awkward decisions today.
"God you're cute," he murmured with a soft laugh, his own arms tightening their hold around your middle in that affectionate way he always did whenever he just couldn't get enough of you. "I must say, your idea of a 'romantic getaway' is pretty chaotic. I should up my game"
You shrugged.
"Maybe. But I made you smile, didn't I?"
Another lightning flashed somewhere behind the stormclouds as he gently nudged you back one careful step at a time until you found yourself leaning back against one of the pillars with a cold shiver. Despite the frigid, wet stone pressing to your back, his swift positioning in front of you, with one thigh pressing between your knees and his chest all but pushed up against you, elicited a shiver for a different reason altogether. The cold was quickly replaced by warmth, even as his cold lips pressed to the underside of your jawline. You exhaled a gentle laugh, one hand moving up his back to bury itself into the damp mess of hair on the back of his head.
"Yeah... You make me smile like the biggest, happiest fool alive," he murmured, softer now, lacking the usual playfulness his words were laced with on the regular. He meant it, you could tell. You sighed as you felt him travel down again, lingering at your shoulder with a trail of warm kisses. He hummed, low: "...Thank you. For always making me smile. Even in a literal shitstorm."
It made your heart melt a little. You knew his gratitude ran deeper than a simple ruined vacation day fixed with a couple of laughs and kisses. The rain had once flipped his life upside down in the worst way. He was thanking you for making him smile despite it. With you, he didn't have to think about the past, or even the approaching future. He had the ability to concentrate on the here and now, regardless of the time or the weather.
"You make me smile every day that you're with me," you returned, your fingers clumsily combing through his wet hair. It was your best attempt at affection at your current soaked state of things. His low hum on your shoulder said he appreciated it nonetheless. Cheesy or not, sometimes it was worth saying what was on your heart regardless. And he was the one person in the entire universe you could be your cheesiest self with with no second thoughts. "It's only fair I return the favor."
You felt him chuckle against your neck, his breath tickling you in the best of ways. When it came to being corny, as long as you could see that warm, almost boyish smile light up his entire face as he pulled back to look you in the eyes, you knew you'd never try to hide it away from him.
"I don't know about fair, sweetheart," he said, one hand traveling upwards to cup your cheek, making pleasant warmth from his palm seep into your chilled, wet skin. You placed a kiss on his wrist, sensing his thumb graze the skin beneath your eye. "...You give me everything and more."
At that, you couldn't help but huff, giving him a look. This again? You swore, you could be old and wrinkly sitting on your back porch in your rocking chairs, watching your grandkids playing in the pool, and he'd still find ways to bring himself down. Then again... you supposed, you also tended to put him up on a pedestal. Guess you were two peas in a pod when it came to that. Either way, you weren't going to let it slide. Not now, not ever.
"-And you don't? Cooking up my favorite meals on my bad days when I don't even say a peep to you, bringing me coffee just the way I like it even when I'm being a morning grouch, sharing your precious hair products when I forget to order mine again?" All of these things were so small in the grand scheme of things, inconsequential even, and you were being playful with him in big part. Nonetheless, they conveyed just how much he cared. Still cared, just as strongly as he did in your first crazy weeks together. It was just not as loud or flashy. Instead, it was a quiet routine built on respect and comfort between you two that has helped you both grow strong and steady together, like a sturdy foundation keeping the rest of the house standing strong through the seasons. You lifted your finger: "-And that's me purposefully ignoring the obvious 'gonna lay down my life for you' shtick we both agree on."
Thunder rumbled again and the echo followed suit. Leon didn't say anything in response, but when he eventually moved in to give you a proper heated kiss on the lips, you met him halfway and laughed against him as you tasted the cheesecake he had stolen from your plate on him. When he pulled back, he didn't try to hide his clear desire for more than just that, a way to show you the same kind of unconditional love and warmth you've shown him today. You'd let him, of course. You'd welcome it, even.
His tender touch contrasted sharply with the desire blossoming in his eyes as he rubbed your arms, adding warmth to your soaking body.
"Well, if we're even, then I better get my reward now, yeah? First order of business... Get you inside and out of these clothes," he placed a peck to your cheek, smirking warmly. "How's that sound?"
You grinned as you nudged him back towards the front entrance, hand on his chest: "What a coincidence... I was thinking the same thing."
Summer, Finally
Leon comes home, exhausted and carrying far too much gear.
He unlocks the front door, expecting the house to be quiet.
Instead, he hears you laughing outside as your favourite songs play.
He walks through the house and opens the back door.
The first thing that hits him is the summer heat.
The second is you.
You’re sitting in a bright blue inflatable pool that is clearly meant for children, wearing a swimsuit and oversized sunglasses. One hand trails lazily through the water while the other holds a glass of homemade lemonade.
There’s another untouched glass sitting beside you. Almost as if you knew exactly when he’d get home. You grin the second you spot him.
“There you are.”
“…Is that a pool?” Leon blinks.
“No.” You look around dramatically, causing him to laugh under his breath.
“You bought a kiddie pool?”
“I didn't want to wait for a contractor to actually build one.”
“…Fair.”
“Come in.” you pat the edge of the pool.
Leon looks at the tiny thing.
“It’ll collapse.”
“It has excellent structural integrity.”
“It definitely doesn’t.”
“It survived me.”
He looks at you.
Then at the pool.
Then back at you.
“…You’re serious.”
“Very.”
He disappears inside without another word. You think he’s going to shower first. Instead, five minutes later, the back door opens again. Leon is wearing nothing but a pair of swimming shorts.
His hair is damp where he splashed water over it. He carries the second glass of lemonade.
“You actually came.”
“You challenged me.”
“I absolutely did.”
He walks over to the pool.
Looks down.
Then carefully lowers one foot into the water. You bite your lip.
“It’ll be fine.”
“It sounded expensive.”
“It cost twenty dollars.”
“That explains it.”
Very, very carefully, Leon sits down opposite you.
The pool immediately sloshes water over the sides.
Cold water splashes onto the grass while you burst into laughter, Leon looks down at the puddle forming around the pool.
“…We may have exceeded capacity.”
“I think we’re about fifty per cent pool and fifty per cent Leon.”
From there, the story becomes wonderfully quiet. You stretch your legs over his. Your feet bump together beneath the surface.
The lemonade is icy cold. The sun is warm on your skin. Leon leans his head back and closes his eyes.
You realise… He’s smiling.
Not the polite smile he gives strangers. Not the tired one after work. You reach over and gently brush a droplet of water from his shoulder.
“Tired?”
“So tired.”
“You don’t have to talk about work.”
“I know.” He opens one eye. “…Thank you.”
“For what?”
“This.”
You look around at the tiny plastic pool.
“This masterpiece?”
He chuckles.
“No.” His fingers find yours in the water. “For making me stop.” He intertwines your fingers. “I don’t think I’ve sat still in…” He thinks for a second in silence. “…I don’t even remember.”
Your heart aches a little.
“So don’t think.”
“Easier said than done.”
You slide closer in the water until your knees rest against his.
“Then let me help.”
“How?”
“Just stay here.” You cup his face in both hands.
Leon looks at you for a long moment, then his hand settles gently on your waist.
He leans forward. The kiss is slow. His lips are warm from the sun and sweet from the lemonade you’d both been drinking.
When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.
“I missed you,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“You missed me too.”
“Of course.”
“You were supposed to deny it.”
“I would’ve been lying. I don't lie to you.” You smile. “I missed you every day.”
Leon doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he brushes his thumb along your cheek, then quietly says the words that mean more coming from him than anyone else.
“I came home.”
You understand exactly what he means.
Not just to the house.
To you.
To this.
To a plastic pool that’s much too small.
To lemonade sweating in the afternoon heat.
To the woman waiting for him in the sunshine.
He came home, and today, for once, there are no monsters.
No radios. No gunfire.
Just blue skies.
Cold lemonade and enough room in a tiny inflatable pool for the only two people who matter.
~Masterlist~
Falling Dominoes // NSFW Leon Kennedy x fem! reader
Summary: You have a coworker who is obsessed with you. Apparently, you don’t know the half of it. After some interventions by Leon Kennedy … you’re gonna find out. Thankfully Leon pays attention. And as it turns out, he might just be the nicest thing that’s ever happened to you.
WC: ~8.5k
CW: NSFW, creepy coworker, creep factor 9000, incel, stalker, kidnapping, implied non-con, reader gets drugged, reader held captive and exposed to non-con JO activity (implied), Leon Kennedy goes beast mode, rescue, protective Leon, modern epistolary (texting), there’s a lot of text and phone conversations, long distance relationship building, strangers to friends to lovers, first kiss, happy ending, Leon and his tramp stamp
Notes: This is mainly a strangers-to-friends-to-lovers story, but beware the reader DOES get put in a bit of a traumatic abduction/non-con situation in here. It is not detailed explicitly and there is no forced penetration.
Admittedly, the cafeteria was an easy guess. You should have gone with the sub-basement.
You’re tucked away at a small table near the back, as far from the stairs as you can get. Your second mistake was in parking it within sight of the coffee machine, because that’s the perfect excuse.
Your coworker – fucking Peter – is looming over the chair across from you, running his mouth about some asinine TV show you could give two shits about, gesturing with the paper coffee cup he hasn’t taken a single sip out of. He’s already the jack-in-the-box on the other side of your cube wall. You don't need him to be a second shadow, too.
God, can you have the day back that he spent ignoring you? What would you have to do?
No, strike that, never mind. He’d have to ask you out again. You’re just going to have to get more creative with your escapes.
“Yeah, I’ll definitely give it a watch,” you cut in, pointed focus on your laptop screen, fingers on the keyboard. “I’ll see you back up at the cube farm.”
“Aren’t you on break? You shouldn’t work over your break,” Peter says, and then just keeps on talking. Your stare at your laptop screen goes thousand-yard.
Something moves in your periphery and you follow the distraction. It’s someone at the coffee machine, flipping a cup onto the deck, touching buttons on the menu screen.
Holy christ. It’s not just any someone.
There’s a holstered gun on his hip. He’s built like a brick shithouse, and his shirt’s not pretending otherwise. His sleeves are pushed to his elbows and there’s a deep scratch on his arm, gummy and raw, held shut with butterfly closures. Most of his face is obscured by the fall of his hair but you know exactly who it is.
There’s not a single person in the building who wouldn’t.
Leon Kennedy is standing at the coffee machine, arms crossed, waiting for the machine to finish humming and hissing and start spitting out his frothy caffeine. Peter hasn’t noticed yet, his back to the rest of the cafeteria, still absorbed in talking at you like you haven’t tuned him out, like you haven’t been dropping heavy hints that he should go away, like you’re not about to snap and just tell him to fuck off. He’s lucky you’re a professional.
Leon’s head turns a fraction. You don’t know if it’s because he can feel your eyes on him or if he’s tuning into Radio Peter; maybe both. When he makes eye contact with you it feels like a goddamn life raft. He can probably see it on your face.
He flicks his gaze towards Peter, raises his eyebrows. Is this guy bothering you?
You widen your eyes. Like you wouldn’t fucking believe.
He tips his head, gaze strong; good to intervene?
You nod once, short, relieved. Peter’s finally realizing that you’re silently communicating with someone else and turns.
Leon, coffee in hand, is heading for your table. Peter backpedals like he’s dodging a moving train. Leon throws him nothing but a sidelong glance and a vague apology before putting his hand on the back of the chair across from you, urgent.
“Hey. Did you get my message?”
“Yeah, I’m working on it,” you say, pulling your laptop closer to yourself, harried.
Peter’s staring – at Leon’s height, his arms, his gun – and you have to ignore him or you’re going to break character.
“It’s high priority,” Leon’s telling you.
“I know, I was just –“
Peter mumbles something that sounds like ‘uh, later. See you. Up’ and backs away before turning tail, heading for the elevators. At the last second, he banks left and takes the stairs two at a time instead.
You both watch him go. Leon turns back to you.
“You’re quick,” he says.
You drop your shoulders, head loose on your neck.
“God,” you say. “Guy can’t fucking read a room.”
“Could’ve just told him to fuck off.”
“I thought about it.”
He raises his eyebrows, a silent question.
“I’m too polite.”
“Then it continues.”
“Not if I get slippery.”
His eyes narrow and you play your last sentence back. You shut your eyes for an extended beat.
“Work-appropriately,” you clarify. He sips his coffee.
“Sounds like a lot of extra work.”
It is. He’s right. You’ve already been plotting evasive maneuvers and pinning secluded spaces in a back corner of your mind. It’s sapping bandwidth.
And it’s not fucking normal, is it.
You just don’t know what kind of personality Peter will reveal if you shut him down entirely. The cold-shoulder day was a reprieve, but it was also noticeably… hostile. You’re unwilling to explore deeper waters, there. Civility, however taxing – is safe.
Leon’s watching you.
“There’s always HR.”
Well. Maybe Peter should have stayed, taken some notes on reading people.
You wave it off.
“He’s just… annoying.”
Maybe Leon believes you. He extends his hand across the table.
“Leon Kennedy,” he says. You shake his hand, his palm warm and rough, his grip firm.
“I know,” you say, and give him your name in return. “Thanks for the assist.”
His face softens into something that isn’t a smile but isn’t not a smile. It’s understated, self-assured, and very handsome.
“Enjoy the quiet.”
There’s nothing understated about the way he walks away. You catch yourself doing taffy eyes, transfixed by his broad shoulders, the bulk of his arms, and – well. The way his hips move make it difficult NOT to fixate. On all that.
Jesus christ.
You force your eyes down to your laptop, ears a little pink.
You’ve just met Leon Kennedy. You don’t know it yet, but it’s the first domino.
Incoming Call Sherry Birkin
-> Answer “Hey. I’m on my way in.”
“Just thought you might like to know… someone in legal is searching your name in the databases. Extensively.”
Leon glances at the center console screen, Sherry’s speakerphone call counting up the seconds.
“Should I be worried?”
“I don’t know. Log-in is one… Peter Dotson?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Leon says, easing the Porsche to a stop, traffic brakelights tinting him red. “Got his mug?”
“Sending.”
Leon’s phone buzzes and he scoops it from the cupholder, thumbing open the message. It’s a badge photo from a company ID.
“Oh.”
“Recognize him?”
“Yeah.”
When you hear the short knock on your cube wall, you’re sure it’s Peter. It’s always Peter. You shut your eyes, take a breath, and turn in your office chair.
It’s not Peter.
“Leon!”
Something crashes in the cube next door.
“Hey,” Leon says. “Coffee?”
You double-take, hesitant, reaching unconsciously towards your open laptop with an email half-composed in the foreground, a document half-read in the background, and several deadlines on your calendar.
“I’m, uh…”
You can’t look away from his face. His eyes are intense, like he’s laser-engraving a message on the back of your skull.
I need to talk to you. Now.
“Yeah, sure. One second.”
You save the email as a draft, shut the laptop and grab your phone. Leon holds the door for you to exit the cube farm into the main foyer.
You don’t see him make deliberate, razor-edged eye contact with Peter, who is standing, red-faced, in his cube.
The entire back wall of the cafeteria is plate-glass, looking out over a dewy, short lawn and a paved walkway that follows a copper creek overhung by gently swaying trees. It’s still early enough that the sun hasn’t entirely cut the fog that ghosts the water.
Coffee in hand, Leon winds between the tables in the main cafeteria. It’s moderately busy, commuters hunched over their hashbrowns and sausage, laptops open to multitask. No one pays your little two-person train much mind, aside from the occasional double-take at Leon, but it’s immediately followed by a ducked head.
He doesn’t even have the gun on him today.
Leon leads you into one of the cafeteria conference rooms at the back, branched off of the main space, sharing the plate-glass wall. It’s far from private – there's no door, just a half-wall of more glass – but it’s tucked back and it’s quiet. You sit at the furthest end of the long table, glancing out at the sunbeams streaming through the trees.
It looks serene.
You’re not fucking feeling it.
“Why’d you pull me out, agent?”
The chairs roll; Leon brings his up to the table and opens the lid of his coffee cup.
“Your favorite neighbor was… researching me this morning,” he says.
You raise your eyebrows, chuffing a laugh, but the humor quickly fades. A little googling wouldn’t ping a DSO agent’s radar. It definitely wouldn’t be noteworthy enough to then come tell you about it.
“Yeah,” he agrees, watching your face journey.
“Why the hell?”
“I don’t think he appreciated the improv theater yesterday,” Leon says, ripping open two sugar packets and dumping them into his coffee. “You called him annoying. What kind of annoying?”
“He just… talks. A lot. Shit I don’t care about. Shit I don’t need to know about.”
“Like what?”
“He’s a gossip,” you say, then tip your head, conceding. “Well, everyone is. But he’s… I don’t know. A dirty-laundry gossip. Like to an extreme. I don’t know where he’s hearing half that shit.”
“About coworkers.”
“Yeah.”
“How often are they men?”
You narrow your eyes.
“That matters?”
“Maybe. When did he ask you out?”
You sharpen on him, wary.
“I never told anyone about that.”
“Lucky guess,” Leon says dryly, pressing stray sugar granules from the tabletop into his fingerprint. “Did the trashing other men get worse after you turned him down?”
You sit back, heavy.
“Fuck.”
Leon looks at you from under his brow, dusting sugar off onto the floor.
“I’m serious about HR.”
You’re stupid. You’re really, really thick. You should not have needed someone else to point this out. Of course Peter didn't take no as gospel. He’s tenacious. Like a barnacle.
“I don’t have any proof.”
“Do you feel safe?”
You huff out a humorless laugh. “No.”
He dips his head. There you go.
“What if HR just… talks to him? Makes him retake the SH module and calls that dusted?”
“Unlikely. He’s also abusing access and slandering coworkers.”
“But that’s shit I can’t prove! What if he claims that I’m just trying to slander him?”
“Reports are anonymous.”
You shake your head, bitter.
“He’d know.”
Leon’s quiet for long enough that you glance over from picking at the lid of your coffee cup.
“You’re afraid of him,” he says, perceptively. You look away again, taking a deep breath.
“When I turned him down,” you tell him, resigned. “He spent the entire next day ignoring me. It was nice that he shut up, but. It was… off.”
“Off?”
“Like he was… mad. Not humbled, or embarrassed. Like I owed him, and I’d denied him. Part of me kept expecting a ‘see you in court’.”
Leon raises his eyebrows, wry.
“Good to know the psych eval’s watertight,” he says, and pulls his phone from his pocket. He sets it on the conference table, head-to-head with yours, and pulls up his home screen. You follow his lead. Your phone displays both ripple together, popping up contact cards.
Leon Kennedy just gave you his number.
“Bet you twenty he’ll have something to say about me,” he says, pocketing his phone. “You good to go back?”
No. “Eventually.”
He sets his hand on the table, waits for you to meet his eyes.
“Retaliation gets him fired if the initial report doesn’t,” he tells you. “You just get the ball rolling; he can kick it into his own face. Yeah?”
You nod, but not too hard. You might throw up.
“Alright. Keep me posted.”
You barely watch him go, this time.
You sit alone at the back of the empty conference room, staring hollowly out at the creek until your untouched coffee is stone cold.
—
Guess I owe you 20
Leon How many puppies have I kicked?
The incident in DC??
Incoming Call Leon Kennedy
You immediately swipe to answer.
“Tell me he’s full of shit.”
For a moment, it’s just the crackle of the open line. Then,
“I can’t.”
You sit up, gripping the phone tighter than the arm of your sofa.
“Are you fucking serious? The president?”
“He… he wasn’t. Anymore.”
You’re glad he called. Those four words sound like a thousand. You sag back under the weight of them.
“Sorry.”
“I’ve dealt with it,” Leon says, another thousand words in four. “Is that all he dug up?”
“That was his smoking gun.”
“And are you scared off?”
“Why, you wanna ask me to coffee again?”
“What, step on Peter’s toes?”
“God. Shut up.”
He laughs, just a short vocal huff.
“You reported him?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
“Hey, Leon?”
“Mm.”
“Thanks.”
Five Days Later
Leon Status report.
Home sick
Leon You haven’t called in.
No voice
Leon No email, either. Two days.
why would you knwo that. Are you stalking me
Incoming Call Leon Kennedy
-> Decline
I told you i can’t talk
Incoming Facetime Call Leon Kennedy
-> Decline
i’m fine
Leon Then pick up.
Incoming Facetime Call Leon Kennedy
Missed Facetime Call
trying to nap
Contacts -> Leon Kennedy -> Edit
Agent Creep Not convinced, Peter.
Your phone clatters onto a hardwood floor, the screen fracturing into a dense spiderweb of fine cracks.
“You’re gonna want to see this.”
Sherry’s tone is foreboding. A file drops in, loading slowly. Leon’s thumb hovers, waiting.
“This was among the files deleted before turning his laptop back in to I.T.,” Sherry continues. “Unfortunately, he forgot the Cloud backup.”
The file name is innocuous.
Doc2.doc -> Downloaded
“Brace yourself,” Sherry says.
— My little mouse, the game has begun. Your blatant rejection stung, but now I see it for what it is: a challenge. Nothing worth having ever comes easy, and my darling, I know you’re worth having. You will come to see that we are bound by destiny, and as much as you run, little mouse, it is only because you aren’t ready. Don’t worry; I am patient. I’ll bring you around. —
“Bad fucking start,” Leon says.
“It gets worse.”
There’s one paragraph per business day over the last month-and-some-change, all dated. Leon scrolls through entry after entry, skimming.
— You changed your perfume, today. I notice these things about you. I can map where you’ve been, scenting the air for the lingering hints of you, my sweet flower. Your new scent is powerful, spicy, sultry. How am I to concentrate when you tease me with such heat? — I have to find a way to reel you in. Your discussion with Mark today about “what makes Luke warm” was abhorrently inappropriate; it made my blood boil to hear. Why do you flirt so brazenly with other men when you know I’m right here? Is this part of your game? You truly test my patience, little mouse. But no matter: I’ll soon turn your attention away. You’ll learn that the only man worthy of your consideration is me. — You appreciated the cupcake I stole for you, today. There was a birthday in IT; Jake, that one with the blue eyes and dimples that you were batting your eyes at ten days ago. No matter. He doesn’t get to see you the way that I do – legs tucked under you, soft feet bare, shoes kicked off to the side. You make such a pretty picture when you relax like that. Only around me. — Dearheart, you cut your hair. Did you know this would upset me? I’ve dreamed of tangling my fingers in your soft trusses, winding them around my hand, pulling your head back to keep you submissive. Good that you’re experimenting now, I suppose. When you’re my wife you’ll keep it long, as is proper. —
“Sherry,” Leon says, and there’s an edge to it.
“I know,” Sherry says, heavy. “Page 18, second entry.”
Leon scrubs through the page numbers.
— Little mouse, I cannot abide. When did you meet that agent??? Why would you have cause to consort with such rough company??? We work legal; what recourse does he seek? I must discourage this acquaintanceship; Agent Kennedy is dangerous, my sweet. I have to find a way to prove it to you before it’s too late. —
“Rich,” Leon mutters. He scrolls to the bottom of the document. It’s not much further.
The final entries are short, hurried, jarring.
— that agent is a snake in your ear. i knwo he told you to do this. he’ll devour you. i have to save you from his maw — i understand now. what games you play. i’m not intimidated by the obstacles you set between us; i know you’re waiting for me to prove myself a man. heard. i’m coming to get you, my angel. our heaven awaits. —
“Fuck.”
Leon kicks his car door open and steps out onto the street.
The screen of your phone is so cracked, Peter can’t get the Slide to Power Off to track. He’s crouched under the overhang of his kitchen island, hands shaking, the floor dented where your phone had struck. He’d thrown it, foolish, in a flash of utter panic.
Kennedy knows.
No, he's bluffing. He can't know.
He can.
Fuck, Peter knew he should have shut your phone down the minute he had it. Damn the siren call of your camera roll, your Notes, your music; damn his thirst to know you.
The doorbell rings, simultaneous with a Person at Your Door chime from Peter's phone on the couch. He yelps and cracks his head on the kitchen island, your phone clattering to the floor again. He leaves it, leaping for his own phone, and ducks between the couch and the coffee table, heart pounding.
The doorbell camera takes a second to load.
Something’s wrong.
The live feed is mostly black with jagged light around the edges, shifting in confusing pixels. There’s something all over the lens.
The doorbell rings again; longer, impatient. Peter’s hands are clammy, shaking so hard he misses the two-way talk button on the first two tries.
“What do you want?”
Good. He sounds gruff and curt, definitely not nervous.
“Delivery,” the bored voice responds. It’s a man, but it’s not familiar.
“Just leave it on the porch.”
“Needs a signature.”
“What is it?”
“How should I know?”
“Wipe off the camera and show me.”
There’s a pause. “It’s bird shit, dude.”
“So get a tissue.”
“Look, guy, they’re timing me on this,” the voice says, sounding like a royally annoyed and underpaid delivery driver, and nothing more… sinister. “Signature or I walk with it.”
Peter approaches the door, wishing he had side windows to gauge a silhouette. He keeps the chain in place and opens the door, peering out.
At Leon Kennedy.
“Signature accepted,” Leon says in his normal voice. It echoes through Peter’s phone.
There’s a loud puff of compressed air, a horrible pain in Peter’s chest, and then the door kicks open and throws your ex-cubemate back, the snapped door chain scattering broken links across the floor.
The door slams shut.
Gasping like a beached fish, on his back on the floor, Peter presses his hand to the wet spot on his chest. He expects red, thick and dark and dripping. He sees blue.
“Wh-what?”
Peter looks up, right down the barrel of a gun, completely steady at the end of Agent Kennedy’s arm.
“Where is she.”
Kennedy’s wearing gloves. Fuck. Holy shit. He’s wearing gloves and he’s in Peter’s house and he’s pointing a gun at him and he knows.
“Wh-who? What the hell is this?” Peter’s voice isn’t gruff and curt anymore. It’s just a squeak.
Leon shoots him in the knee, another blue paintball that matches the burst mess in the middle of his shirt, that matches the gunk obscuring his doorbell camera. Peter howls, clutching at his knee, and Leon shakes the paintball gun, tossing it aside with a loud clatter.
“Damn, out of paint,” he says, and draws the real gun from his hip, aiming it at Peter’s head. “How ‘bout you keep playing dumb.”
“You can’t! You can’t!” Peter’s shrieking, shielding his face with his arms, cowering while trying to crawl away backwards. Leon barely has to move his arm to keep his aim. It’s pathetic.
“Tell me where she is.”
“Who!”
Leon shoots the floor next to Peter’s head; he screams and pisses himself.
The gun is silenced. Peter's neighbors aren't even gonna know to call the cops.
“Keep pushing your fucking luck.”
“Storage! Storage!”
“Where.”
“Public! Public Storage on 12th!”
“Unit.”
“414!”
“Keys.”
Peter’s hyperventilating, curled into a ball on the floor. Leon kicks his foot.
“KEYS!”
“Car! Car cupholder!”
Leon bends and grips Peter’s skull, cracking it on the floor. Peter falls limp, unconscious.
“Too fucking good for you,” Leon growls. He glances quickly around the living room, towards the open kitchen, spotting your phone lying facedown on the ground. He swipes it up, noting the ruined screen, and pockets it. Peter’s car keys are hanging by the door to the garage; Leon takes them and doesn’t return.
Unit 414 is a 10 x 15 concrete storage cell with an orange corrugated roll-up door. It rattles loud while Leon wrestles the padlock open; the door catches in its tracks halfway and Leon growls in frustration, shoving up under it. It slams open; the clatter echoes throughout the storage block, but no one else is out here.
He clicks on his flashlight.
It’s silent.
The unit isn’t empty; there are boxes piled inside, along with a pair of skis tipped over sideways, a dirty towel, a broken bookshelf demonstrating how the walls aren’t quite straight, a spill of magazines, a chipped ashtray.
It looks like a normal, innocent storage unit from out here.
Leon moves the flashlight, watching the shadows. The boxes don’t reach all the way to the back wall.
He calls your name.
Silence.
He steps into the unit. There’s a pathway through the boxes, the dusty concrete shushing under the soles of his shoes. He leads with the flashlight beam, leaning to see beyond the box walls.
It’s the edge of a naked mattress he sees first, shoved into the back corner, lying on the cold floor.
And then it’s your foot, your leg, you – and everything hits fast forward.
“Shit.”
You’re lying unconscious, in your work clothes, but wrong. Your blouse is cut in an upside-down triangle at the front, still tucked into your slacks at the back; it exposes your bare stomach, the bottom of your bra. Your slacks are unbuttoned and unzipped, flayed open, but not pulled down. Your underwear hasn’t been altered or shifted… but.
Bile rises at the back of Leon’s throat. Dried white stains stripe your bare stomach, clip the cotton of your waistband.
In his ear, Sherry speaks up.
“Leon? What are you seeing?”
He’s carefully turning your face where he can see it, tapping your cheek, saying your name. You’re not responding. He yanks his glove off with his teeth, pressing his fingers to your neck.
“I found her,” he says, hoarse. He lifts one of your eyelids, watches how your pupil responds to the flashlight. “I need cops and EMTs, Sherry.”
“Sending to your coordinates,” she confirms, tight. “Leon, how bad.”
There are zipties around your wrists, bound to the wall above your head; he cuts the restraint and brings your arms down slowly. He kneels up to tear off his coat, movements furious, jerky.
“You’d better send the cops to that bastard's house, too,” he bites out. “Or I'm going back for him myself.”
“Is she stable?”
Leon covers you gently with his coat.
“Yeah.”
He brushes your hair back. Your streak of silvers catch the cold light of the flashlight beam, as does the bruise on your forehead.
Leon has to steady himself against the back wall, clenching his jaw hard and breathing deliberately.
“Fuck.”
He should have reacted faster. He should’ve checked in with you the instant you didn't show.
He should’ve foregone the paintballs.
When the ambulance wails into the storage block, throwing flickering red and white shadows against the back wall, Leon breaks from his thousand-yard stare at the boxes in front of him. Under the coat, his bare hand rests over your wrist, one finger pad pressed to your beating pulse point.
It’s slow, but you’re alive.
You’re alive, and he’s got you.
“How did he know your address?”
You shake your head, picking at the side of your finger. You dig in a little too hard and wince; blood wells from the torn hangnail. You press your thumb over it.
“Followed me home? Hacked the IRS databases? Nothing would surprise me,” you say.
The officer notes this down with a cheap Bic pen in a little flip notebook.
“Where were you when he grabbed you?”
“My garage. It’s at the back of the house, off an alley. He ducked in under the closing garage door, which made it open again. That’s when I noticed him.”
More notes. She’s writing while you’re still talking. You lift your thumb from the side of your finger; blood beads up and you wipe it away, pressing the pad of your thumb back over it.
Your hands are shaking. You have your teeth clenched down so they don't chatter.
“Did he say anything to you? Can you recall?”
“He called me a little mouse,” you say, disgusted. “Something like ‘you can stop running, little mouse. I have you’.”
In the chair next to the hospital bed, Leon drops his head. His elbows are resting on his knees, his fingers threaded together.
“What happened next?” The officer flips to a new page. She wouldn’t have to, if it wasn’t such a tiny notepad. Pockets come bigger these days.
“I screamed ‘help’ and tried to run. He was already too close. He slammed me against the door to the yard and clamped something over my mouth, and then I don’t remember.”
“We’re working on collecting security doorbell footage from neighbors to help fill in the gaps.”
“I don’t think anyone has cameras in that alley. It’s no-man’s-land back there. Run by opossums and raccoons.”
The officer doesn’t note down that comment.
“Do you remember anything else?”
You wish you couldn’t.
You can still feel the zipties, plastic digging into your wrists. You can feel the cold, the concrete walls, his weight on your legs so you can't kick, the bite of a needle. You can still hear his disgusting voice, persistent like a mold stain on your brain.
Your blood’s rising.
“I remember he’s a fucking coward,” you spit. “A fucking piece of shit freak. He kept talking about transitions, shared life, perfect mates. I remember he pumped me full of sedatives and said it was because I was ‘too full of spark and didn’t yet know how to temper my flame’.”
You can tell Leon’s looking up at the heart monitor. It’s silent, but you’re sure the number’s climbing. Your heart is galloping, your breathing quickened, but it’s not out of fear.
You’re not afraid of Peter anymore. You’re too fucking angry.
The officer’s noticing the monitor, too. She closes her notebook and stands from the plastic chair, tucking it out of the way.
“Thank you for your answers. I know this isn’t easy,” she says, and hands you a card between middle and forefinger. “In case you need to reach us. But we’ll be in touch.”
You take the card, forgetting the hangnail situation. Your thumb leaves a small red stain, engraved with your fingerprint, on the thick paper.
“I’m, uh… I’m leaving town,” you tell the officer. “Staying with family for a while.”
“Good,” she approves, nodding. “I’ll make a note of it.”
She nods to Leon; he nods back. Then she’s gone, and it’s quiet.
You’re toying with the hem of the hospital blanket. They gave you a scrub top instead of your altered shirt, and the sleeves aren’t long enough to cover your wrists. The thin, dark bruising is too loud, even in your peripheral vision.
Your nose starts stinging; you turn your face away from Leon, your vision blurring.
The first tears feel impossibly hot searing down your cheeks.
“Hey.” Leon stands, touching your shoulder.
It breaks you.
You hunch forward, hiding your face behind your hand as you sob, like Leon won’t notice if he can’t see your eyes. He moves his hand to your upper back.
What he says next is ridiculous.
“I am so sorry.” It’s the tone. The ownership. The guilt.
You shake your head, because that’s unacceptable. This is not his fault, and he got you out. But words aren’t really happening for you right now, so you just turn and press your forehead to his chest. If he doesn’t read it as the exoneration it is, at the very least he’ll understand it’s forgiveness.
His arms come around you, light and easily shrugged off if you don’t want it. But it’s exactly what you do want, so you put your arms around him and hold on tight. It’s a relief when he matches you, his embrace strong and steady.
He doesn't let go until your sobs smooth out.
Unfortunately, that's almost immediate. It’s maybe the nicest hug you’ve had in years.
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Do you have a ride?”
You nod, wiping at your face. He glances around the room and moves a box of tissues onto your lap.
“Got a friend taking me,” you say. Your face feels swollen and your head’s starting to hurt. There’s a cup of water on the bedside table; you drain it and set the empty cup next to your brand new phone, plugged in and charging. Leon's looking at it.
“Phone number the same?”
“I.T. says it’s all been transferred.”
He nods. “Good.”
Leon Tell me when you’re home safe.
Okay, mom
—
Home safe
Leon Roger.
Aaand you’ve already forgotten my name
—
Leon Blame the concussions.
I think you need a new job
=================
Leon Sitrep?
You’re lying in bed; it’s well past noon. You know this. You don’t care.
You open the camera and take a picture without moving.
Leon Cryptic.
Current view.
Leon You’ve been raptured?
You huff through your nose, opening the camera again and tipping it down to catch the top of the wall along with the blank white ceiling this time.
Leon That's a bold choice.
The wall color of your childhood bedroom is retina-scalding bright and saturated. You last painted it when you were 16.
Everyone's a critic
=================
Leon Status report.
You open the camera again. It’s more honest than texting ‘fine’. More informative than saying ‘breathing’.
Leon Did you shrink?
What?
Leon That bowl’s enormous.
Homemade soup by the gallon. That’s how you know it’s serious
It’s enough chicken soup to feed a small army, cradled in your lap on the sofa. Weighing down your lap on the sofa.
Leon Don’t fall in.
=================
Leon Hey.
Hi
Leon What, no picture?
You pull up the camera. You catch your brother side-eyeing you.
“Gross. What’s that smile about?”
“Nothing. Don’t move.”
“I don’t consent,” he says casually.
“It’s not your face.”
“My armpit is part of 'I'.”
“Me,” you correct absently. “Me armpit is part of I.”
Leon What the hell am I looking at?
My brother’s sweater
Leon The glove?
He’s dying my hair
Leon What color?
That’s proprietary information
Leon I have clearance.
Come back with a warrant
He doesn’t reply, so you tuck your phone back under your leg. Three minutes later, it buzzes against the wooden seat and your brother makes a louder, mimicking noise of annoyance while fitting a shower cap over your thick, sticky hair.
Leon didn’t respond in text. He sent a picture.
It’s a picture of a post-it note stuck to a desk, three words written on it in Sharpie. It makes you fucking laugh.
WARRANT What color
You’ll never catch me alive copper
Leon Shit, we got a runner.
You almost smack your head on the counter with the way the laughter whips out of you. You manage to take a picture of the color name on the gunked dye bottle and send it.
You’ll Never Catch Me Alive Copper
Leon Well aren't we smug.
=================
Leon Got an update on douchenozzle.
Do I want to hear it?
Leon Maybe. He’s in the hospital.
What??
Leon Yeah. Heard he was trying to ‘make friends’ inside.
TRULY how did he pass the psych eval
Leon Your guess is as good as mine.
=================
I’m braving bioweapons, Agent Kennedy
Leon What?
You snap a picture and send it through.
Leon Shit. Looks like a close call.
It's a mess at the back of your parents' fridge; a horrible, sloppy, moldy sludge, forgotten for weeks. Months?
You’re not sure how no one smelled it until now.
We’ll remember them for what they were, not what they’ve become.
Leon And what the hell were they?
Snacking peppers
Leon RIP
=================
Leon Looks like you have a new neighbor.
A picture drops in; it’s a name plate on a cube wall.
A name plate with a man’s name. Fucking fantastic.
A Thomas, not a Tom
Leon You wouldn’t like him when he’s Tom.
Have you seen him?
Leon Not yet. He starts tomorrow.
Any intel at all?
Leon Only speculation.
Hit me
Leon Boomer. Sweater vests. Former smoker. Replaced cravings with carrots. Raw.
Counter: Zoomer. Zero neckties. Hobby coder building dupe of the Pentagon Pizza Tracker called the Hexagon Hotwing Tracer
Leon Counter counter: Octogenarian. Trace of mothballs. Denture glue unreliable.
Counter counter counter: tank engine
=================
Leon Hey, you.
Hold on, getting stabbed
Leon That’s not reassuring.
“You mind if I take a picture? You’d be in it.”
The tattoo artist doesn’t even look up, bent low over your stomach and hyperfocused on the line they’re drawing.
“Go for it.”
You take a picture from an angle that hides your bared skin but clearly shows the tattoo machine.
Leon More reassuring.
You got any ink?
Leon Yeah.
Ok lemme guess. Leg
Leon No.
Shoulderblade
Leon Warmer.
Tramp stamp
Leon No comment.
Wait
Leon
Are you serious
Leon That’s proprietary information.
I was KIDDING
Leon Where’s yours?
Don’t change the subject
Leon I didn’t.
Say more right now!
Leon More.
You're the worst
=================
Leon What does this look like to you?
Did you leave that??
Leon I don’t sweat in Rorschach.
You pull up the image Leon sent, zooming in. It’s the bench of a weight machine, marked by an oddly symmetrical sweat pattern.
Looks like a damn Journey album
Leon Not Motorhead?
Ugh. You’re SUCH a gym bro
For a minute, no response. Then a screenshot from a music app drops into the text stream.
You collapse into hysterics.
Tip Toe Thru’ the Tulips with Me - Tiny Tim
PLEASE
Leon What?
If you workout to that I think they put you on a LIST
=================
It’s staring at you.
It’s over your therapist’s shoulder, bug-eyed and gangly, and your eye keeps returning to it. Like if you lose visual it’ll strike.
Before you leave, you ask if you can take a picture.
Leon What the fuck is that?
A giraffe? Long neck, dead giveaway
Leon I’m sure I’ve had to shoot something like that before.
It’s the demon on my therapist’s shoulder
Leon That’s in your therapist’s office??
I think her daughter made it
Leon Is it supposed to soothe your anxieties or replace them?
—
Are you up
You don’t expect an answer. It’s one in the fucking morning; you feel bad for reaching out. It took you fifteen minutes of warring with yourself to even send the text.
The three dots appear at the bottom of the screen and your heart lifts.
Leon Fast asleep.
Can I call you
Incoming Call Leon Kennedy
“You okay?”
“I can’t stop hearing him.”
“Talk to me.”
“I thought I…” you trail off, your throat closing up. You put your hand over your eyes, feeling the familiar sting in your nose. You wish it was less familiar.
“Hey. Shit’s not linear,” he tells you, and it’s not his gentle tone, it’s his normal speaking cadence. “Probably just got stirred up today. It’ll settle.”
“But I was okay,” you whisper. Tears burn their way down the sides of your face, silent.
“You are okay,” he says, certain. “Except for that fucking giraffe.”
You laugh, sniffing, cuffing away your tears. You’re not going to let Peter win. He doesn’t deserve the brain space.
“What’re you doing up?”
“Folding laundry.”
“I bet you aren’t.”
You hear the crisp snap of fabric whipped in the background.
“Weird thing to lie about,” Leon says.
“Weird thing to be doing at one in the morning.”
“Sleeping is predictable,” he says. “Can’t have that.”
“I’ve actually never wanted anything more.”
"Mm. You need a bedtime story?”
“What, you gonna read me clothing labels?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Once upon a time, 100% cotton. Machine wash warm, tumble dry low. Do not bleach.”
“It was a dark and stormy night, outer shell 100% nylon, lining 100% polyester. Spot clean only.”
He laughs, just a warm rumble in your ear.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” he says. “100% latex.”
The laugh hits you like a punch – a gasp that turns into something deeper, from the belly. It shakes through you, building, unrelenting, until the air’s pressed from your lungs, until your stomach hurts.
“Jesus christ, Leon,” you wheeze, wiping at your eyes.
“That would be linen.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“Passing out is also sleeping,” he says, a verbal shrug.
“But what if he gets me?”
“Who?”
“Dickens in a catsuit.”
“…Your therapist is gonna garotte me, huh.”
=================
The shelf cloud rolling in over your parents’ house looks straight out of the movie Independence Day. The sky behind it is glowing – light refracting off of a hail core.
You’re scrambling to help your dad protect the car in the driveway with an extremely Pinterest-DIY hail shield; it’s just a bunch of cheap pool noodles duct taped together. You’re tossing a skein of rope back and forth to each other – over the car, under the car – tying the thing down.
You both stand back.
It looks like the car has court at noon but the circus at one. The pool-noodle shield looks like giant powdered wig. For clowns.
The wind is picking up, whipping at your clothes, tearing green leaves off of the trees, blowing bits of trash down the street. You raise your phone and snap a picture of the sky.
Well, it’s been nice knowing you
Leon Shit.
Fat raindrops start hitting the pavement, leaving coin-sized polka dots. You run for the cover of the house, shepherded by your dad. The door is no sooner closed than the haunting wail of the tornado sirens start, accentuated by your parents’ weather radio screaming the same alert from upstairs.
It’s nothing new. You grew up in the Midwest. This is just a basement kind of afternoon.
Tornado sirens
Leon Deep shit.
They call me a hipster I’m so underground
Leon The nerve, to make me read that.
Don’t block me I might need help
Leon You’re beyond help.
=================
The sun is barely up and you’re already bleeding.
“Shit.” You brush sidewalk grit away from your skinned knee, flex your leg experimentally. It stings, but it’s not terrible.
At least no one saw you trip. You’re on a dozy residential street, curtains and blinds lining the windows like so many eyelids closed. Someone’s automatic sprinkler system is hissing quietly three doors down, the only noise beside the waking birdsong.
You take out your phone.
Leon What happened?
Thought I'd take up running. I think it’s going well so far
Leon The key is to use your feet, not your knees.
Ha fucking ha
Leon Should I call for evac?
Nah I'll just drag my sorry ass home
Leon How far a drag we talking?
Quarter mile?
Leon Oh. Going well almost immediately, then.
I was looping BACK
=================
Leon Hey. I’m going dark for a few days.
Damn. They’re making you do your job again?
Leon Pretty fucking backwards, huh.
—
Be careful
Leon Me? Always.
Tell me when you’re home safe
Leon Wilco.
=================
GRAFFITI
It’s spraypainted in big bubbly blue letters on the brick wall of a public park restroom, an “OMG” and “WOW” smaller accent words added on in yellow. It makes you laugh.
Your phone is raised, camera open, before you remember that Leon’s gone offline.
Your phone lowers with the subtle sag of your shoulders.
You rally and take the picture anyway. You can always send it when he’s back.
Because he's coming back. He'll be fine.
=================
You’re draining your battery with how much you’re checking your phone.
You’re being ridiculous, you know you are.
That doesn’t make you stop.
=================
Leon Home safe.
Thank god, I was getting bored
You're so relieved you're lying on the floor about it.
Are you okay
A photo drops in. It’s Leon’s arm in a bright white cast. One of his nails is bruised black.
Fuck. Guess not
Leon Been better, been worse.
Are you getting people to sign it
Leon Yeah with PINs and bank passwords.
Like you need that, Mr Drives-a-Porsche
Leon Are you signing?
I only do art
Leon Alright.
Leon As long as it’s not that fucking giraffe.
Put some respect on his name
Leon It has a name?
I didn’t tell you?
Leon No.
Extended Stamos
Leon I don’t know what I expected, but that wasn’t it.
=================
Leon Hey. There’s an opening in DSO reception.
You’d trust me to be people-facing??
Leon You don’t bite.
Right, just the barking
Leon Won’t be a cube farm.
Is there a posting?
Leon I heard they want it up by EOD. I can send it your way.
Ok yeah
Thanks Leon
=================
What’s your email address
Leon Signing me up for questionable newsletters?
Forwarding some info
The email address shows up as a blue underlined link. You press your thumb over it to copy.
Sent
The three dots appear, then drop out.
You wait.
The dots reappear quickly.
Leon I’ll be there to pick you up.
You smile.
Ok. I’ll let you know if the arrival time changes
Leon Roger.
=================
On terra firma
Leon Welcome back.
Baggage carousel 5
Leon Headed there now.
Not even off the plane yet
Leon I’ll walk slow?
Your leg is bouncing impatiently. The plane is still taxiing into the gate, taking its sweet time. The cabin sounds like an arcade with all the pings and beeps and buzzes and jingles from other passengers letting loved ones know they’ve arrived.
Your phone buzzes in your hand. It’s the family group chat responding; you open the thread.
A text banner appears at the top of the screen.
Leon It’s a ghost town down here.
The fuck happened to walking slow?
Leon In my defense, it was right there.
You can’t stop smiling.
—
Your heart rate picks up the second you’ve set foot in the airport proper.
It keeps climbing as you join the growing stream of other passengers, headed for the escalators down to baggage claim.
Your heart's hammering as you’re looking off towards the baggage carousels, the escalator carrying you down – but he’s not over there.
He’s much closer.
He’s at the bottom of the escalator, watching you.
When you lock eyes, it’s like a firework goes off in your chest.
“Hey, you.”
He meets you with one arm open, easy, inviting. His other is in a sling; he holds it out of the way.
The first time you hugged him, you were sitting up in a hospital bed. Standing like this, your chin rests comfortably on his shoulder without needing tiptoes, the fold of your arms hitting at his high waist, just before he broadens.
You fit perfectly together.
He wraps his good arm around you and gently bumps his head against yours.
Your heart settles.
“Okay flight?” He takes your carry-on and shoulders it, unprompted. You part the sides of the sling to peer in at his cast.
“What’d you use, invisible ink?”
“Security reasons.”
“I’m using Sharpie.”
“There’s one in my pocket,” he says. “Congrats on the new job.”
You smile, walking side by side towards baggage carousel 5.
“Thanks. Heard some guy put in a good word.”
He smirks, looking over at you.
“You didn’t need it.”
There’s a small gift bag sitting on your keyboard when you roll up to DSO reception. You expect a book of sticky tabs, some mini highlighters, maybe a stress ball or some chocolates as a welcome from the team.
You pull out a tiny glass giraffe. Its face is a little wretched.
There’s a folded index card in with it.
Extended Stamos is a hard name to beat, but you’ve overcome worse. - LSK
“Oh! Do you collect them? My niece collects elephants,” your new coworker says, booting up her laptop. She had introduced herself as Tish, and you like her already.
“I guess I do now.”
“Me, I just collect cat hair,” she says ruefully, brushing the front of her cardigan. Her ID badge comes unclipped and skids under your chair. “Oh.”
“Got it.”
The desk phone starts ringing; Tish tucks it between shoulder and ear to answer, mouthing thank you when you hand her badge back. She indicates the front desk behind you with a little tip of her head.
You turn to find Leon standing there.
“Good morning, Agent Kennedy.”
“Hey, new face.” There’s humor around his eyes.
Tish hangs up her call and rolls over.
“Kennedy, don’t tell me you need a temp badge again.”
Oh, you really like her already. Leon catches you biting the insides of your cheeks and he rolls his eyes.
“Just saying hi, Tish.”
“Okay, good. Now shoo. She’s got training to do.”
—
Leon Iron fist, that one.
Stop texting me. She’ll confiscate my phone
Leon Training over lunch?
Nope
Leon Booked.
—
Leon is the giraffe uranium glass
Leon No.
Leon Why?
I think he’s fritzing the company laptop
Leon Not him. I got him from a very reliable mysterious stranger.
Cool, so he’s just haunted
Leon Have you named him yet?
Yeah
Stratos Ferris
Leon Well, fuck. I think you did it.
Two Weeks Later
You’re laughing; you can’t fucking stop.
“Don’t, don’t, you’re getting it in your hair!”
Leon grimaces, looking at the back of his good hand. The sweat on his forehead diluted the bird poop and it’s a thin, even smear of marbled green and white on his skin, both forehead and hand.
And in his hair.
“I can’t… fucking believe…” You’re clutching your stomach, wheezing, hanging off of his arm. The sling is gone but the cast doesn’t come off for another two weeks; your Sharpie art is worn and faded, but it fits the vibe.
You’d drawn barbed wire winding around the whole thing.
“It’s already drying,” Leon says, scrunching his forehead. He walks off the main running path and picks a weedy plant with smooth leaves; it just adds more green to his forehead, the leaves immediately bruising and wilting under his fingers as he scrubs.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
You’re gonna pass out. You’re gonna pass out or piss yourself, or both. You have to pull it together.
“Sit, sit down.”
You point him to the nearest bench, standing from your crouch and wiping at your streaming eyes. You pull your shirt off over your head and go to use it to wipe his skin, but he stops your hand.
“Not your shirt.”
“Because we can use yours,” you say, sarcastic. He’d left it at the car, before you’d even started the run.
And yeah, he has a tramp stamp. You’ve been looking at it for the last two miles as you fell behind.
Out of bird shit trajectory. You’re not gonna rub it in. The point is to scrape it off.
“Let’s just go back to the car,” he says.
“You really wanna run another five miles with bird shit on your forehead?”
He just looks back at you, shuts his mouth softly.
“Didn’t think so,” you say. “Hold still.”
His gaze lowers as you focus on scraping the mess off his forehead. You feel his fingers touch the middle of your stomach, right under the hem of your sports bra.
“Never saw your ink,” he says.
It’s a dagger in sharp black linework. The point ends right above your navel.
You remember the pain of the tattoo needles, permanently staining your skin.
You remember what the tattoo replaces, too. Stains that washed off, even if they didn’t feel like they did.
Stains that you have an easier time forgetting nowadays.
“You like it?”
Leon runs the pad of his thumb from the hilt down the length of the blade.
“Yeah.”
Despite the hot day, there are goosebumps on your skin. And it’s just registered how close you’re standing.
Between his legs.
He looks up at you, forehead clean. His grey eyes are stark in the daylight; you can see the freckles and striations of his irises, crisp and clear.
He’s studying you, too. When he speaks, it’s quiet. Private.
“What happens if I kiss you?”
Your stomach flips over. Your eyes fall to his mouth, and you answer just as softly.
“Why don’t you find out?”
The first touch of his lips is soft, chaste, lingering. It fizzes through you.
He watches your eyes open again, his own half-lidded. He hasn’t pulled back very far.
“Yeah?”
You drop your shirt on the bench, threading your fingers into the hair at the back of his head, tipping his face and kissing him deeper. His good hand slides onto your hip, coming to rest on the bare skin of your lower back.
You break for air and he diverts easily, laying kisses along your jaw. Your hand clenches in his hair.
“Leon. Are you gonna get in trouble for kissing your receptionist?”
“You’re not mine,” he says.
You pull back to look at him. His lips are pinker, spit-slick and shiny. You fit your thumb in the cleft of his bristly chin.
“No, I think I am,” you murmur.
He dips his head, kissing the pad of your thumb, eyes on yours.
“Two way street,” he says against your skin. You pull lightly at his bottom lip, your stomach full of butterflies.
“I think you should take me home.”
His pupils flex, his fingertips pressing into the skin of your back.
His hand drops away.
“Fuck.”
“What? Five miles?”
“Five miles,” he agrees.
“Do you need some motivation?” You tuck your thumb under the band of your sports bra, pushing it up half an inch. He shields his eyes.
“That's gonna make it harder to run.”
Abrupt, you swipe your abandoned shirt off the bench and take off running down the path. You throw a villainous cackle over your shoulder.
“You’ll never catch me alive, copper!”
For a beat, Leon just watches you go, a quiet, fond smirk on his face.
Then he gets up, and he runs.
Down the path, your swept-up shriek turns into defeated laughter, echoing back down to the empty bench.
The dominoes fell, and fell again, and from where you're standing? You think you got lucky.
On AO3
Creepy incel coworker Peter is FULLY based on a Reddit story that I heard read on Smosh that had me crawling out of my SKIN; a real guy kept a real journal about a real coworker that was, somehow, worse than what I wrote here. I apologize to any real Peter Dotsons out there I tried to choose a name that didn’t belong to any real guys with Wikipedia articles 😶
Thanks for giving this one a read! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 💚
Taglist: @hoovesnhorns @gracelovesgyu @lencix346
Equal Ground
Pairing: Leon Kennedy/Reader
Synopsis: Rivals turned undercover partners, you and Leon Kennedy fake a relationship during an Umbrella operation. Only to realise the hardest mission isn’t survival, but choosing each other. Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Fake Relationship, Forced Proximity, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Emotional Vulnerability, Miscommunication, Action/Combat, Protective Leon Kennedy, Rivals to Equals, Confession Scene. Warnings: Gun Violence, Injury, Blood, Emotional Distress, Arguments, High-Stress Situations, Feelings Words: ~17k
A/N: im just going to ignore the infection on leon's neck in the new trailer :') (pls capcom dont play with me rn)
The Division of Security Operations headquarters never slept, but it also never felt alive.
Steel-panelled walls reflected fluorescent light in a way that flattened everything, faces, voices, victories. Even the air felt regulated, filtered until it lacked personality. The kind of place that existed to remind you that emotions were liabilities and efficiency was king.
Which was ironic, considering how personal things always got.
The leaderboard hung at the far end of the operations floor, suspended like a silent judge.
Agents gathered as the system refreshed, boots echoing against polished floors, conversations tapering off mid-sentence. There was always a crowd when post-mission reports finalised. Half anticipation, half fear. Careers shifted on that screen. Egos bruised. Grudges sharpened.
You stood with your arms folded, posture casual in a way that took effort. Like you weren’t waiting. Like you didn’t already know exactly who you’d be fighting for space with.
The board flickered.
For a split second, everything went dark.
Then the names snapped into place.
#1 — YOU #2 — LEON KENNEDY
The reaction was immediate.
A low whistle cut through the room. Someone muttered, “Jesus, again.” Another agent laughed softly, like they’d just lost a bet.
You didn’t smile.
Smiling would’ve felt like gloating, and gloating around Leon Kennedy always came back to bite. Instead, you exhaled through your nose, jaw tightening just enough to hurt. Relief tangled with triumph, knotted together in a way that never quite felt like a win.
Across the floor, Leon stood a few feet away. Too close. Close enough that you could feel him without looking, like static in the air, irritating and unavoidable. He didn’t react. No sigh. No curse. No flicker of irritation that would’ve been satisfying to see.
He just stared at the board, hands loose at his sides, shoulders squared like this was exactly where he expected to be. Second.
That was the thing about Leon. He never looked bothered. Which only ever made you want to bother him more. Finally, he turned his head. Not fully. Just enough to acknowledge your existence.
“Congrats.”
The word was clean. Controlled. Devoid of warmth. Not a compliment, an obligation. You turned on him immediately.
“Wow,” you said, voice light in a way that wasn’t. “That sounded painful. You okay?”
A few agents nearby froze, suddenly very interested in anything that wasn’t the two of you. Someone cleared their throat. Loudly.
Leon’s eyes slid to you then—really looked. Blue, steady, unreadable. Like he was cataloguing you, the way he always did, as if you were a problem he hadn’t solved yet.
“I’ll survive,” he said. “I usually do.”
There it was. The implication. The reminder. That he didn’t need the board. Didn’t need the validation.
You scoffed. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”
Your heart was beating faster than it should have. You hated that. Hated that he still had that effect. You told yourself it was just rivalry. Professional friction. Two agents chasing the same metrics.
Except metrics didn’t make your blood boil. Metrics didn’t make you remember every mission where he’d overridden your call. Every briefing where he’d questioned your judgment with that infuriating calm. Every time he’d acted like you were a variable to manage instead of an equal.
Leon gave a short nod, not concession, not respect. Closure.
Then he turned away.
As if the conversation hadn’t mattered. As if you hadn’t mattered.
Your fingers curled before you could stop them. You remembered the first time you’d tried to talk to him. Fresh out of training, adrenaline high, stupid enough to think camaraderie was a given. You’d said his name.
He’d walked straight past you. You’d decided then that he was an asshole. Every interaction since had only reinforced it.
The operations floor slowly returned to life as agents peeled away toward briefings, the tension dispersing but not disappearing. Not between you and Leon. It never did.
As you headed toward the briefing room, you caught his reflection in the glass wall ahead. Same expression. Same calm. Locked down so tight it felt deliberate. Like a wall he wanted you to slam into. And God help you, part of you wanted to break it. Just to prove that something under there could crack.
You squared your shoulders and kept walking. You didn’t care. You absolutely did.
The mission briefing chime cut through the operations floor with surgical precision.
“Conference Room A. Five minutes.”
The reaction was immediate and universal.
Groans rippled through agents who hadn’t moved fast enough to make themselves scarce. Chairs scraped back. Tablets were snapped shut. The loose, post-leaderboard tension evaporated, replaced by something sharper, more disciplined.
You moved with the crowd on instinct alone.
It wasn’t until you were halfway there that you realised exactly where it was taking you.
Conference Room A.
You grimaced internally.
The room was large by design, tiered seating, wide tables, enough space to accommodate egos as well as bodies, but it had a habit of shrinking whenever certain people occupied it.
You stepped inside and scanned for an open seat, already bracing yourself.
Of course.
Leon was already there.
Middle row. Dead centre. Prime vantage point of the screen and the handler’s podium. Perfect posture. Perfectly composed. Like he’d planned it that way.
There were empty chairs scattered throughout the room, but they might as well not have existed. Too far. Too obvious. Too cowardly. The only viable option, the one that didn’t scream avoidance, was the seat beside him.
Unavoidable. You took it. You dropped into the chair with more force than necessary, the legs giving a brief, sharp screech against the floor. Leon didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.
The tension snapped into place the instant you sat down, tight and immediate, like a wire pulled too far. You felt it in your shoulders. In the way your spine straightened despite yourself.
Conversations around you faltered. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that you noticed the sudden lack of noise in your peripheral hearing. Someone a few rows back leaned in to whisper something to their partner. Another agent glanced at the two of you, eyebrows lifting before they very deliberately looked away.
No one wanted to be involved. The air felt thick. Pressurised. Like it might rupture if either of you pushed too hard.
Leon crossed his arms, posture relaxed but closed. Casual in the way that required discipline. Control. You leaned back, ankle resting on your knee, adopting your own version of indifference. Two opposing stances. Same message.
The handler entered, and the room snapped to attention.
Lights dimmed. Screens flared to life, flooding the space with satellite imagery, data streams, mission headers scrolling in clean, clinical fonts. The low hum of equipment filled the silence left behind by agents who suddenly remembered how to listen. For a few minutes, it was almost normal. Almost.
“Umbrella-affiliated assets have increased activity along the European biotech circuit,” the handler said, laser pointer gliding across the map. “High-profile events. Private funding galas. A lot of noise. Very little traceable movement.”
Leon leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table.
“Which means the actual exchange won’t happen on-site,” he said. Calm. Certain. “It’ll be routed through a secondary node. Off-grid. Clean.”
You didn’t look at him.
“Or,” you cut in, eyes still fixed on the screen, “they keep it local because no one expects them to risk exposure in a room full of donors and diplomats.”
The room stilled. You felt the shift before you saw it, attention pivoting, subtle but undeniable. Leon turned his head slowly. Deliberately.
“That would be sloppy,” he said. No heat. No edge. “Umbrella isn’t sloppy.”
You let out a soft, humourless breath. “Neither are shell corporations hiding in plain sight,” you replied. “Especially when they’re backed by people who think money makes them invisible.”
A pause. Leon’s mouth twitched. Not irritation. Amusement.
“That’s an assumption,” he said. “Arrogance isn’t a reliable variable.”
You turned then, meeting his gaze head-on. “It is when arrogance is the only reason they’ve survived this long.”
For a split second, his eyes held yours. Then he smirked. Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. And it pissed you off instantly.
A few agents shifted uncomfortably. Someone cleared their throat. The handler didn’t intervene, never did. Not when it was the two of you. They’d learned better. From somewhere across the room, barely under someone’s breath, came a muttered, “God help whoever has to work with them.”
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t annoyed. It was resigned.
You saw Leon’s reaction out of the corner of your eye. The faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. Not anger. Something closer to agreement. Like the comment confirmed something he already knew. The rivalry wasn’t subtle. It never had been.
Leadership knew it. Field agents knew it. Even analysts who avoided combat zones like the plague knew better than to put the two of you on the same assignment without contingencies.
And yet. Here you were. Side by side. Again.
As the briefing continued, the friction didn’t ease, it deepened. You filled gaps Leon dismissed as irrelevant. He dismantled assumptions you made with surgical precision. Neither of you raised your voice. Neither of you yielded an inch.
It wasn’t about ego. It was about being right.
Leon shifted beside you, the movement small but unmistakable. Intentional. Close enough that you could feel his presence without looking. Close enough to feel like a provocation.
You refused to glance at him.
The handler cleared their throat sharply.
“Enough,” they said. Calm. Firm. “Both of you.”
You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, eyes still forward.
Leon didn’t move at all.
Except for that damn smirk that hadn’t quite faded.
The briefing ended the way most did.
Not with resolution but with an abrupt cutoff and a roomful of people pretending they hadn’t been holding their breath.
The lights brightened. Screens went dark. Chairs shifted as agents remembered how to move again. Conversations started up too fast, too loud, like noise could erase what had just happened.
It couldn’t.
Agents filed out in a rush, boots striking the floor with sudden urgency. No one lingered. No one made eye contact longer than necessary. The tension was something physical now. Something that could snag you if you weren’t careful, wrap around your ankle and drag you down with it.
You were halfway to the door when the handler’s voice cut through the noise.
“You. Kennedy. Stay.”
Your spine stiffened.
Of course.
Leon stopped beside you without looking at you, like he’d been expecting it. Like this was just another outcome he’d already calculated. You hated that most of all, that nothing ever seemed to catch him off guard.
The rest of the room emptied fast.
Too fast.
Even the analysts who usually hovered with questions and clarifications suddenly remembered pressing deadlines and non-existent meetings. The last agent slipped out, the door sliding shut behind them with a soft, almost polite hiss.
Click.
The sound echoed.
Silence flooded in, heavy and deliberate.
The handler didn’t bother with theatrics. They never did. They stood at the head of the conference table, hands loosely clasped, posture easy in a way that only came from authority earned the hard way.
They looked unimpressed.
Calm. Experienced. Patient in the way of someone who had watched far worse people implode and lived to tell the story.
Their gaze flicked to you.
Then to Leon.
Like they were reviewing two familiar problem variables in a report they already knew by heart.
“You’re going to hate this assignment,” they said evenly. “So I’m going to give it to you quickly.”
Leon’s shoulders barely moved. No reaction. No protest.
You crossed your arms tighter, already bracing for impact.
The handler tapped the remote.
The screen behind them changed, maps and data streams replaced by a glossy event flyer dripping with gold accents and forced elegance.
THE KENSINGTON BIOTECH BENEFIT
A private gala supporting global medical innovation.
You scoffed quietly.
The kind of event that smelled like money, power, and immunity.
“Umbrella-adjacent shell companies have been laundering research funding through three different foundations,” the handler continued. “One of them is sponsoring this gala. Donors, executives, foreign ambassadors. Wealth. Influence. Enough plausible deniability to make a prosecutor cry.”
Another click.
A timeline appeared. Then a guest list, names blurred, titles redacted, power implied without explanation.
“Tonight,” the handler said, “their data broker makes a handoff. We believe it includes proprietary files and field logs. Evidence of illegal trials. Off-book transport routes. Personnel rosters.”
Your focus sharpened despite yourself.
“Where’s the handoff happening?” you asked.
Leon beat you by half a second.
“And how do we extract it without tipping the room?”
You felt irritation spark immediately. Predictable. Of course he’d jump straight to logistics, like this was just another clean operation and not a nest of vipers in tuxedos.
The handler’s eyes flicked between you again, cataloguing the tension like it was another asset to manage.
“The handoff is digital,” they said. “Encrypted drive. Stored temporarily on a secure device in the VIP lounge. The broker uploads it to an off-site server at 23:00. We need the device before then.”
Too clean.
You frowned. “So we infiltrate. Grab the device. Disappear.”
“Correct,” the handler said. “Which is why this is an on-site operation. No drones. No external breach. Umbrella’s countermeasures are tight.”
Leon’s jaw flexed once. Barely noticeable. You caught it anyway.
“Then we’ll need invitations,” he said.
“Already handled.”
The handler clicked again.
The screen changed.
Two names appeared. Two immaculate profiles. Wealthy. Connected. Polished to perfection.
A couple.
Your stomach dropped.
You read it once.
Then again.
And again.
Couple profile.
You looked up slowly. “No.”
The handler didn’t blink. “Yes.”
You let out a short laugh, sharp, humourless. “Absolutely not.”
Leon still hadn’t spoken.
His eyes were locked on the screen, but his posture had gone rigid in a way you recognised. The same way it did right before a firefight. Before something went wrong.
His jaw was tight. Mouth set into a flat line.
If a bullet had been aimed at his head, he would’ve looked exactly like this.
“The guest list is exclusive,” the handler continued. “Couples only. It’s not charity, it’s a filter. Singles draw scrutiny. Couples imply stability.”
You leaned forward, palms slamming onto the table. “Send literally anyone else.”
“There is no anyone else,” the handler replied calmly. “Not for this.”
Your temper flared hot and fast. “Why? Because we’re top-ranked?”
“Because your skill overlap is ideal,” they said. “One of you excels in social manipulation and close-quarters infiltration. The other excels in threat assessment and extraction under pressure.”
You opened your mouth.
“Don’t,” the handler said sharply. “You’re both excellent. Together, you’re efficient.”
Leon finally spoke.
“And if we refuse?”
Low. Controlled. Dangerous in its restraint.
The handler didn’t soften. “Then we miss the handoff. Umbrella keeps their data. People die later because we didn’t do our jobs now.”
Cold. Final.
You clenched your jaw. “So your plan is to shove us into a ballroom and hope we don’t kill each other.”
“My plan,” the handler said, “is to send two professionals into a controlled environment with a clear objective. Your personal feelings are irrelevant.”
“They’re not irrelevant if they compromise the mission,” you snapped.
Leon glanced at you then.
Brief. Sharp.
Unreadable.
He didn’t defend you. Didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree.
He just stood there, calm, contained, infuriatingly above it, like he always did.
You wanted to shake him. To crack that composure just once.
The handler watched you both like someone observing a storm they’d already charted.
“If you can’t play nice for one night,” they said evenly, “you don’t deserve that leaderboard.”
The words landed hard. Because they were true.
Because the leaderboard wasn’t just numbers. It was proof. Of every sacrifice. Every cut corner. Every fight you’d survived to get here. You felt the hook sink deep.
Leon didn’t react outwardly, but you saw it. The subtle lift of his chin. The tension in his throat as he swallowed. Pride caught him too. The handler shut off the screen.
“You’ll attend as Dr. and Dr.,” they said, sliding dossiers across the table. “Long-term couple. Convincing. You will touch. You will smile. You will sell it.”
You stared at the dossiers like they were weapons. Leon picked his up with careful precision. Of course he did.
“This is not optional,” the handler said. “Get the device. Get the data. Come back.”
They looked at you both.
“Try not to embarrass me.”
The door unlocked with a hiss.
You didn’t move.
Neither did Leon.
The truth settled ugly and heavy in your chest.
You weren’t being asked to work with Leon Kennedy. You were being forced to pretend you wanted him.
The training wing smelled like disinfectant and old sweat, cleaned often, never enough. The kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat no matter how many times they scrubbed the floors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, cold and unforgiving, washing everything in a sickly white glow that did no one any favours.
The DSO didn’t do cozy. It did functional. It did survive.
A door slid open at the handler’s badge swipe, revealing a smaller room tucked off the main mat space. It was laid out like an interrogation room that had tried—and failed—to pass itself off as an office.
One table. Two chairs. A stack of folders.
And a tablet already lit up with a form that made your soul leave your body on sight.
UNDERCOVER COHABITATION PROFILE — COUPLE LEGEND BUILD
You stared at it like it had just insulted your family.
“Sit,” the handler said.
Leon took the chair opposite you immediately. No hesitation. No comment. Of course he did. You waited half a second longer, purely out of spite, then sat, crossing your legs and folding your arms like the tablet might try something.
The handler slid two clipboards across the table.
“You’ll fill these out together,” they said. “Your cover is long-term. Married. High-value donors with private ties to the foundation. Security will look for inconsistencies: names, habits, timelines. If you don’t align, you’ll set off alarms before you hit the champagne.”
They pushed a third folder toward Leon. “Apartment layout. Memorise it. If someone asks where the bathroom is in your home, you answer without thinking.”
Leon scanned the paperwork with that infuriatingly calm focus he brought to bomb schematics and ambush routes. No sarcasm. No commentary. Just silent efficiency.
You hated him a little extra for it.
“I’ll be outside,” the handler added. “You have forty minutes. Try not to kill each other.”
The door shut.
Click.
You and Leon were left alone with the lie. For a moment, neither of you moved. Leon’s eyes stayed on the paperwork. Yours stayed on him.
You grabbed the top sheet and skimmed it.
How did you meet?
When did you move in together?
Anniversary date:
Pet names used in public:
Pet peeves:
Shared routines:
Preferred terms of endearment (optional):
Your jaw clenched.
“This is ridiculous.”
Leon finally lifted his gaze. “It’s standard.”
You scoffed. “Standard. Right. Because nothing says ‘authentic marriage’ like a fill-in-the-blank worksheet.”
He picked up his pen. “How did we meet?”
The bluntness threw you for a second. “Wow. No warm-up? No foreplay?”
Leon didn’t blink. “Focus.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Prague.”
His pen paused midair. “Vienna.”
You stared. “I’m sorry, did you just veto my city?”
“Vienna makes more sense,” he said evenly. “Diplomatic circuit. Donors. Embassy galas.”
“Prague is beautiful,” you shot back. “Historic. Romantic. Exactly the kind of place two rich idiots would pretend to fall in love over overpriced wine.”
Leon’s mouth flattened. “It’s cliché.”
“And Vienna isn’t?”
“It’s believable.”
“So is Prague.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was counting to ten. “We need a story that holds up under scrutiny.”
“And we need one that doesn’t sound like it was written by a man who alphabetises his spices.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. “I don’t alphabetise my spices.”
“Wow. Growth.”
The argument escalated almost instantly. It was petty. You both knew it. It was also loud, because neither of you was willing to lose the first detail. Like it mattered. Like this wasn’t all fake anyway.
Leon tapped the page. “Vienna. We met at a benefit dinner. You spilled a drink on me.”
You barked a laugh. “Of course I did.”
“It’s memorable.”
“It makes me clumsy.”
“It explains why we talked.”
You bristled. “Or you bumped into me.”
Leon raised an eyebrow. “That makes you the victim.”
“And?”
“It makes me the asshole.”
You smiled sweetly. “Finally. Something accurate.”
For a second, his mouth twitched. Barely. Gone as fast as it appeared.
“Anniversary date,” you said quickly, flipping the page.
“November,” Leon said without hesitation.
“Why November?”
“Forgettable.”
“Wow. Romantic.”
He didn’t react. “The fifteenth.”
You paused. “That’s weirdly specific.”
His gaze flicked away. Just for a fraction of a second. “It’s fine.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You absolutely have something on the fifteenth.”
“No.”
“Uh-huh.”
You wrote it down anyway.
Pet peeves.
You read the line and looked up. “This is where you put ‘people who talk too much,’ isn’t it?”
Leon folded his arms. “It’s where we put things we can answer quickly.”
“Oh. Then write ‘emotion.’”
“What’s yours?” he countered.
“Men who think silence counts as depth.”
His pen stilled. “You hum when you’re thinking.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“That’s not a pet peeve.”
“It is when it’s constant.”
Heat crept up your neck. “You’re creepy.”
“Observant.”
Next line.
Pet names used in public.
You stared at it like it might explode.
“No.”
“We need something.”
“Something neutral.”
“Babe.”
You physically recoiled. “Absolutely not.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Try again.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Honey.”
Leon grimaced. “That’s worse.”
“It’s normal.”
“It sounds like a threat when you say it.”
You gasped. “Rude.”
“Pick one.”
You exhaled hard. “Love.”
He froze.
“What?” you snapped.
“It’s… British.”
“We’re in London half the year. Write it down.”
He did.
Your stomach did something annoying.
You shoved the clipboard away. “Done?”
Leon flipped to the apartment layout. “No.”
He started listing details like a man preparing for war. Door directions. Furniture placement. Appliance locations.
“You’re insane,” you muttered.
“It’s my job.”
The way he said it stopped your next insult cold. Before you could unpack that, the door hissed open.
“Time,” the handler said. “Training.”
The training room was louder. A raw, grinding decibel that felt less like sound and more like physical pressure against your eardrums. It was hotter, a dense, clinging heat that rose from the mats and bodies and pooled against the ceiling. This place was brutally, viciously honest in a way the slick corridors and polished debriefing rooms of headquarters never dared to be. Here, pretence was the first thing stripped away.
Every sound was amplified, thrown back by the barren walls: the scuff and slap of boots against padding, the meaty thud of bodies hitting the mat, the sharp, bitten-off bark of instructors.
This was where elegance went to die. Where you were reminded what you were underneath the tech and the tactics: flesh, bone, and flawed instinct.
Leon shrugged out of his jacket as if shedding a second skin. The movement was economical, unshowy, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting in a deliberate roll beneath his dark shirt as he pushed his sleeves to his elbows. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. His indifference was a practiced weapon, and he wielded it perfectly.
You hated that you tracked the motion anyway. Hated the way your eyes followed the line of his forearm, the shift of his weight. A silent catalogue of the enemy.
Mirroring him was a reflex, but you made it aggressive. You rolled your shoulders back until the joints gave a soft pop, tilted your neck until it burned. Your pulse was already climbing, a drumbeat of pure, undiluted adrenaline bleeding into your veins ahead of the impact. This wasn't nerves. It was a craving for collision.
“Close-quarters,” the handler’s voice cut through the din from the edge of the mat. “No distance. No weapons. You’re going to be in each other’s space until one of you breaks or the clock does.”
Lucky me.
Leon turned to face you fully, and the overhead lights carved him out of the gloom. The sharp, unyielding line of his jaw, the steady, metronomic rise and fall of his chest. His eyes swept over you once. Not dismissive. Not curious. Assessing. Coldly, clinically reassessing a variable he already had quantified.
“Try to keep up,” you said, the words grating out, already furious at the glacial calm on his face.
The corner of his mouth twitched. A phantom of a smirk, there and gone. “Show me.”
The first clash was less a fight and more a detonation.
You lunged without preamble, a silent, violent blur closing the distance before he could settle into a textbook stance. He reacted not with surprise, but with a speed that felt like an insult, catching your leading arm, redirecting your momentum with infuriating efficiency. Your shoulder slammed into the wall of his chest. Solid. Immovable. The impact reverberated up your neck, rattling your teeth.
You hooked his leg; he countered your hook. You twisted for leverage; his grip shifted, strong, calloused hands locking like manacles around your wrist and forearm. He stepped into you, using your own forward drive to uproot your balance.
The mat rushed up to meet you. You hit with a force that punched the air from your lungs in a sharp, humiliating wheeze.
He followed you down, a controlled avalanche. One knee braced near your hip, his weight a deliberate, undeniable pressure. One hand planted beside your head, caging you. The other pinning your arm with machined precision.
Too close.
His heat enveloped you, a living, breathing furnace. You could feel the coiled tension in the muscles of his arms and chest as he held himself back, a restraint that was somehow more arrogant than full force. His breath, still steady, washed over your cheek.
“Yield.” A single, quiet word, dropped into the scant space between your mouths.
You bared your teeth, a soundless snarl. “Dream on, Kennedy.”
You bucked, shifted your hips, used the micro-second his weight adjusted to hook your leg and roll. The world flipped, ceiling lights streaking, his form a blur of controlled motion, and suddenly you were on top, your forearm braced against the solid column of his throat, your knees digging into the mat on either side of his ribs.
Beneath you, his chest heaved once. A deep, aborted expansion. For a suspended heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Sweat slicked your skin where you pressed against him. The mat was warm and smelled of defeat. Leon’s hand came up, his grip closing around your wrist, not to throw you, not to hurt. To test. To measure the resistance. He was already adapting, his body learning yours even as yours screamed to reject his.
Your pulse was a roar in your ears, a chaotic counter-rhythm to his terrifying calm.
You shoved off him as if burned, scrambling to your feet before the strange, charged stillness could solidify.
“Not so perfect,” you spat, your breath coming in gusts you hated.
Leon sat up smoothly, as if rising from a lounge chair. As if your reversal had been a predicted, inconsequential sub-routine. “You’re fast.”
It wasn’t praise. It was data entry. And you hated that the distinction felt so vital, and that it landed somewhere in the uncharted, dangerous space between contempt and something else.
“Again,” the handler barked.
The next round was worse. Longer. More intimately brutal. It was a war of pressure and proximity. He caught a strike and used it to drive you back into the mat, his shoulder pinning you down, his forearm a bar of iron across your chest, not crushing, just absolutely controlling. You could feel every breath he took. You kicked out, twisted, your hands scraping against the corded steel of his arms as you broke free.
“You fight angry,” he muttered, the words a low vibration in the scant space between your bodies as you circled again, panting.
“You fight like a robot,” you shot back, your voice raw.
“You’re predictable.”
“Only to someone arrogant enough to think they’re smarter.”
“I think you’re reckless.” His eyes were chips of ice in the heat.
You lunged again, if only to wipe the assessment from his face.
He caught you, of course he did, but this time you were ready. You rolled with the momentum, dragging him down with you in a tangle of limbs. The mat shuddered. The grapple became a raw, grinding struggle for dominance, a silent conversation of strain and resistance. Your knee found his side; his elbow bracketed your ribs. Sweat-slick skin slid against damp fabric. Neither of you would yield an inch. The sheer, stubborn will of it was a third entity in the fight.
By the time the handler called the reset, your skin was sheened, your lungs burned, and your muscles trembled with fatigued fury. Across from you, Leon’s breathing had finally deepened, still controlled, but unmistakably heavier. His shirt was plastered to the planes of his back, darkened in a long, damp streak down his spine.
You refused to acknowledge it. You refused to even look.
“Live-fire simulation,” the handler called, gesturing to the adjacent door. “Now.”
The next room was a labyrinth of moveable walls, strobing lights, and disorienting sound cues. Training pistols, heavy with marking rounds, were thrust into your hands. No room for error. No room for anything but the drill. You and Leon moved through the doorway as a single, fractured unit. No words. No signals.
You took point on instinct. He covered the angles you couldn’t see, his presence a shadow at your six. It felt profoundly wrong, this seamless coordination, how your strides synced, how you pivoted around a corner and he was already there, clearing the blind spot. It felt like a betrayal of the mutual contempt that had been your only common ground.
A target snapped up from a left-side port.
You pivoted, weapon rising, finger finding the trigger -
Leon moved.
No shout. No warning. A pure, unthinking kinetic shift.
He stepped into your line of fire, his body turning, his shoulder angling to intercept the shot that wasn’t even real. A blunt, physical declaration.
Protective. Automatic.
The training round smacked into the hard plate of his vest with a dull, final thwack.
Your finger froze. The world narrowed to the spot of neon paint now blooming on his shoulder, to the broad back that had just placed itself between you and a theoretical threat.
“Reset!” the handler’s voice was distant, irrelevant.
Leon stepped away immediately, his posture snapping back into that flawless, impregnable control as if the last five seconds had been edited out. As if his body hadn’t just made a decision his mind would never consciously permit.
You stood rooted, your pulse a frantic bird in your throat, staring at the mark on his vest.
The venue rose out of the city like a monument to excess.
Marble columns framed the entrance, pale and flawless, each one tall enough to make a statement about permanence, about money that didn’t worry about time or consequence. Crystal chandeliers glittered beyond the glass doors, scattering light across polished floors in a way that felt deliberate, curated to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
Inside, an orchestra played something classical and unobtrusive, strings swelling just enough to fill the space without demanding attention. The music threaded through conversations held in low, confident voices, people who had never had to check over their shoulders when they spoke.
This place wasn’t just expensive. It was insulated.
You stepped inside and felt it immediately: the invisible barrier between the people here and the rest of the world. Consequences didn’t reach this far. They slid off champagne flutes and tailored suits, drowned under polite laughter and charitable donations.
Umbrella executives were everywhere. Not obvious. Not branded. Just… present. Men and women with immaculate posture and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. People who knew exactly how much power they held and exactly how well it was hidden.
You straightened instinctively, not because you needed to, but because the room demanded it. Tonight, you weren’t an agent.
The dress was a calculated piece of armour. It clung and moved in a way that looked effortless, the kind of confidence that came from knowing every movement would be watched and finding satisfaction in it. Hair styled, posture relaxed, expression composed. Lethal, but not visibly so. Danger tucked beneath refinement.
Leon stood beside you, and the contrast was almost obscenely perfect. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed. The tailored suit fit him like a second skin, draping over broad shoulders and a lean frame with an almost insulting elegance. It was dark, understated, and it made him look disarmingly respectable, the kind of man donors instinctively trusted. The earpiece was invisible, his edge concealed beneath a veneer of sophisticated calm. He looked… safe. Predictable. It was the most effective disguise he’d ever worn.
No weapons. No tactical gear. Just a man who cleaned up a little too well. Neither of you looked like agents. You looked like you belonged.
Leon’s eyes swept over you as you adjusted a strap on your shoulder, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than strictly operational. When he spoke, his voice was a low, private rumble. “They didn’t mention the dress.”
You kept your eyes forward, scanning the crowd. “It’s not in the briefing notes, Kennedy. It’s called a uniform.”
“It’s a distraction,” he said, and there was a trace of something in his tone, not warmth, but a clinical sort of acknowledgment.
Before you could retort, the second you crossed the threshold fully into the ballroom, his hand settled at the small of your back.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t awkward. It was proprietary.
His palm rested there with a pressure that was both grounding and possessive, his fingers splayed just above the curve of your hip. His thumb brushed once, a slow, deliberate stroke against the delicate fabric, and your entire spine went rigid in response. The heat of his hand burned through the silk, a brand you felt in every nerve ending.
He leaned in, his breath disturbing the hair near your temple. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice a velvety counterfeit of intimacy. “Smile.”
You did, a perfect, glazed curve of the lips. Under your breath, barely moving them, you hissed, “If you leave your hand there any longer, I’m billing the DSO for emotional damages and a dry-cleaning bill. Your palm is sweating.”
Leon didn’t look at you. His hand didn’t move. If anything, his fingers pressed more firmly, pulling you a millimetre closer into the orbit of his body. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said aloud, his tone soft, affectionate, convincingly doting. “You look breathtaking.” The endearment was a bullet wrapped in velvet.
A nearby couple glanced over, their smiles fond and approving.
Your jaw ached from clenching. “You sound disturbingly natural. I think I might throw up.”
His mouth curved, a private, dangerous flicker. “That’s because you’re holding your breath. They’ll notice the lack of oxygen before they notice the lie.”
“Maybe if you weren’t manhandling me.”
“My hand’s not moving,” he replied, his calm an infuriating counterpoint to your tension. “You’re just hyper-aware of it. Mission focus, remember?”
You hated that he was right. The awareness was a live wire running from the point of contact straight to your core. Publicly, you were seamless, an elegant couple drifting into the flow of the gala, bodies aligned, steps synchronised. Privately, it was a silent war of attrition.
Leon guided you toward the bar with infuriating ease, his hand a constant, navigating pressure. He nodded politely, offered brief, warm smiles. You felt every shift of his fingers, every minute adjustment of his grip.
An Umbrella executive, tall, with cold, appraising eyes, glanced your way.
Leon’s hand shifted. His fingers spread, pressing more fully against your spine as he angled you subtly, protectively, closer to him. His head dipped, his lips near your ear. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, your own gaze locked on the executive.
“Focus,” Leon murmured, his voice a low vibration you felt in your bones. “He’s not just looking. He’s calculating. Smile at him. Like you find him tedious.”
You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift over the man with the lazy, disinterested contempt of the truly privileged. You offered a faint, dismissive smile. The man’s gaze lingered, then moved on, satisfied you were no one of consequence.
Leon exhaled, a soft sound that feathered against your skin. “See? That’s the point.”
You glanced up at him, your cheek nearly brushing his jaw. “Don’t get smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he said, raising a hand to effortlessly snag two champagne flutes from a passing server. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours. “I’m effective.”
“You remembered the champagne,” you noted flatly, taking the glass.
“I remember things,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room over the rim of his flute. “Drink with your left hand. Your ring’s on the right. It flashes under the lights.”
You froze for a half-second, a tiny, betraying stumble in your composure. Then you switched hands smoothly, the crystal stem cool in your left fingers. “Stop paying attention to irrelevant details about me.”
“Can’t,” Leon said, his voice dropping back into that confidential murmur as he guided you away from the bar. “That’s the job tonight. Every detail is relevant.”
The orchestra swelled as the evening deepened. The air grew thick with perfume and false camaraderie. Leon’s hand remained on your back, a constant, maddening presence. You became a connoisseur of its pressure, firmer when navigating a crowd, lighter but no less present when stationary, his thumb tracing an absent, subconscious arc that made your breath catch.
As you moved, you saw the illusion take hold. The casual glances from guests, the approving nods from older patrons, the way security teams assessed you as a unit and then dismissed you. They bought the story. The elegant, connected, slightly bored couple.
The realisation was a cold trickle down your spine. Because it wasn’t just them. It was him, too.
He moved through the charade with a terrifying, fluid ease. His touches, his murmured words, the way his body curved around yours in a crowd, it all looked effortless. Like it cost him nothing. Like the simmering hostility that defined your every interaction had been switched off, replaced by this seamless, galling performance.
You were starting to resent how good he was at it.
A guest intercepted you near the edge of the ballroom, an older man with silver hair and a practiced smile, glass of champagne cradled loosely in one hand. His eyes flicked between you and Leon with open curiosity.
“Forgive me,” he said pleasantly, inclining his head. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Leon smiled before you could respond, warm and unhurried. “Of course. This is my wife.” The word still sent a strange jolt through you.
“And you are?” the man asked, turning his attention to you. “Involved in the foundation as well?”
You opened your mouth to speak. To think of something fast before you started spilling word vomit.
“She is,” Leon answered smoothly, his hand settling at your back again. “She led the data consolidation project for the Helios Initiative last year. Streamlined the entire reporting pipeline. Saved the board six figures and a lot of embarrassment.”
You stilled. Just for a fraction of a second. The man’s brows lifted, impressed.
“She has a talent for finding inefficiencies people prefer not to admit are there,” Leon continued, tone light, almost fond. “She’s very good at seeing patterns others miss.”
Your heart stumbled. The guest chuckled. “Dangerous skill.”
Leon’s thumb brushed your spine once, subtly. Familiar. “Only if you’re hiding something.”
The man laughed and excused himself moments later, drifting back into the crowd, already satisfied. You remained where you were, gaze fixed ahead, the music suddenly too loud in your ears.
“How did you know that?” you asked quietly, once you were certain no one was listening.
Leon didn’t look at you. “You did it during the Marseille op,” he said simply. “Flagged the discrepancy in the shipping logs. Everyone else missed it.”
“That was years ago,” you said. “I remember,” he replied.
There was no pride in his voice. No edge. Just fact.
You leaned back into his touch, your shoulder blades pressing against his chest as you pretended to point out a painting. Your voice was a razor in the velvet dark between you. “They’re eating this up. It’s almost pathetic.”
“Yes,” Leon replied, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder. His breath was warm on your neck. “They are.”
He gave you nothing else. Just the steady, burning pressure of his hand.
The orchestra shifted, the music melting into a slower, more intimate piece. The dance floor began to fill. Leon felt the shift in the room’s rhythm a moment before you did.
He turned to you, his expression softening into something convincingly expectant. He extended his hand, palm up. Not a question. A quiet command in the language of the evening.
You stared at his offered hand, at the faint scars across the knuckles you knew the origin of. Then you placed yours in it, your cool fingers sliding against his warm, calloused palm. “You step on my feet,” you whispered, “and I’ll make a scene they’ll talk about for years.”
A ghost of a real smile touched his lips. “Noted.”
He drew you into him, one hand returning to its familiar place on your back, the other closing around your hand. The world narrowed to the space between your bodies. You could feel the fine wool of his suit under your splayed fingers, the solid muscle beneath.
“You dance like you fight,” you accused as he led you into the first steps.
“Precisely?” he murmured, his eyes holding yours.
“Stiffly. Like you’re waiting for an attack.”
“You’re leading.”
“I am not.”
“You’re anticipating my lead and resisting it. It’s the same thing.” He adjusted his grip, his hand on your back firming, guiding your turn. “Stop fighting the rhythm. Let it happen.”
You bristled. “I don’t just let things happen.”
He leaned in, his lips a breath from your ear. His voice dropped, losing its polished edge, revealing the rougher truth beneath. “You do. You always have. You anticipate the strike. You brace for the impact. You’re doing it now.”
The direct hit silenced you. The banter evaporated, leaving only the truth of the movement. You were bracing. Against him. Against the music. Against the unnerving synchronicity.
Somewhere in the next turn, the resistance broke. Not with a surrender, but with a mutual, unspoken recalibration. Leon’s guidance became less a direction and more a suggestion. Your following became less a resistance and more a mirror. Your weight settled, your steps aligned. He shifted; you matched. It became effortless. Fluid. A silent, perfect dialogue of motion.
It felt exactly like the rare, terrifying moments in the field when everything went to hell and instinct took over, when you moved not as two separate entities, but as a single, coordinated organism.
Your breath hitched. You felt his do the same, a stutter in his otherwise controlled chest. Neither of you spoke.
The music carried you, and his hand on your back was no longer a point of conflict. It was an anchor. His other hand held yours, not with performance, but with a simple, undeniable connection. You were suddenly, acutely aware of every point of contact: his thigh brushing yours, the heat of his palm, the steady beat of his heart against your own racing one.
The song began to wind down. Security was tightening; you could see the increased scrutiny at the edges of the room.
Leon’s voice was a raw scrape against your ear, all pretence of gentleness gone. “They’re locking the perimeter. Broker’s in the east wing. We need to move.”
You nodded, your forehead almost touching his chin. The final note hung in the air. Applause scattered through the room. Couples began to separate. Leon didn’t let go.
His hand remained on your back. His fingers were still laced with yours. In the dim, chandelier-lit haze, for a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, you just stood there, locked in the echo of the dance and the glaring, inconvenient truth it had revealed.
You were still holding on. And so was he.
Finally, he released your hand, the absence feeling like a sudden chill. His palm slid from your back, leaving the ghost of its heat imprinted on the silk. You took a half-step back, the ballroom noise rushing back in.
“Next time,” you said, your voice strangely thin, “warn me before you decide to be competent at something.”
He looked at you, his blue eyes stripped of their usual ice, something darker and more complicated swirling in their depths. “You didn’t need a warning. You kept up.”
He turned, offering his arm again, the picture of the attentive partner. After a stunned second, you slid your hand into the crook of his elbow, your fingers trembling slightly against the fine cotton.
Conversations continue, a tapestry of polished lies, but your senses have already pared them down to a meaningless drone. Your focus narrows, homing in on the anomaly. Across the room, an Umbrella scientist, a man with the pallid complexion and careful detachment of someone who spends more time with data than people, has stopped moving.
He isn't staring. That would be amateur. His attention is a series of precise, surgical observations: the way you stand with your weight slightly forward, not relaxed back; the subtle, the specific tension in your shoulders that speaks of readiness, not repose. His head tilts, a fraction of a degree.
Your pulse kicks, a single, hard thud against your ribs. "Leon," you breathe, the word a ghost against the rim of your champagne flute.
"I see him." His reply is immediate, a low current beneath the placid surface. His posture hasn't changed, but you feel the minute shift in the energy beside you, the coiling of a spring. "Don't look at him. Look at me."
But it's too late. The scientist’s eyes, cold, magnified behind thin glasses, flicker. Not with full recognition, but with the dawning, critical suspicion of it. I know you. From where? The unspoken question hangs in the charged space between you. The danger isn't here yet, but it's coming, a tide you have seconds to turn. Leon doesn't hesitate. He never does.
One moment you are two adjacent entities, sharing a cover story. The next, his arm bands around your waist, pulling you in with an irrevocable certainty. His other hand rises, fingers threading into the hair at your nape, his palm cradling the line of your jaw with a possession that steals the breath from your lungs.
And then his mouth is on yours.
It is not a kiss born of passion, but of pure, unadulterated necessity, a tactical strike executed with devastating precision. There is no cautious exploration, no soft inquiry. His lips meet yours with a firm, undeniable pressure, sealing the world out. It is immediate. Consuming. A forced intimacy that feels more like a claiming than a performance.
The shock of it is a lightning bolt to your system. Every thought, every alarm bell, is momentarily short-circuited by the sheer, overwhelming physicality of him. The warmth of his skin, the faint, clean scent of him cutting through the cloying perfume of the gala, the solid, unyielding wall of his chest against yours.
His mouth moves, and it is not the gentle persuasion of a lover. It is decisive. Convincing. He angles his head, deepening the contact just enough to be unquestionable, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate arc along your jawline, a gesture of affection that feels, in its practiced perfection, like a weapon. He is building a shield with his body, blocking the scientist's view, rewriting the narrative in the space of a heartbeat: You are not a threat. You are distracted. You are mine.
And you respond. It is the true betrayal. Your body, trained for survival, obeys a different instinct. Your free hand, the one not clutching the forgotten champagne flute, comes to rest against his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. A small, stifled sound catches in your throat. Your lips part beneath his, not in invitation, but in a gasp of pure, stunned reflex that he seamlessly incorporates into the act.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the pressure changes. Leon’s kiss softens, becomes a lingering press, a final punctuation mark. The immediate threat has passed; the scientist, presented with an indisputable picture of private passion, has turned away, dismissing his suspicion as irrelevant.
But Leon doesn't pull back. For three endless heartbeats, he remains there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in ragged sync. His eyes are closed, his expression a stark mask of concentration, as if he is listening for an echo of the danger, or perhaps for something else entirely. His thumb continues its slow sweep along your jaw, a soothing rhythm that feels anything but soothing.
You are the one who breaks. You wrench your head back, a shudder running through you. The cool air of the ballroom hits your damp lips, a shocking contrast. Your hand, still splayed on his chest, pushes, a weak, belated attempt to reinstate a boundary that has been utterly demolished.
"Don't," you manage, your voice a scraped-raw whisper. "Don't you dare read into that."
Leon's eyes open. They are dark, pupils blown wide, the usual icy blue swallowed by a storm you've never seen before. He looks at you and for a second, the professional facade is utterly absent. There is only a raw, unsettled intensity that mirrors the chaos in your own veins.
"Trust me," he says, his voice low and rough, stripped of its earlier polish. "I'm not." It is the most transparent lie either of you has told all night.
The silence that follows is louder than the music. He slowly, carefully, unwinds his arm from your waist, his fingers loosening from your hair as if disarming a live wire. The distance between you feels cavernous, charged with the aftershocks of what just happened. You can still feel the imprint of his body against yours, a phantom brand. Your lips are tender, buzzing with a sensation that has nothing to do with the champagne.
Leon clears his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet between you. His gaze darts away, reassembling his composure piece by piece. "He's moving toward the east corridor. The distraction worked."
"Right," you say, the word tasting like ash. You straighten your spine, a soldier coming to attention after a devastating blow. You smooth your dress, a futile gesture. The elegance feels like a costume now, hanging awkwardly on the raw, shaken thing you've become underneath.
He offers his arm again, a formality. You take it, your fingers trembling slightly as they settle on the fine wool of his sleeve. The contact is sterile, polite. A mockery of the intimacy that just fused you together.
You know now, with chilling clarity, that Leon's first instinct was not to create distance, not to signal a retreat, but to eliminate the threat to you by any means necessary. He didn't just sell a cover. He consumed it. He didn't hesitate. And in that breathless, stolen moment, neither did you.
The line has not just been crossed. It has been incinerated.
You keep your chin high, your smile in place, moving back into the glittering fray. But the gala has shifted. The colours are too bright, the music too shrill. Every nerve ending is alive, hyper-aware of the man beside you, of the memory of his mouth, his hands, the terrifying efficiency of his protection, and the even more terrifying echo of your own response.
The gala breathes around you, music swelling and receding, laughter rippling through the crowd, the illusion of safety pressed into every polished surface. But the clock is ticking louder now.
You feel it in the way security shifts positions too often. In the way conversations stall, restart. In the subtle tightening of the room’s rhythm as the night edges closer to whatever Umbrella has planned.
Leon’s hand rests lightly at your elbow as he steers you toward the edge of the ballroom, bodies angled just close enough to sell the cover. His touch is careful now, less possessive than before, more controlled. Like he’s consciously reining himself in. His voice reaches you through the comm, low and steady beneath the orchestra.
“Broker’s device is active. Signal spike just came online.”
Your gaze sweeps the room automatically, cataloguing exits, shadows, patterns. “VIP lounge,” you murmur.
“Yes,” Leon replies. “But there’s a secondary access corridor behind the east stairwell. Two choke points.” A pause. “If we go together, we bottleneck.”
You glance up at him, jaw tightening. “If we split, we lose eyes.”
“We gain speed.”
“And risk,” you counter quietly, lips barely moving as a couple passes too close. “Security’s tightening. They’re already clocking patterns.”
Leon slows just enough to turn toward you. Not fully. Not enough to draw attention. But enough that you feel the weight of his focus settle on you. The chandelier light catches his eyes, sharp, intent, stripped of the softness he’s been wearing for the room.
“Protocol says split,” he says. “Two access points. Redundancy.”
You scoff under your breath. “Protocol didn’t account for Umbrella improvising.”
“It accounts for us adapting.”
“It accounts for you adapting,” you snap back, the edge in your voice slipping through despite your control. “I’m the variable you’re pretending isn’t there.”
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps once, just beneath the skin.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” You lean in closer, the pretence of intimacy giving your words cover. Your pulse is loud now, insistent. “Because ever since that-” You stop yourself, breath hitching. “Since earlier, you’ve been playing it safe.” Leon’s breath stutters once. Barely perceptible. But you feel it.
“I’m playing it smart,” he says.
You shake your head. “Same thing. Different excuse.”
A server brushes past, tray wobbling dangerously close. Leon reacts instantly, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you in as he murmurs something affectionate aloud. You force a smile, lean into him, sell it.
The server moves on. Leon’s hand doesn’t. His fingers remain splayed at your side, warm and grounding, the pressure unmistakable.
“Listen to me,” he says quietly now, close enough that his breath warms your ear. “The device will be gone in minutes. If we hesitate, we lose it.”
“And if something happens?” you whisper back. “If one of us gets boxed in-”
“We won’t,” he says too fast.
You pull back just enough to look at him. “You don’t know that.”
For a moment, the argument stalls. You don’t like being away from him. You hate that you know the cadence of his movements. That you can predict his choices before he makes them. That the thought of moving through hostile space without his presence at your back makes your chest feel tight and exposed. Leon looks away first. His hand slips from your waist, deliberately, like he’s forcing himself to let go.
“Two minutes,” he says, voice clipped. “If either of us hits resistance, we abort and regroup at point C.”
“And if comms drop?” you ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Then you trust me.”
The words land harder than they should. You swallow. “That’s a big ask.” Leon turns back to you, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes give him away. “You already do.”
You hate that he’s right. The realisation burns low and sharp in your chest.
“Fine,” you say, forcing steel into your voice. “East stairwell. I’ll take the service corridor.”
Leon nods once. No hesitation. No argument. Like this was always the plan.
You separate smoothly, drifting apart like any other couple momentarily distracted by different conversations. His presence fades from your side, and the absence of it is immediate, an ache you weren’t prepared for.
The service corridor is quieter, narrower. The music fades to a distant hum, replaced by the soft whir of ventilation and the echo of your own footsteps. The lighting here is dimmer, more utilitarian, less forgiving. You move with practiced ease, posture relaxed, pace unhurried. Just another donor who took a wrong turn.
A guard stands at the far end of the corridor, back partially turned. He glances up as you approach, eyes narrowing just a fraction too long.
You smile. “Sorry, restrooms?” He hesitates. Just long enough. “Down the hall,” he says eventually, gesturing.
You thank him and keep walking, heart thudding. You feel the weight of the distance now, the absence of Leon’s quiet presence through the comms, the way he usually covers angles you don’t have eyes on.
You reach the door marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY and slide the keycard from your clutch with steady fingers. The lock clicks open.
Inside, the air is cooler. Server racks hum softly, lights blinking in orderly patterns. The device should be here, hidden, discreet, temporary. You scan quickly. Nothing. Your pulse spikes.
“Leon,” you murmur into the comm. “Device isn’t here.”
A beat. “I’m seeing the same,” he replies. “They’ve moved it.”
“Where?”
“VIP lounge,” he says. “Security just doubled.”
Of course they did. You pivot toward the exit, and the door slams shut behind you. Your heart jumps. You spin, hand already moving toward the concealed weapon at your thigh. The lock engages with a sharp click.
“Leon,” you hiss.
“I hear it,” he says immediately. “Stay calm.”
“Working on it.”
Footsteps sound outside the door. Two sets. Guards murmuring. You scan the room, calculating. No windows. No alternate exit. The ventilation shaft is too small.
“You okay?” Leon asks, voice steady but tight.
“Yes,” you lie. “Just… boxed in.”
A pause. You can hear his breathing through the comm now, controlled but faster.
“I’m rerouting,” he says. “Hold.”
You close your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to breathe. You trust him. The guards’ voices grow clearer. Keys jingle. Someone tests the door. Your hand tightens around your weapon.
“Leon,” you whisper. “If this goes loud-”
“It won’t,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
The certainty in his voice steadies you more than you want it to. Seconds stretch. Then, gunfire. Shouts. Chaos, distant but unmistakable. The lock disengages. The door bursts open and Leon is there. Breathing hard. Suit rumpled. Eyes sharp and furious and fixed entirely on you.
“Move,” he says.
You don’t argue. You slip past him, shoulder brushing his as you fall into step, moving together like you never separated at all. As you disappear down the corridor, adrenaline still singing in your veins, one thought cuts through the chaos, clear and undeniable.
You barely make it three turns before the building decides to turn hostile.
It starts as a low chime, soft, almost polite, like a warning meant for staff, not guests. Then the lights above you flicker, the bright warmth of the gala’s corridors stuttering into something colder.
Red emergency strips ignite along the ceiling.
A beat later, the sound hits, an alarm that rises in pitch until it becomes a physical pressure against your skull.
Leon’s head snaps up. “That’s not fire protocol,” he says into the comm, voice already shifting into command mode.
“It’s not us,” you reply, breathing hard as you jog. “We haven’t even touched the-”
“Doesn’t matter.” His tone turns razor-thin. “Umbrella emergency.”
As if the words themselves flip a switch, the corridor ahead explodes with movement. A door slams open. Men in black tactical uniforms pour out, armed, masked, efficient. Not event security. Not rent-a-cops.
These are Umbrella’s.
The sound of the orchestra fades behind the thick walls, replaced by the heavier music of boots and shouted commands. Guests scream in the ballroom somewhere distant, the party dissolving into panic on the other side of a carefully controlled barrier.
Leon grabs your wrist and yanks you down a side hall just as a round cracks past where your head had been. The bullet bites into marble, spitting stone dust into the air.
“Contact!” someone barks. “Target moving, east corridor!”
Your comms crackle with interference, the line spiking and dropping as systems overload. Leon’s grip tightens once, steadying you, not for comfort, you tell yourself, but for speed.
“You okay?” he asks, already moving.
“Fine,” you snap, then add, because honesty feels like weakness, “They’re faster than I expected.”
“They’ve been waiting,” Leon says. “We triggered something they wanted triggered.”
You hate that he’s right. Hate that it means this wasn’t just security tightening. It was a trap snapping shut.
A door ahead locks with a heavy clunk as magnetic seals engage. The hallway narrows into a dead-end stretch lined with service entrances. Red light pulses across steel panels, making everything look like it’s bleeding.
Leon slows just long enough to scan. “No exits.”
“Then we make one,” you say, already reaching for the weapon concealed beneath your dress.
Leon’s gaze flicks to your thigh holster, then to your face. No comment. No surprise. Just that quiet, grim acceptance that you’d both come prepared.
A burst of gunfire erupts behind you.
Leon pushes you forward. “Move.”
You sprint. He’s right beside you, close enough that you feel the air shift with him, matching your pace without effort. You round a corner and slam into a tight corridor that funnels you into a narrow kill zone.
Two Umbrella operatives are already there.
No time for thought.
You fire once, clean shot, shoulder. Leon fires in the same breath, headshot. The second operative tries to swing their weapon up. You’re already moving, stepping in, elbow driving into their throat. Leon catches their arm and twists, disarming with a practiced snap that looks almost casual.
The man drops.
Silence doesn’t follow. More footsteps. More coming.
Leon reloads without looking, hands moving fast and sure. You pivot, back hitting his for half a second as you take position.
Back-to-back.
It happens instinctively.
No discussion. No argument. No ego.
Just movement.
Leon’s voice is low, calm. “Three behind. Two ahead.”
You swallow the adrenaline and check your magazine. “Left side is mine.”
“Copy.”
You hear the click of his gun as he finishes his reload. You don’t need to see it. You know the sound now, the rhythm of him, how long it takes, when he needs cover, when he’s about to shift.
The first wave hits.
A door bursts open to your left. You pivot and fire, dropping one before his boots fully clear the threshold. Another lunges in right behind him, weapon raised. You duck, feeling the heat of a shot pass over you, then slam your shoulder into the wall and rebound forward, knife flashing out of your clutch like it’s always been there.
Leon’s gun cracks twice at your back, perfectly timed, covering you as you close distance.
The man goes down.
Another steps into the corridor ahead, weapon trained. Leon shifts his weight, shoulder pressing lightly to your back, a cue, not a shove. You understand instantly, stepping left as he steps right, breaking the enemy’s line of fire before it can settle.
You fire.
Leon fires.
Two bodies fall.
You’re breathing hard now, sweat slick against your skin beneath the elegance of the dress. The fabric pulls tighter across your ribs with every inhale, a reminder that you’re fighting in clothes meant for champagne and photo ops, not blood and bullets.
And Leon is still in his suit, jacket discarded somewhere behind you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looks like a man who stepped off a runway and straight into a warzone.
He moves like he belongs here.
So do you.
A sharp crack echoes, too close. Stone dust sprays across your cheek as a bullet hits the wall inches from your head. You flinch, just once, and Leon’s hand comes up immediately, palm to your shoulder, guiding you down behind a corner.
“Stay low,” he murmurs.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you hiss automatically.
Leon doesn’t take the bait. He leans out, fires twice, then pulls back, already reloading. “Cover me.”
You do, because you always do. Because your body already knows what to do when he says it.
You step out, firing controlled shots that force the operatives back. Leon’s reload finishes. He’s up and moving again, switching positions with you so smoothly it feels like choreography.
It hits you mid-fight, sudden and unwanted.
You fight the same way.
Not identical but the same mind. The same instincts. The same calculation running behind your eyes at the same speed. The same ruthless efficiency under pressure.
You both make decisions in fractions of a second.
You both adjust without needing to speak.
You both anticipate.
Mirrors.
The thought is so sharp it almost distracts you.
And suddenly the rivalry makes sense.
Because it was never really hate. It was recognition.
A loud mechanical whine cuts through the chaos, the sound of an internal security shutter descending. The corridor ahead begins to seal off, metal plates sliding down from the ceiling to block the route.
“We’re getting boxed,” you warn.
Leon’s eyes flick. “We go now.”
You don’t argue. You surge forward together, moving fast as the plates descend. A man steps into your path, too late to stop you. You slam into him like a force of nature, knee driving into his stomach. Leon’s elbow snaps into the side of his head, clean and brutal.
You clear him and keep moving.
The shutter slams down behind you with a heavy, final clang.
For half a heartbeat, there’s only your breathing and the distant muffled alarm.
Leon’s chest rises and falls hard. His hair is slightly out of place now, a thin sheen of sweat at his temple. His eyes are bright with adrenaline, sharp as a blade.
You’re too close, face to face in the tight corridor, bodies still buzzing from combat. You can feel the heat of him, the electricity of the movement that just happened between you without words.
He scans you quickly, your face, your arms, the exposed skin at your shoulder. “You hit?”
“No,” you say, then more softly, “You?”
He shakes his head once.
Your comms crackle again. A burst of static. Then the handler’s voice cuts in, strained: “Emergency protocol is fully active. Extraction compromised. Get that device and get out. Now.”
Leon’s gaze meets yours.
And for the first time all night, there’s no sarcasm in it. No rivalry. No distance.
Just certainty.
“We finish this,” he says.
You swallow, pulse still pounding.
“Yeah,” you reply. “We finish it.”
Then you move again together, like you’ve been doing this side by side for years.
Like you were always meant to.
You duck into the service room just as Leon slams the door shut behind you, shoving a metal cart into place with a sharp grunt. The barricade isn’t elegant, but it’s solid enough to buy you time. For now.
The alarms are muffled here, reduced to a distant, angry pulse. Red light seeps through the narrow window in the door, flashing in slow intervals that make the room feel like it’s breathing.
You lean forward, hands braced on your knees, dragging air into your lungs. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline buzzing so loud it drowns out everything else. Sweat clings to your skin, your dress ruined, hair pulled loose from its careful styling.
Leon turns toward you immediately.
“Stay still,” he says, already closing the distance.
“I am still,” you snap, even as you straighten reflexively.
His hands are on you before you can object—efficient, professional. He checks your arms first, fingers firm but careful as they skim for blood. Then your shoulder, where stone dust still clings to your skin. His touch lingers there a fraction longer than necessary, thumb brushing lightly as if confirming something he already knows.
You swat his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Humour me.”
“I don’t recall that being part of the mission.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp, annoyed, but there’s something else there now too. “You flinched.”
“You were in my line of fire,” you fire back. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, hands dropping. “I’m checking my partner.”
The word lands heavier than either of you expect.
You scoff, turning away to pace the small room. “Don’t get sentimental now.”
Leon exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re the one snapping.”
You whirl back on him. “Because you nearly got yourself shot pulling that move back there.”
“And you nearly took a round to the head rushing that corner,” he shoots back without missing a beat.
There it is, the familiar bite. The clash. But it doesn’t sting the way it used to.
You hold his gaze, chest still heaving. “You didn’t have to cover me.”
Leon’s voice is steady, but quieter now. “Yes, I did.”
The certainty in it disarms you more than any argument ever has.
Silence stretches between you, thick with everything neither of you is saying. The room hums softly around you, vents rattling overhead, the smell of oil and metal grounding you in the aftermath.
Your pulse finally begins to slow.
You look at him properly then, not as a rival, not as an obstacle, but as the man who just fought back-to-back with you without hesitation. Who knew when you needed cover before you did. Who moved when you moved, adapted when you adapted, like your thoughts were running parallel tracks.
It clicks.
He never underestimated you.
Not once.
All those arguments. The clipped remarks. The way he never rose to your jabs, never reacted the way you wanted him to. You’d always read it as arrogance. Distance. Superiority.
But standing here now, suit scuffed and tie gone, breathing hard just like you, the truth settles uncomfortably into place.
He wasn’t looking down on you.
He was matching you.
Meeting you at the same level and refusing to drop below it. Treating you like an equal long before you were ready to believe it. Long before you’d stopped mistaking restraint for dismissal.
Leon shifts his weight, eyes still on you. “You good?” he asks again, softer this time.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
A beat passes.
“You fight like me,” you add, almost against your will.
His brow furrows slightly. “No. You fight like you.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he says.
Another silence, but this one is different. Less sharp. Less hostile. Charged, but steadier.
Leon glances toward the barricaded door, listening. “We’ve got maybe ninety seconds before they reroute.”
You straighten, rolling your shoulders despite the ache settling into them. “Then we’d better move.”
He nods, and for the first time, there’s no tension in the agreement. No need to assert control or prove anything.
Just two agents, side by side, breathing in sync.
The safe room isn’t safe in any comforting way.
It’s a concrete box tucked behind an unmarked service door three levels below street access, the kind of place that doesn’t show up on public blueprints. The air smells faintly of dust and old metal. A single strip light hums above, casting pale, uneven illumination across gray walls and a scarred steel table. No windows. No softness. No distractions.
Just four walls and the aftertaste of adrenaline.
You shut the door behind you and twist the lock twice out of habit, even though the handler swore this location was clean. Leon stands a few feet away, chest rising and falling hard. His suit is ruined, dark smudges at the knee where he’d hit the floor, the white of his shirt stained with sweat and dust. His tie is gone. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms streaked with grime, knuckles raw.
He looks like a man who belongs in a fight, not a ballroom.
You look… less polished too. Your dress is torn at the hem, a thin snag running along your thigh where you’d caught it on something sharp while vaulting a barrier. Your hair has slipped free of its careful pins. There’s stone dust at your collarbone. The only thing that stayed flawless is the shape of your posture, trained, controlled, refusing to collapse.
You cross the room and drop the data device on the steel table. It makes a solid, satisfying clack that echoes in the small space.
Done.
For now.
Leon reaches up and removes the earpiece, rolling it between his fingers before setting it down beside the device. You do the same, tugging yours out with a little too much force. Without comms, the room gets quieter. The silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels loaded.
Weapons come next, unclipped, unloaded, set aside. You place your handgun on the table, then the spare magazine. The movement is efficient, practiced. Leon mirrors you without a word, laying his gear down in clean, ordered lines like he can impose control on chaos by arranging it neatly.
A tremor runs through your fingers when you reach for a chair. You close your hand into a fist before anyone can see.
Leon’s gaze flicks to you anyway.
You hate that he notices everything. Hate that you’re suddenly grateful he does.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
The adrenaline is still in your bloodstream, buzzing like a live wire under your skin. Your thoughts keep trying to sprint, to latch onto the next move, the next threat, the next exit.
But there is nothing to chase.
No alarms. No targets.
Just the hum of the strip light and the slow return of sensation: the ache in your ribs, the sting across your knuckles, the bruise blooming at your hip where you’d hit the wall harder than you meant to.
Your body is remembering you’re human.
It’s the worst part, the calm. In the fight, everything had been simple: move, shoot, breathe, survive. Now, with nothing pressing in, the silence forces everything else forward.
The kiss. The way Leon moved in front of you. The way your hands had lingered on his wrist. The way he’d said I’ve got you like it was an unshakable fact.
You take a slow breath and realise your lungs are still working like they expect to be chased.
Leon finally breaks the stillness, voice low. “We got it.”
“Yeah,” you answer too quickly. “We got it.”
He nods once, but his eyes don’t move away from you. There’s something in his expression, still controlled, still restrained, but the edges have softened, as if the adrenaline has melted some of the steel away and left the person underneath exposed in small, dangerous ways.
You don’t know what to do with that.
You turn toward the wall instead, stare at the blank concrete like it can offer you an instruction manual.
Your hands shake again, just slightly. You flex your fingers, forcing them steady. You refuse to let your body betray you, not after everything. Not in front of him.
“Sit,” Leon says.
It isn’t an order. Not really. It’s… practical. Almost gentle.
“I’m fine,” you snap automatically.
Leon’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue, he simply steps closer and reaches for the small first aid kit mounted on the wall. You hadn’t noticed it. Of course he did.
He sets it on the table with a quiet thud and flips it open, movements clean and efficient. Like tending wounds is just another protocol.
You watch him for half a second too long.
The light catches the lines of exhaustion in his face. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. A smudge of dried blood at the edge of his knuckles that isn’t his, you think. The muscles in his shoulders shift as he rolls them once, like the weight of the night is settling in.
A tremor runs through his hand as he pulls out antiseptic wipes.
He pauses, almost imperceptibly, then continues like it never happened.
So he’s not untouched either.
That realisation lands strangely. You’ve spent so long imagining him as something unbreakable—smooth, composed, always in control. Seeing the cracks should satisfy you.
It doesn’t.
It makes your throat tighten.
“Give me your hand,” Leon says, still not looking directly at you.
You laugh once, short and sharp. “That’s rich.”
He finally looks up. “Don’t start.”
The tone is familiar, dry, controlled, but it lacks its usual bite. It’s not a challenge. It’s tired.
You should refuse out of principle.
Instead you step forward and extend your hand, palm up, because the alternative, fighting him on this, feels suddenly exhausting.
Leon takes your hand.
His fingers are warm, steady, calloused. His grip is firm but careful, like he’s handling something that matters more than he wants to admit. He inspects your knuckles, the small splits in the skin, the smear of grime.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s blood.”
You roll your eyes. “Congratulations, Kennedy. You can identify bodily fluids.”
A flicker, almost a smile, touches his mouth. It’s gone before you can be sure it was real.
He cleans your knuckles anyway. The antiseptic stings. You hiss and try to pull away. Leon holds your hand a fraction tighter, not letting you retreat.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Your pulse jumps at the softness of it.
You hate that.
“You’re enjoying this,” you mutter, trying to salvage something sharp.
Leon doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”
The honesty in his voice knocks the air out of your sarcasm. He sounds… genuine. Like he’s too worn out to pretend.
He finishes cleaning your hand, wraps it quickly, efficiently. The tape catches briefly on your skin, and his thumb brushes your wrist as he smooths it down.
You feel it like a spark.
You hate that you feel it.
Leon lets go, but his hand lingers for a half second too long, fingers resting against your pulse as if confirming it’s still there.
Then he pulls back, clearing his throat, gaze shifting away like he’s caught himself doing something he didn’t mean to.
The silence returns.
He starts tending to his own wounds next, wiping blood from his knuckles, wrapping tape with the same clinical focus. But his hands still shake faintly, the aftermath of adrenaline refusing to fade completely.
You don’t comment. He doesn’t either.
The strip light hums.
Your breathing finally slows to something normal. With it comes the weight of everything you’ve been avoiding since you first saw his name on that leaderboard.
The first time you tried to speak to him.
The way he ignored you.
The silence that followed you for years like a ghost.
It’s there now, in this room, louder than the alarms ever were.
You don’t plan to say anything. You don’t want to hand him another weapon.
But the words break loose anyway, scraped raw by exhaustion and adrenaline and the fact that he just held your hand like it mattered.
“Why,” you ask, voice quiet enough it barely exists, “did you ignore me back then?”
Leon freezes. The strip light hums. Somewhere in the building, pipes creak. The sound feels unbearably loud. His gaze lifts slowly. For once, there’s no immediate retort, no controlled reply. Just stillness.
You swallow, suddenly aware that you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. “You walked right past me,” you continue, the old anger flaring in your chest like it never left. “I said your name. You didn’t even look at me. Like I wasn’t-” Your voice catches. You force it steady. “Like I wasn’t worth the effort.”
Leon’s throat works as he swallows. He looks down at his hands for a moment, fingers flexing, then back up to you. His eyes are hard, not with anger, but with something else. Something that looks a lot like regret.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly.
You laugh, brittle. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing each word with care. Like he can’t afford to get this wrong.
“I didn’t know what to say,” Leon admits. The words hang in the air, plain and stark.
You blink. “What?”
“I didn’t know what to say,” he repeats, more firmly this time, like he’s pushing through something stuck in his throat. “You… came up to me. Confident. Like you belonged here already. Like you weren’t scared of anyone.”
Your chest tightens, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to understanding.
Leon’s jaw flexes. “And I…” He hesitates. It’s subtle, but it’s there, the first real hesitation you’ve seen from him that isn’t tactical. “I didn’t want to screw it up.”
You stare at him, thrown off balance. “Screw what up?” you demand, too sharply.
Leon’s eyes meet yours, steady but exposed. “Whatever it was,” he says quietly. “I-” He exhales, a sound that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t. “You intimidated me.”
The confession hits like a punch. You’re speechless for a beat, mouth opening and closing like you’re trying to find words that aren’t there.
“Me?” you echo finally, incredulous.
Leon nods once, almost reluctantly. “Yeah. You.”
He shifts his weight, restless, uncomfortable, like he’d rather be facing down a dozen armed guards than this conversation. “I’d just transferred. I was… trying to keep my head down. Trying to be the guy who didn’t make mistakes.”
His gaze drops again briefly, then lifts. “And you looked at me like you expected something. Like you wanted to talk. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”
The room feels smaller. You remember that hallway. Remember the way you’d felt, nervous but determined, trying to be friendly, trying to prove you weren’t just another ambitious agent. You’d thought it would be simple. You’d thought he’d smile. Instead he’d walked away and left you standing there with your pride bleeding out on the floor.
“And you decided ignoring me was the best option,” you say, voice tight.
Leon’s mouth twists. “I thought if I said the wrong thing, it’d be worse.”
“So you said nothing.”
“I said nothing,” he agrees, and there’s no defence in it. Just ownership. “And then you looked at me like you hated me, and…” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours. “It was easier to let you.”
Your throat tightens. Because it’s suddenly all too clear: the rivalry didn’t start because he thought he was better than you.
It started because he was scared, and you were hurt, and neither of you had ever been brave enough to admit it.
The strip light hums above you, the only witness to the truth finally surfacing between bare concrete walls.
You let out a slow breath, hands still, heart quieter now but heavier.
“Leon,” you say, voice low.
He looks at you, waiting. The silence after his confession is different from the ones that came before it. It doesn’t feel sharp or loaded with expectation. It feels… open. Exposed. Like something has finally been set down between you instead of hurled back and forth.
Leon doesn’t move. He doesn’t fill the space with explanations or excuses. He just stands there, shoulders tense, waiting. For you.
You stare at the concrete floor for a long moment, jaw tight, pulse steadying as the truth rearranges itself in your chest. All the years of irritation. The constant edge. The way every victory against him had tasted hollow, every loss unbearable. It clicks into place with an almost humiliating clarity.
“You know what the worst part is?” you say finally, voice quiet but steady.
Leon’s eyes lift to yours. He doesn’t speak.
“You made me better.” The words scrape on the way out. You let out a short, humourless breath. “Every time I saw your name above mine, or just one slot below, it pissed me off. And I worked harder. Smarter. I pushed myself because I refused to be second to you.”
Leon’s brow furrows slightly, but he stays silent.
“And I told myself it was hate,” you continue, forcing the words out before you can second-guess them. “That you were arrogant. Cold. That you thought you were better than me.”
Your laugh this time is quieter. Rougher. “It was easier to be angry than to admit the truth.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Which is?”
The room doesn’t collapse. He just watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“I hated you,” you say, softer now, “because it was safer than wondering why your opinion of me mattered so much.”
The admission leaves you raw. Exposed in a way gunfire never could. Leon exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that breath for years.
“I noticed,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Noticed what?”
“That you were always pushing.” His voice is calm, but there’s something unguarded in it now. “That every time I thought I’d finally pulled ahead, you closed the gap. That when I messed up, you didn’t gloat, you got sharper.”
He shakes his head once, a small, almost self-deprecating motion. “I told myself I didn’t care. That it was just competition.”
You snort. “Let me guess. Lie.”
“Yes.” He meets your gaze fully now. “I measured everything against you. Missions. Scores. Decisions. I never wanted to be less in your eyes.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
Leon shifts his weight, restless. “I mistook the tension for hostility because that was easier than admitting I was… invested.”
“In what?” you ask quietly.
“In you,” he answers, just as quietly.
The air between you changes.
Not explosively. Not dramatically.
It settles.
You look at him finally, as someone standing on the same ground, stripped of armour and pretence.
Equals.
“I thought you ignored me because you didn’t respect me,” you say.
Leon’s mouth tightens. “I respected you too much.”
That shouldn’t undo you.
It does.
Your shoulders sag slightly, tension bleeding out of muscles you didn’t realise were still locked. “We’re idiots,” you mutter.
Leon huffs a quiet laugh. “We’re agents.”
“Same thing.”
For the first time, the humour doesn’t feel like a weapon. It feels shared.
You step closer without fully realising you’ve moved. The space between you narrows until you’re acutely aware of his presence again. You can hear his breathing. Feel the warmth radiating off him.
Leon doesn’t retreat.
His hand lifts slightly, then hesitates, hovering near your wrist like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to cross that line. The restraint is somehow worse than if he’d just touched you.
Your fingers twitch, an instinctive response.
The moment teeters.
It’s there in the closeness, the shared breath, the fragile understanding humming between you. One step closer. One hand reaching. One choice away from something that feels inevitable.
Leon’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth.
Your heart stutters.
Then -
A sharp crackle tears through the stillness.
Your discarded earpiece comes to life on the table, static bursting from it in an ugly rush of sound. You both jerk back instinctively, training snapping into place.
“-repeat, safe room compromised-” the handler’s voice cuts in, distorted and urgent. “Umbrella units inbound. You need to move. Now.”
The spell shatters.
Leon’s hand drops instantly, professionalism snapping back into place like a reflex. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline surging back through veins that had only just begun to calm.
You exchange one look.
Not rivals. Not enemies.
Partners.
“Guess we don’t get a quiet ending,” you mutter.
Leon’s mouth curves faintly, not a smirk, not yet. Something steadier. “We’ll finish this first.”
You nod, already moving toward your weapon. But as you pass him, your fingers brush his wrist, deliberate this time.
Just enough to promise. This isn’t over.
Then the door rattles under the first distant impact, and whatever comes next barrels toward you both at full speed, truth laid bare, denial gone, and something fragile and dangerous waiting on the other side of the fight.
The first impact hits the door like a warning.
Metal groans. The cart you shoved against it shudders, wheels squealing against concrete. Dust shakes loose from the ceiling in a fine gray drift.
Leon’s eyes snap to the lock. Yours snap to your weapon.
“Move,” he says at the same time you do.
The strip light overhead flickers once, then dies.
Darkness swallows the room.
For half a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the faint red pulse bleeding through the narrow window in the door and the sound of your own breathing.
Then the world explodes.
Gunfire tears through the door in a blistering spray. Splinters of metal and concrete burst inward, sparks flashing like violent stars in the dark. You drop instinctively, hitting the floor hard, shoulder slamming into the table leg as rounds chew the space where you’d been standing a second ago.
“Down!” Leon barks, unnecessary, because you’re already there.
Your ears ring. The air smells like hot metal and smoke. The darkness makes everything closer, sharper. You can’t see Leon, but you can hear him, his breath, controlled but quick, the scrape of his boots as he shifts.
Another impact slams into the door. The cart grinds forward an inch.
“They tracked us,” you spit, teeth clenched.
Leon’s voice is tight. “They wanted us to bring the device somewhere quiet.”
Personal, then.
Not a show of force. Not a random contingency.
A message.
A punishment.
You raise your pistol, steadying your aim toward the door’s window slit. Red light strobes across your hands in pulses. You can’t see targets, but you can predict movement by sound, boots, the clink of gear, the clipped rhythm of someone stacking up for entry.
Leon moves to your side, a shadow in the dark. You feel the brush of his shoulder against yours, close, grounding, real.
“On my mark,” you murmur.
“Always,” he whispers back, and the word lands heavier than it ever has.
The door buckles.
A wedge of light knifes through as the barricade gives. Someone rams it again, and the door bursts inward with a metallic shriek. Figures flood the gap, black armour, masked faces, rifles up.
You fire first.
A clean shot, then another. The muzzle flash briefly illuminates the room in harsh white bursts, enough to catch glints of visor, the sharp edge of a weapon, Leon’s face set and fierce beside you.
Leon moves in the same instant, firing over your shoulder, his shots precise, economical. An operative drops in the doorway, collapsing into the pile of debris. Another stumbles back with a curse.
“Push!” Leon barks.
You surge forward together, slipping through the smoke and chaos. Close quarters now, too tight for long-range. Your shoulder slams into one attacker, throwing him off balance. Leon’s elbow drives into another’s jaw, cracking hard enough that you feel it in your teeth.
You don’t think.
You move.
Someone grabs your arm from behind. You pivot, wrenching free, gun coming up, only to have Leon’s hand catch your wrist, redirecting your barrel a fraction.
“Left,” he snaps.
A shot cracks where your aim would’ve been wrong. A man drops behind you, silent and sudden.
Your pulse spikes, raw gratitude laced with terror.
You’re alive because Leon didn’t hesitate. Again.
More operatives spill into the corridor outside, attempting to funnel you back into the room. You back up instinctively until your spine hits the wall.
Leon shifts behind you.
Back-to-back, without discussion.
The old rhythm returns, but it’s different now. It’s sharpened by something you can’t pretend is just training.
A rifle butt swings toward Leon’s head. You hear it more than see it. You react—knife flashing up, slashing across the attacker’s forearm. Leon ducks and counters, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him crashing into the corridor wall.
“Leon!” you call, not as a warning, but as an anchor. A check-in. Still there?
“I’m here,” he answers, voice tight.
Gunfire erupts again, closer. A round clips the wall by your ear. Another slams into Leon’s side.
For a second, you don’t register what happened.
Then Leon makes a sound, sharp, involuntary, like his body betrayed him.
He staggers.
Your stomach drops through the floor.
“Leon!” you gasp, turning-
He catches himself against the wall, one hand pressing hard to his ribs. When he lifts it, his palm is dark in the strobing red light.
Blood. Too much.
His face tightens, not with fear, with frustration. With the shock of losing control for even a second.
“I’m fine,” he grits out.
“No,” you snap, voice cracking with something you can’t hide. “No, you’re not.”
Another operative charges, and instinct takes over before panic can swallow you whole. You fire, dropping him mid-step. You move closer to Leon without thinking, body angling to shield him from the corridor.
“Don’t-” Leon starts, but his breath catches, pain stealing the rest of the sentence.
You rip some fabric from your dress, and shove it against his side. “Hold pressure.”
Leon’s eyes flare. “We need to move.”
“We are moving,” you hiss. “But you are not dying in front of me.”
He tries to straighten. He’s breathing harder now, sweat slick at his brow, his usual control slipping at the edges. Disorientation flickers in his eyes for half a second, like his body is threatening to go down whether he wants it to or not.
The sight guts you.
The fear hits fully then, hot and absolute, stripping you of everything sharp and snarky and protected.
“I am going to be so mad if you die on me,” you say, voice raw, unfiltered.
Leon’s eyes rolled before his gaze locks on yours. You could’ve sworn you saw a smirk on his face.
Then his jaw tightens. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and for once, it isn’t a challenge. It’s a promise.
The corridor fills with footsteps again.
You pivot, planting yourself between Leon and the oncoming threat. Every muscle in your body tightens with purpose. Protective. Focused.
You fire in controlled bursts, forcing the operatives back. Leon pushes off the wall, gritting his teeth, raising his weapon despite the tremor in his arm. You hear the strain in his breath, the way his body fights him now.
“Stay with me,” you mutter, not a command, an insistence. “Match me.”
Leon’s voice is ragged but steady. “Always.”
You move together again, but now every decision is laced with instinctive concern. You take the riskier angles, so he doesn’t have to. You cover him longer than necessary. You bark directions closer, faster, because the thought of losing him makes your vision narrow into something dangerous.
An enemy lunges from the side. You catch him with your shoulder and slam him into the wall. Leon steps in to finish it, but his knees buckle for a heartbeat. Your hand shoots out, gripping his forearm, hauling him upright.
You clear the last attacker with brutal efficiency, and the corridor finally opens, an escape route just beyond the carnage.
Leon sways, teeth clenched. You hook your arm around his back, taking more of his weight than you should be able to, and he lets you.
That, more than anything, tells you how deep this has gone.
You stagger forward together into the dim service stairwell, alarms still wailing, red light flashing, the world still trying to tear you apart.
The extraction is quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after everything loud has already burned itself out.
You barely register the transition from stairwell to armoured transport. Leon’s weight leans heavy against you until medics swarm, voices overlapping, hands pulling you apart with practiced urgency. Someone eases you back while someone else lowers him onto a stretcher. The world narrows to flashes: gauze pressed to his side, blood-stained shirt cut away, a monitor chirping insistently.
You stand there uselessly for half a second too long before someone tells you to sit.
You don’t remember sitting.
You remember your hands shaking when you notice they’re covered in his blood. You scrub them together reflexively, like you can erase the image if you try hard enough. A medic hands you a bottle of water. You take it without drinking.
Leon is alive.
The knowledge settles slowly, like something too fragile to trust all at once. His chest rises and falls, uneven but steady. His eyes flutter open briefly when they stitch him up, unfocused but aware enough to find you where you stand.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
Later, how much later you’re not sure, you’re in another room. Cleaner. Brighter. Too sterile to feel real. Leon is propped up on a narrow cot, bandaged and pale but breathing without effort now. The monitors have gone quiet, content to hum along instead of scream.
Your injuries are minor. Someone fussed over them anyway. You let them, numb and obedient, because the alternative was thinking.
Now it’s just the two of you again.
Silence settles between you like a blanket instead of a weapon.
You stand by the wall at first, arms folded, posture rigid out of habit more than necessity. Leon watches you from the cot, expression unreadable but soft around the edges in a way you’ve never seen before.
“You should sit,” he says quietly.
You shake your head and answer as you always do. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue but rolls his eyes as he always does.
The adrenaline has fully drained now, leaving behind a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. Your hands are still trembling slightly, even as you clench them into fists and force them still. You feel wrung out, scraped raw, like something vital has been stripped away, and something else left behind in its place.
Leon shifts, wincing faintly, then settles. His gaze never leaves you.
“I scared you,” he says.
It’s not an accusation. It’s not fishing for reassurance.
It’s a statement.
You swallow. “Yeah.”
Another silence. Thicker. More honest.
“I didn’t mean to,” he adds.
“I know.” You push off the wall before you can stop yourself, closing the distance until you’re standing beside him. You don’t look at the bandages. You look at his face. “But you did.”
Leon nods once. “I won’t apologise for getting hit.”
“Good,” you say immediately. “Because I’d never forgive you for it.”
That earns the faintest huff of a laugh, more breath than sound. It fades quickly, leaving the room quiet again.
You don’t sit. Instead, you reach out without fully deciding to, your fingers brushing the edge of the bed. Leon’s hand shifts instinctively, stopping just short of yours.
The hesitation is mutual.
“You don’t have to-” he starts.
“I want to,” you say softly.
The words feel different now. Steadier. Chosen.
Leon’s fingers close around yours, careful, deliberate. His grip is warm, grounding, real in a way that has nothing to do with cover stories or mission parameters. He doesn’t pull you closer. He just holds on, like he’s confirming you’re still here.
You breathe out slowly, the tension easing from your shoulders in a way you hadn’t realized was still there.
This isn’t the gala. There’s no music. No audience. No danger pressing in from all sides. No reason at all, except want.
You step closer, close enough that your knees brush the side of the cot. Leon tilts his head up slightly to look at you, eyes searching, open.
When you finally lean in, it’s slow. Unrushed. Intentional.
Your lips meet his with a softness that surprises you both.
It’s nothing like the kiss before.
There’s no urgency driving it this time. No desperation, no need to convince anyone watching. No sharp angles or calculated pressure. Just the quiet, deliberate meeting of mouths, slow, careful, unguarded in a way that feels far more dangerous.
Leon kisses you like he’s letting himself feel it.
His lips are warm, firm but unhurried, moving against yours with a patience that makes your breath stutter despite yourself. It’s not demanding. It’s exploratory. As if he’s memorising the shape of you instead of claiming it.
His hand lifts to your wrist, fingers closing there gently, thumb brushing over your pulse. You feel it jump beneath his touch, too fast, too loud, and the knowledge that he can feel it too sends a low, unwanted heat curling through your stomach.
He doesn’t comment.
He just deepens the kiss slightly, a subtle shift that draws a quiet sound from the back of your throat before you can stop it. His other hand hovers at your side, not quite touching, the restraint almost worse than contact.
When he finally does settle his palm against your waist, it’s careful. Grounding. Like he’s reminding both of you exactly where you are, and exactly how close you’re choosing to be.
You kiss him back without thinking, lips parting just enough to meet his, the world narrowing to breath and warmth and the steady strength of him in front of you. The orchestra fades. The room dissolves. There is only this, this shared, wordless understanding humming between you.
When you pull back, it’s slow.
Reluctant.
Your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling, close enough that you can feel the faint tremor he hasn’t quite managed to suppress. His thumb still strokes your pulse, absent-minded now, like he’s forgotten he’s doing it.
Neither of you speaks.
You don’t need to.
There’s no declaration. No promise shaped into words. Just the shared understanding humming between you, solid and undeniable.
When you finally straighten, Leon’s eyes are still on you, softer now. Lighter.
“Guess,” he murmurs, “that wasn’t part of the cover.”
You smile, a real one, unguarded. “Guess not.”
The silence returns again after that.
But this time, it doesn’t ask anything of you.
It simply lets you be.
The debrief room looks exactly the way it always does.
Gray walls. Steel table. A screen mounted at the far end displaying mission timestamps and sanitized summaries. The kind of room designed to strip events of their chaos and compress them into bullet points.
You sit side by side. Your shoulder almost brushes Leon’s, close enough to feel without touching. He’s back in clean clothes now, bandages hidden beneath a fresh shirt, posture straight despite the stiffness he hasn’t quite shaken.
The handler stands across from you, expression neutral as ever.
“Extraction successful,” they say. “Data secured. Umbrella assets neutralised. Collateral contained.”
You nod. Leon nods.
Professional. Controlled.
There’s no need to look at each other to confirm anything. You already know what the other is thinking. Where they’ll speak. When they’ll stay quiet. It’s effortless now, like the friction burned itself out and left something smooth behind.
The handler’s gaze flicks between you briefly. Assessing. Noting the absence of hostility.
“Good work,” they add. “Both of you.”
High praise, coming from them.
They dismiss you with a clipped nod and turn back to the screen. The door slides open with a soft hiss, and you stand at the same time, movements synchronized without thought.
Outside, the operations floor hums with its usual low-level chaos. Agents pass, analysts cluster around consoles, voices overlap in familiar rhythms. Nothing looks different.
But it feels different.
You walk together toward the leaderboard without speaking, the silence companionable instead of sharp. The board flickers as you approach, updating, recalculating, doing what it always does after a major operation.
For a split second, the screen goes dark.
Then the names appear.
You stop.
So does Leon.
#1 — YOU
#1 — LEON KENNEDY
Perfectly even.
Tied.
You stare at it longer than you expect to, waiting for something, satisfaction, irritation, the old flare of competitiveness.
It doesn’t come.
Leon exhales softly beside you, something between a laugh and a breath of disbelief. He tilts his head, eyes moving from the board to you.
That familiar smirk appears, not sharp, not challenging. Lighter. Easier.
“Guess we’ll have to settle this another way,” he says.
I will write the fic I want to read
