A/n: Hi ya'll it been a while! This idea has been on my mind for so long, though I haven't edited the parts yet however I did want to show you a sneak peek of my work. I love to continue this, prolly making this a series if it weren't for life and responsibilities :v. Anyway, this is the unedited version of a series I'm writing. The context is ofc our very own Leon Kennedy x BOW! Reader series. Let me know how ya'll liking the plot!
Again, this is an UNEDITED version. Therefore, there may be grammar errors occur since English is not my first language (Should've mentioned this in earlier fics I've made T^T)
Enjoy the sneak peek everyone!
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Archipelago of Tristan da Cunha, located in Nightingale island.
Footsteps landed on the metal crates-like floor came to a halt. A certain pair of brunettes stood by the door, opposite to each other. Guns on their hands ready for whatever may come behind the door, Leon looked at Jill—his temporary partner for the sake of a joint mission between DSO and BSAA, similar location yet different objectives must be obtained. The DSO is on a hunt for a significant doctor on a suspicious plans for developing new unknown virus whereas BSAA acquire files on the experiments made from the virus itself and rescue any lucky hostages that hasn't met their fate. With a nod of confirmation, he reached out the door handle giving themselves a momentum before opening it with Jill following behind. He did surveillance in the room, noting no snarls and growls greeting them and definitely no doctor is found anywhere.
"All clear", he notified. He could've been at ease yet knowing how this world is full of surprises, still kept his guard up and studied the room some more. At the moment, he felt that the place is odd... The way the room is designed the way it is. The table is placed at center of the room with computer set up and a file is open as if the last person who read it must've left in a hurry when something has happened or it could be intentional leaving it there for anyone who came in to see. Then he noticed how there wasn't much furniture to be found around except for the table at the center with swivel chair and a computer placed on the side of the table. There is a spiral staircase in the corner of the room, leading upwards which eerily welcomes the pair to come over and see.
"This room feels more home-y than the rest", Jill remarked dryly. "They should add a lava lamp if it helps to bring color to the place", Jill added looking around the strange room. Both of them then approached the table, Jill opened up the computer while Leon glanced at the files placed almost neatly on the table. Whilst Jill extorts data from the computer hoping to find out something of the virus, Leon skimmed through the file he grabbed. The file read of the 'Experiment #83' where it seemed to have manifested echolocation as a way to identify their surroundings evidenced by using their technology in reading their echolocation. That it can transform itself to walk on land and under water. The experiment may pose as a threat if not contained.
As Leon skimmed further, he noticed a name of the doctor he's looking for. "This must be one of his sick experiments then", he grumbled as his headache already forming on what kind of bullsh*t this man is trying to create. His eyebrows furrowed as he pinched his nose when he heard Jill said, "What's this?.."
He glanced at her then at something that Jill felt at the side of the table. They looked at the table side, seeing a button conveniently placed there. Jill became wary of pushing the button down yet the curiosity got the best of her. Then they heard a noise from behind.
They turned swiftly in a defensive stance and their guns held upward. The wall behind revealed to be another room yet enclosed with a thick glass wall. There are numerous scratches on the lower middle part of the thick glass—there are scratches in some places such as the sides or even above yet it's more notably on the lower middle part. It was as if anyone who stood there, something behind the glass wall wanted to tear someone apart judging how it looked the way the glass was scratched. Then there was a pool that seems out of place. Whatever it was there, it cannot be any good. And that sends chills down to Leon's spine, thinking just what the hell kind of experiments have they been doing here.
Unbeknownst to them, there's a creature hidden underneath the waters. The creature felt a set of intruding presence from above. Using her abilities to gather information from the pair of disturbing presence above. She realized it was not the usual horrid doctor that she kept seeing. No, they are different. Different from the people she has gathered information from her echolocation alone. Out of curiosity, she swims up. Before she goes to the surface, she hesitates. Albeit terrified that it may be another set of experiments they want to do unto her. Or another scars added to her body that speaks of her sufferings. Yet, a tiny voice told her that this time it may be different.
With a new profound courage, she swims.
Leon and Jill saw something moving in the water. "Did you see that?.. ", Leon guarded with his eyes never left from the waters. Jill muttered with a 'yeah' in time that they saw a white-haired creature surfaced from the water, nearly jumping their skin off of the sudden appearance in eerily manner. Its watching them, more so like observing the two agents before the creature.
"What the f*ck..." Jill astounded, still looking at the creature before her. Leon then thought back the file he read on the table. 'That must be the experiment they talked about', Leon thought his eyes on the creature still.
The 'experiment' moved slowly towards them before stopping by the edge of the pool. Then she slowly gripped onto the edge, revealing black fingertips on her hands before lifting herself up. Now they can see the whole appearance of the creature. Her hair is white as a snow, her eyes had black sclera with gray iris and slit-like pupils. Her skin were so much paler, probably driven off the color she once had before she became like this. What strikes them the most are her legs... Or rather, a tail.
For anyone who had dreamt and aspire the beauties of the sea would have their wish came true if they see her.
Yet we live in a world where their name is true for it being the dark place to live in. And the fact that this woman hasn't given an article of clothing to keep what's left of her dignity. That made Leon enraged thinking about the treatment she had to endure and sympathy for all the things she been through. But what happens next strikes them both astonished yet cringe of how it sounded. Her tail after exposed to air in some time, divided with gruesome tearing sounds of her flesh made. Her tail reverted back to feet with sounds of bone cracking. Then the creature stood up slowly, almost falling over a few before she can make herself stand tall before them.
Her head tilted sideways, her eyes still studying them as she approached cautiously to the glass wall. Jill felt familiar with the creature before her yet she couldn't rack her brain on what. Thus, Jill moved closer to the window.
"Jill.. What are you doing?", Leon muttered getting ready to grab Jill back but was stopped with her hand up as if to say to trust her on this. Jill walked closely to the window and place her hand on the glass wall. The creature looked at Jill's hand, then copied her. The creature reverts her eyes back to the familiar woman before her. Suddenly, she had a flashback of her old life. Seeing the same woman again but this time, they were laughing together with a voice coming from her called out...
"Jill?...", her voice croaked. All of them were taken back to her voice, including her. She hasn't heard her voice in so long she thought she must've lost it. That made Jill freeze on the spot on the disbelief of revelations she made in her mind.
Her voice.. It can't be..
Jill's eyes widened with tears brimmed, "... No way..."
thank you to my love @midnightsummerrain for tagging me 💗
omgg the fact i got iced coffee, miss dior perfume (my fave), that pink cardigan i have the exact one and the outfit I would wear !! pinterest does really know me 🤭
look up on Pinterest: lyrics, color, character, place, outfit, and aesthetic.
no pressure tags :- @monacofiles @lanadelreyylover @jqsjournal @steelandvibranium @starberrymatcha @mrskennedy-07 @iheartchrisredfield @shesmycollaarr @key201303 (once again i tried tagging people who I haven’t seen been tagged before! sorry if you already have done this!!)
I absolutely LOVEE seeing you guys do these tags because I get to know more about you !!
Thank you @lostdreamsx for tagging me, this is so cute 😭❤️
The fact that Pinterest gave me a library when I started playing librarian: tidy up the arcane library before I started working at the summer camp is crazy 😍 also Leon as my character, did anyone have any doubt? LMAO
Tagging (just if you feel like doing this) @rednnedy @like-gh0sts-in-sn0w @symphony4444 @kl0ng5ki3 @eyesofophelia ❤️❤️
Summary: Friday night has arrived. She's all set and now ready to enjoy her night. Though some things took quiet an entertaining turn.
Contains: Fluff, friends to lovers, some swearing, maybe a little bit of OOC on some characters, a hint of angst, confession time
A/n: Hi ya'll! Welcome to the second part of one shot. I actually enjoy writing this even though it's a pain in a butt but nonetheless I had fun writing it. Please enjoy!
Part 1, Part 2 (reading now)
Taglist: @princesssugarplumm
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After a long grueling week of work, Friday finally came around. She felt that she deserves to let off the steam as per what Claire says on the text. Claire texted time and venue which is approximately 25 minutes from her place. She went home to change out her work clothes to something that's comfortable and groomed. She wore chocolate brown blouse in a V-shaped neckline that's flattering on her figure while it remains conservative. She wore blue denim in straight cut and brown shoes. To fit the whole look, she wore her hair up in a ponytail leaving strands to frame her face and adorned with jewelries that complimented her skin. She applies minimal make-up to cover up the exhaustion left by how this week treated her. Now she's all set to go. She grabbed her mini bag with necessities inside and left her apartment.
She called a cab to take her to her destination, knowing that she'll get herself drunk to get home and it is a hassle to get her car the next day.
Buzz, buzz
She checked her phone to see Claire's text.
Claire: Heyy, where you at?
You: Omw. Meet me outside when I get there?
Claire: Yeah suree, text when you're here and be safe!
You: I will, thanks Claire
When she's almost at the venue, she texted Claire. Claire replied with an 'ok!' and 'will be right out'. When she finally arrived, she paid her cab for his service before going out. She stood near the entrance, waiting for Claire to show up. Then a certain brunette with her signature red jacket came out from a door, greeting her with a toothy grin.
"You're here! ", Claire went up and hugged her. She returned it with a pat on her back. "Of course, thanks for having me."
"Duh the group would be incomplete without you", Claire enthusiastically grabbed her hand to lead her inside the venue. "Plus everyone got a shitty week so why not blow it off with songs eh?"
"Hard pass. Still going for the drinks", she reminded her with a smug look. Claire led her to the left side going past the rooms, "Girl what kind of person who's only here for drinks when they're at KTV?", Claire questioned with an eyebrow raised at her. "Me. That kind of person. One that specifically asked for drinks, nothing else", she deadpanned. Claire rolled her eyes at her, "Don't know, don't care, you're still singing whether you want to or not". Claire puts her tongue out at her in a playful way before she could protest the door was open with her yell, "LET'S GET THAT PARTY GOING!! CARLOS THAT'S MY PART MOVE", she shakes her head at her outburst before closing the door behind her.
There were neon lights dancing around the room, beers chilling in the ice bucket, glasses scattered but near to each person and pizza placed in the center for everyone to grab easily. On the couch against the wall were Chris in his typical gray tee with black denim, Jill in her sky blue polo with button ups and jeans, Leon with his black leather jacket with navy tee underneath along with ashy black pants; The ones near the door are Rebecca in her light brown and cream knitted vest with forest green shirt underneath, Sherry has off-white blouse that accentuates her figure well. Claire with her staple red jacket and Carlos who's in black shirt with his comfortable brown cargo pants on, both are standing with mics and another couch behind their knees singing their hearts out of 'Alone'. She sat down between Rebecca and Sherry who were enjoying the duet by laughing and Rebecca swaying her body sideways. She talked with Sherry about her work, her training and gossip about coworkers. She laughed at that one coworker named Brian who accidentally made numerous copies and almost everyone in the office had to help him clean up. Poor guy got bitten off the head by Sherry's supervisor for his carelessness.
As they continue to talk with Rebecca occasionally joining in the conversation, she keeps stealing glances at Leon who is adjacent to Sherry. Seeing him nodding at something of whatever Chris says and just nursing his drink. At one moment, their gazes locked accidentally before she looked away, focusing on their performance. Next are Sherry and Rebecca who are singing A thousand miles by Vanessa Carlton.
She adjusted her seat for Claire and Carlos, not knowing that she is next to Leon—in the exact position to where Sherry sat. Their knees almost made contact and Leon's cologne that matches him perfectly tickles her nose. She glanced at Leon who also looked at her.
Then everything felt like a pause for a moment. If she could control time, she would pause it to appreciate Leon's beauty in a while, his ocean eyes that's wary of people and speaks of many things that his mouth failed to deliver, features soften quietly when he's surrounded with familiar people, his soft jawline that's usually clenched when on mission converted to relaxation, his light brown hair that’s almost leaning towards blonde fits his entire stature well and his pink lips that always jests especially in unlikable situations and soft smiles that never fails to make her heart flutter. How wonderful would it be if she had that control, unfortunately she lives in a world that never stops for no one.
So to prevent her prevailing panic, she offered a small smile at him as a greeting which he also returned before returning back to her own drink, deliberately putting on a nonchalant demeanor. Though she can feel her hand trembling even under the blue gaze. Claire, who's a sole witness to her quandary situation, puts on a cheshire-like grin at her. She makes a face that reads 'shut up and move on', Claire returns with her battering eyelashes. She rolled her eyes and munched on her pizza, focusing on a savory taste that dances around her tongue. Chris came next with a song from Bon Jovi with the title All About Loving You.
She continues to munch on her pizza absentmindedly. Until she heard the verse...
I've lived, I've loved, I've lost, I've paid some dues
Baby, we've been to hell and back again
Through it all you're always my best friend
Well, ain't that targeted? She chuckled internally at the verse then she felt her chest tightens as she's listening to the message behind the song.
For all the words I didn't say
And all the things I didn't do
Tonight I'm gonna find a way
She clenched her glass and her eyes were glassy so she kept blinking them, and dunked her glass down to the last drop.
No, not now.
Not while he's here, stop the yearning and focus.
She couldn't help but think of a worst case scenario that is Leon finding out by accident right at this moment and him never talking to her again. No, that won't happen. It mustn't. She'd rather continue on being friends with him than to let her connection with him be destroyed even if it meant her feelings won’t be acknowledged. She couldn't remember how many glasses she drank, all she knew was that she felt terribly wavering and numb at the moment.
"Hey", a deep voice called out to her. Her eyes shot open to see Leon studying her features, seemingly concerned,"...You okay?"
She hummed, "Just thinkin' about work". She lied.
She pours another beer onto her glass and twirls it around. Leon continues to observe her with those eyes, his ocean blue eyes that drowns her out.
God, can you stop looking at me like that?
Can you not make me fall harder with those eyes?
Then a familiar song came on, the piano playing softly in the background. With Claire's hums that harmonizes with the music. She looks up at the screen that shows it is indeed the song she always plays on repeat. The last song syndrome that hits her one time during her trip to home, it is that particular song that she can absolutely relate to. Her finger tapped against her glass along with her humming to the song. Claire sang the verses. When the chorus arrived, she sang quietly beside her, feeling every word written that pangs her heart. She didn't notice that Claire sneakily grabbed an extra mic and hover close to her lips. She flinched when there's an unfamiliar voice coming out of the speakers. She glared at Claire who sheepishly still handed her the mic and mouthed ‘just do it’.
Giving up knowing how stubborn Claire is. Hesitantly, she grabbed the mic and timidly sang the second verse. It could be the alcohol working its magic because her confidence builds up slowly as she gets familiar with the rhythm. It's at this point that she doesn’t care anymore that her voice ranges to rather bold when the chorus comes.
Some people want it all
But I don't want nothing at all
If it ain't you, baby
If I ain't got you, baby
Claire cheered at her friend’s profound confidence as she waved her arms sideways and harmonized with her. While everyone is busy hyping the duo, Leon is awestruck by her angelic-like voice yet quite dumbfounded by her glowing aura as she sings.
She’s…beautiful.
Beautiful that does not limit her appearance alone but everything that she is, that she does at this moment is breathtaking.
Funny how our minds work when confronted with something that leaves us breathless. It leaves our minds levitated as if it was on a cloud. Leon hadn’t noticed he was staring until the song was over and her mic boomed with her laughter through the room. And more, Jill had noticed the way Leon looked at her as she was smiling and giggling at Carlos’ off-pitched voice which signaled that he was in a very drunken state. Jill sighed and shook her head because of how painfully oblivious one is the other and vice versa.
Some time has passed and everyone's full and satisfied. Chris, who seems he hasn’t controlled his liquor well as he is completely drunk out of his head, along with Carlos who's been smiling and laughing like a maniac, Rebecca stumbling on her feet with Jill holding onto her. She is the same except maybe she’s a mixture of the three. She kept smiling, her face flushed, she kept tripping on her feet which Claire found amusing as she watched her friend who tried effortlessly to walk, ‘tried’ is an emphasis. Claire had offered to take Carlos and Chris home as it goes by the direction to her home. Jill will be taking Rebecca and Sherry as she is familiar with their place. Which leaves Leon taking care of her.
After they had said their farewells and lots of ‘thank you’ were exchanged, Claire kept looking between the two, feeling her face soften at the sight. She has known their history and she’s been rooting for them from afar but it is so painful seeing the two dance around in avoidance to being open with their true feelings for one another. She had a hunch that maybe, just maybe tonight might change. So she left and escorted her brother and her friend to her car which she aggressively or rather gently pushes them at the backseat before closing it off.
Back to Leon, her hands kept flying around as if she was swatting something in the air and kept grumbling. Then when the cold night air sweeps past her, she shivered, rubbing her arms vigorously as she kept chanting ‘cold, freezing, brr’. Leon removed his jacket before slipping them on her as it is a habit made between those two, “Let’s get you home”.
She lazily nodded, letting Leon lead her to his car that was parked a block from the venue. Leon, always a gentleman, made sure that her head is protected and away from harm by doing exactly what he did in the parking lot 3 days ago. She muttered a 'thank you' with an unfocused bow to Leon as she went inside in the passenger seat. He gently shuts the door beside her before going around to the driver's seat. She kept mumbling things and sometimes singing off-key which he finds quite adorable. Leon leaned towards her seat grabbing the seat belt. Her breath hitches and now semi-conscious of the situation right now. They are inches closer to each other, she felt his breath brushing on her ear, her pulse races and goosebumps crawls under her skin from the closeness. Leon, who's focused on the task at hand, is not aware of the effect he has on his own best friend. He secured her seat belt and asked, "There, comfortable?".
She gave him a gummy smile and giggled. She pokes his cheek and squeezes as she says, “Your face squishy, squishy like a toy.” He sighed, “Yeah, you’re comfortable alright”. He gently holds her wrist and places it on her lap as if he’s handling something so fragile. He then focuses on the road and starts up his car before driving off.
Silence fell between them in the car as Leon drove her to her home. When they arrived, Leon shuts off his car and glances at her who’s nodding off signalling that she’s about to sleep soon.
"Well, we're here", Leon said in acknowledgement. He unbuckled her seatbelt as he lightly tapped her cheek, "C'mon let's get you upstairs". Leon got out of his car as he rendezvoused his way to her, opening the door and helped her up as she stumbled her way out.
Leon assisted her upstairs to her apartment on the 3rd floor, with her mumbling out random slurs as they walked. When they made it by her door, he made sure that she was standing against the wall as he gently took her bag to grab her keys,”I’m going to open your apartment, can you stand still for me?”. She lazily did a two finger salute at him then ended with a giggle. As he made sure that she could stand still, he took out her keys that were tied to a loop inside her bag that ensured its safety. He unlocked her door and it was opened with a successful ‘click’. He hummed for the task done, then turns back to her only to find her on the floor laying down in the middle of hallway with his jacket over her head leaving the lower part of her face exposed, her arms tucked inside closer to her chest and her legs also tucked inside in a curled up position.
He was flabbergasted by the sight before him. He called out her name, ".. What are you doing?"
"Mmhm... Protect..self", she mumbled incoherently. Leon kneels down beside her, "I can see that, you’re doing a great job.”
Now the question being, how did it come to that?
“Can you stand up and come inside?..” he asked, still in a crouched position.
He can see her shaking her head still curled up in a ball. He sighed, “Why not?”.
“Can you move please”, she requested as she lazily peeked at him under his jacket. Leon did as she asked. What comes next baffles Leon. She sits up still in a curled up position…
Then she rolls.
Literally rolled herself inside her apartment.
It took Leon a few seconds to process before he lets out a laugh. He heard a bump and a small ‘ow’ coming from inside that switches up his persona to worry as he steps inside and shuts the door behind him. He scans the room looking for a particular ‘ball’ then sees her by the couch. He rushed to her side as he checked for any injuries that happened while he’s off guard by baffling sight. She disregards him with an ‘I’m okay’ before she curled up in a ball again and rolled herself unsteadily to the hallway leading to her bedroom. He snickered and followed her. Then his snickers turned to laughter. And laughter turned into something where you-hold-your-stomach kind of laughter as he watches her close by. She was careless about what happened to her surroundings as her drunken self focuses on the objective of getting herself to her room in the most unsophisticated way possible. "Oh... You're killing me" ended with her endearing nickname as he tries to calm down. “Just..what are you..doing?” he huffed out between words as if his body was trying to keep up the oxygen it lacked.
“..’m amadiyo..You see me rollin..you hatin..” she answered in random singing at the end. The information clicked in his mind as he puzzled the pieces together. Then he laughed again, she must’ve kept thinking about their silly conversation from 3 days ago so much that she literally acted and rolled inside her apartment like an armadillo.
Then she suddenly bumped her head hard onto the doorframe and she hissed in pain, spouting out curses while cradling her head. Leon hurriedly went down to check her head, he saw a bump forming when he touched it which resulted in her hissing and slapping his hand in pain. “Well, that’s enough rolling. Let’s get you to bed”, he said. He places his hand under her legs while the other on her mid back. He carried her in bridal style going inside her room, her just holding onto his shoulders and digging herself onto his chest comfortably though her head specifically her bump pounded with pain.
He lays her down as he navigates his way to her closet and prepares her change set of comfortable clothes as if he has done this multiple times. He places it on her bed beside her as he tells her to change while he goes out to grab an ice pack from her refrigerator. Thus he turned on his heels to leave and closed the door behind him as he heard clothes rustling and about. Good girl, he thought. Then he went out to the living room and into the kitchen area where he opened her refrigerator and her freezer seeing the ice pack he’s looking for. He took it out and shut the door, went to a cabinet beside him seeing folded hand towels and wrapped it around the ice pack. He also prepped a glass of water and ibuprofen and took them to her room. He knocked on her door as he muttered, “It’s me. I’m coming in”. He gave her time to respond which sounded a grunt before he entered himself. He saw her on the bed sitting against the headboard, clothes already changed yet one thing that caught his eye is that she wore his jacket as if it belonged to hers truly. The sight made him melt and sense of being protective because of how vulnerable she looks at the moment.
He walked towards her, placed a glass of water and ibuprofen on the bedside table. He turns to her and he gently places a covered ice pack on her bump. “There..should make you feel better” he soothed her and looked down at her grimaced face.
“It hurts..” she complained, her beautiful orbs now half-lidded and looking up to him. “I know, I know.. It’ll be over soon”, he comforted her looking both at her bump and her face. “Maybe..take it easy in rolling” he jested, still grinning about her antics. This will be one of the most amusing and favorite things he loves about her. She huffed and pouted at him resulting in him chuckling.
“This one hurts a lot..” she gestured to her chest. Leon became worried, did he not check her thoroughly?
“How hurt?”, he questioned, worried expressions were written all over his face.
“So much..” she whispered, hands curled into fist against her chest and leaned down as if it is physically hurting her which worsens Leon’s worry. “..And..I don’t know..I don’t..what to..do with it”, she hiccuped, her eyes glistened as her tears fell from her face. Leon is now perplexed as he doesn’t know what to do and he’s frustrated trying to think of what he can do.
“It’s not like-like visible scar outside hurts.. It’s inside that hurts” she sobbed. Leon, who was once puzzled, now has the faintest idea what she meant. He was relieved that it was not a physical pain but still it worries him when she meant maybe emotionally.
“Is there anything I can do?...” Leon asked softly. She lifted her gaze at him as she shook her head “No..I..I don’t know”. Leon felt lost and frustrated not at her but at his inability to comfort her or to console. He never felt so helpless before. But he is willing to try anything to help soothe her. Anything so that she can sleep peacefully without bringing pain to her slumber.
“..What made it hurt?” Leon questioned with determination to make her feel better.
“You..”, she answered and Leon was stunned by her sudden bluntness. What?
What did he do? He begged his brain to work, trying to remember or pinpoint all the details necessary of what he had done to hurt her. She lamented, “I tried so hard to push it down.. I tried so hard to distance myself from you..I keep myself busy..But everything I do is pointless”.
Leon listened, feeling every raw emotion that came out from her. “And I hate when everything goes quiet..Because my brain will always find its way back to you..And it made the pain even worse”
Then silence… “I wish you see me, Leon”
Leon was shocked as he called out her name tenderly. She looked at him with her teary eyes as she said the words that made him forget to breathe normally.
“I love you”.
Three simple words. Three syllables. Eight letters.
How can something as little as these words create big changes in their relationship?
Leon was overjoyed yet the harsh reality kicked him. She is drunk. And he does not want to take advantage of her vulnerability and her distorted reality. And he wanted to be certain when she is sound of mind. Right now, his priority is comforting her in his ways and getting her rest. But a small part of him is extremely overjoyed, thankful that it wasn’t one sided. He gently cupped her cheek, his thumb grazing her soft skin as he longingly looked into her eyes and kissed the crown of her head away from the bump he had treated earlier. “You might forget all about this tomorrow..”, he muttered against her hair as he looked at her again. “But in all honesty..” he shuts his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers, “..I felt the same way..You deserve everything… And you won’t be hurt anymore because I’m here”. He opened his eyes and gave her space, “Get some sleep”. She nodded and her face became lighter after the promises.
“Can you stay please?...”she pleaded.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he answered.
She held his hand as she adjusted herself to a lying position. Her eyes now closed as she dozed off with a smile. Leon sat on the ground, his hand cradling her hands watching her sleeping peacefully. A strand fell on her face that he gently reached for it and tucks it behind her ear. “I’ll see you tomorrow”, he promised, his head leaning against her bed as tiredness finally lulled him to sleep. The moonlight from the window gently kisses the two yearning lovers who never let go of one another. Thus concludes Friday.
~~~~~~~~
Then the morning of another day came. She groaned as she rustled through her sheets. She sits up groggily whilst her eyes closed , the sleepiness wear off that she yawned. She winced when the headache struck. Her hand reaches for her head by instinct. Her eyes opened slowly, surveying her place. Ahh, good job me we made it in one piece, she thought taking in her familiar surroundings she called home. She lifts her legs moving them to the side. She noticed a glass of water and ibuprofen set on a table. She finds it amusing, did she do this? If she did then she would be impressed by her capability to care for herself even drunk. Unbeknownst to her this was prepared by a certain blue-eyed man last night. She’s about to reach out for her med when she notices the familiar sleeves.
She hmm'ed in confusion investigating the sleeves and looking at herself wearing one. She whipped a scent from the jacket, her nose gathered and it had a woodsy smell.. Almost like Leon's. Wait, why does she have his jacket? As she tries to recall last night which is a bad idea because the consequence to that action is: another splitting headache. She winces again at the pain, right the hangover. Ah whatever it may be, she'll return it to him soon.. If she can.
She quickly took her meds and drank her water with a relieved sigh. She stood up and stretched before going out to grab coffee. She arrived in the kitchen, grabbing her mug from the cupboard as she heard a voice from her side, “Good morning”. She turned her head and responded with “Good morning, Leon” at him before continuing what she intended to do here.
…
Wait a minute…
LEON?!
Her head whipped and gasped at the sight of a man before her who nonchalantly drank his coffee. What? What? What the hell is he doing here?! , she panicked trying to remember what happened after the karaoke. “I brought you home”, he enlightened her unspoken question that she looked directly at him. Oh my god, what did she do last night? Did she do something embarrassing? What flight is available today so that she can leave and never come back here again. Oh no, did she say something that she can never recover from? And so her spiral continues. Leon sensed her spiraling that he comforted her, “Calm down, you didn’t do anything weird”. Oh good that’s good. She breathed, not noticing how long she was holding her breath. “...Your antics last night is very entertaining by the way” he smirked with that stupid smirk whilst sipping his coffee.
She internally screamed. Her mouth agape and her face flushed with embarrassment as she covered them with her hands as if this could conceal her entire existence. He laughed lightly as he placed his mug on the counter. “Do you remember anything from last night?..” his teasing tone changed to seriousness as he glanced at her. She frowned with the sudden change of atmosphere as her hands now dropped to her sides, “I tried but my headache made it hard for me to remember”.
He hummed as he nodded. Then she attempted to try and reminisce of last night's events. She drank and ate, she sang with Claire, the world is hazy right after but she does manage to collect some bits.
Leon slipped her on with his jacket,
they arrived at her home,
she remembered rolling… Wait rolling?,
Then she remembers having a conversation with Leon while in tears. She couldn’t figure out what exactly so she furrowed her eyebrows as if that helps her recall from last night. Then her own voice echoed in her mind.
“I love you”.
Her eyes widened with realization. Oh no. Oh she has done it.
Leon who’s been observing her while she’s taking a trip down to a memory lane. He asked her, “Now do you remember?..”
She gulped as she whispered, “...Maybe”. Yes. Awfully. Regrettably.
“You and I both know you’re lying”, he noted his head leaning to the side whilst looking at her. She sighed in defeat, of course he knew. They went through the same training for goodness sake. She crossed her arms and her body leaned against the counter, “...Now what?”
He moved slowly towards her leaving enough space between them so that she can be comfortable as he wanted her to be. “I’d like to talk about it”, he proposed and she knew what he meant.
“Okay..” she responded with uncertainty. She makes up a lot of scenarios in her head, all of them are rejection in many ways. She embraces them, going through an acceptance stage where she cannot run from the inevitable anymore. “I’m sorry for hurting you” he confessed that he hung his head low out of shame. “And I’m sorry for causing a distance between us..” his back then leaned against the counter while he continues, “I should have told you from the beginning…Of what I felt for you truly”
His confession shocked her that she was taken back as it is not what she expected. Her jaw relaxes, her breath quickens and her heart pulses faster than normal. Is this… Is it really happening?
His chest rises as he inhales and out, here it goes, He reluctantly reaches out for her hand, as if looking for permission if he can hold her. Her palm exposed as she slowly rotates her hand towards him. He took that as a permission granted before he gently held her there. He looked into her eyes as she saw his eyes dilated to the point as if it spoke with intense affection. Then he breathed those words,
“I fell in love with you”.
He held her gaze as his grip tightened as if afraid that she might disappear. ”I have from the beginning, in the middle of a fucked up world we live in, in every mess we got ourselves into, in every peace that I have with you… And at that moment I knew. I knew that I finally have someone that I can look forward to everyday even with things as mundane as long as I have you”, her eyes burning at his confession. She felt them brimming up on her eyelids before it streamed down her cheeks. He moved closer to her, his other hand bringing up to wipe her tears away while she looked at him. His hand remained on her cheek. His eyes that are still holding onto her glassy orbs glances down her lips before bringing them back up.
He leaned closer to her,his eyes now half-lidded and he graced her name with his lips and he murmured, “May I kiss you?..” She did a small nod at him. Then he leans closer, lips brushing and enclosing them. They have kissed. Not out of hunger but a careful kind. One that makes you feel grateful for being in the same space as them. And comes with yearning, evident in a way that his hand moved from her cheek to the nape of her neck in a manner so gentle as if she was glass. His other arm wrapped in her waist as they continued to kiss. Her hands now placed on his chest, quietly gripping on his shirt afraid to let go of this blissful dream.
Then their lips parted for need of oxygen. He leaned his forehead against hers, holding her in his arms finally. “So..we’re a thing now huh” she lightly jested with a smile. He smiled before pecking her lips once more, “I want us to… Be mine?” he had swooned her over with his boyish charms. She giggled and kisses him once more, “Will that suffice your answer, Kennedy?”
“It will do, sweetheart”
Thus blessed their morning, fears and doubts degraded to warmth and certainty.
“Y’know, I should call you Armadillo instead. You really nailed that rolling last night”.
Summary: After the mission, reader is working on the report until late at night. Claire texted about Friday night which reader agreed to go. She thought it was over for the day until a certain broody "friend" of hers came around.
Contains: a bit of fluff, friends to lovers, some swearing, maybe a little bit of OOC(or very very OOC but I tried to keep them as them qwq 👍 )
A/n: Hi ya'll! This is a two part series of one shot. It's kind of challenging for me to write this one but I hope ya'll enjoyed it. Currently working on the second part can't guarantee when I can upload it but it should be posted soon. Thanks for taking the time and enjoy!
Part 1 (reading now), Part 2
~~~~~~~~
It is a regular Tuesday in the DSO office. Lots of coworkers chattering, paper rustling around and flying, printers groaning for another dreadful set of copies needed to submit within the day's deadline and there she was. Sitting in front of the blue screen that's so harsh for the eyes that even her glasses couldn't filter them out, her shoulders hunched forward and her face leaning closer to the monitor as she wrote down her reports from her mission which she just came back a few hours ago.
She should have holed up and stayed inside, never leaving her solace again. Yet the reports invited themselves inside her mind, plaguing every nerve firing in her brain. So with her greater need for initiative and wanting to get things done quickly, she just had to finish it. Ignoring her body's cry for rest because the reports cannot wait for no one.
It is currently 11:48 pm and she's been working on the report ever since she has arrived. But it is alright, all this needs is a little tweak and some sentences need to construct well between the words for it to make sense and fall accurately of her actions from the mission leaving no loose ties behind. Alas of what felt like forever she has finished and she can finally take a breather.
Which she already did, she leaned her back onto the swivel chair with a sigh, her glasses removed tucked inside her case, and her eyes burned from staring at the screen for too long she had to blink them and leave them closed. She rubbed her neck, feeling it stiff and crack when she moved them. Despite the pain and soreness, she feels a sense of success that she has completed one task at a time. Now all she needed to do is print this out, submit it to her supervisor tomorrow morning and—
Buzz, buzz, buzz
Her phone lights up on her table. She grabbed it and winced at the brightness on her screen. Then she opened it to see it was a text from Claire.
Claire: Hey! You free this Friday night?
Friday night, huh? She looks at her calendar to check. Noting nothing as of schedule on her Friday night.
You: Yeah, I'm available. What's up?
Claire: I'm inviting you to join us in KTV. Knowing everyone's gonna be rough as hell by the end of the week so go figure
You: That's really nice but the singing? No.
Claire: Oh c'mon ya know you want to.
You: No. I refuse to. I'd rather to keep my dignity than to sing
Claire: But you have a great voice thoo it'll be funnn
You: Claire
Claire: FINE you can just not sing but join in for the drinks at least?
You: Hmmm.. Who else is coming?
Claire: Just Jill, Sherry, Rebecca, Carlos, Chris, and Leon ;>
You: Oh, fantastic
Claire: Oho yes indeed. You know you will be there ;>
You: You're lucky I love you cuz suddenly I wanted to crush someone's mouth rn
Claire: Will that be someone with LSK initials in particular? ;>
You: Shaddap
Claire: Love ya ;>
She sighed, feeling redness that threatened to come across her face. Of course he will be there. Though she does quite expect that he will be. She has known Leon ever since Racoon City, has been by his side, has seen the same monsters as he did, has experienced similar terrors and the near death experiences from Spain. She has been down the road with him for a long time and he's been the bestest friend that she has ever got besides Claire of course.
But if by definition of friend, do they ever get flustered when they look each other in the eyes? Or when their heart did those stupid unnecessary backflips whenever they touch or even a graze of skin? Or that her mind will constantly go back to him even in the most random moment because it reminds her of him?
No, right?
Well in this case, that's what she felt towards Leon. Yes, you got that right.
She fell in love with her best friend and she knows—oh she knows alright—of where she stood in his life. She knows that there is a line that she can never cross, especially ever since their little reunion with Ada Wong back in Spain; she knew exactly where she stood because seeing the interaction between Ada and Leon, she knew that he doesn't look at her that way like he did with Ada. She's painfully aware of his complex feelings towards Ada even before in Racoon City. But what else can she do about it? She couldn't do anything with a man who's in love with a mysterious woman. Who may have saved them both a few times from their inevitable deaths.
So on her part, what can she do? She did what she always does, quietly keeping her distance and hoping that her feelings will be gone before she goes in real deep. Except it wasn't and it just gets bigger the more she pushes them down. As painful as it is to admit the reality of their relationship, there's no way that Leon would look at her like she did with him.
And after rescuing Ashley and getting her back home, the time they both had by seeing each other or to hang around gets lesser and lesser each day without a warning. Though they still exchanged greetings and acknowledged looks sometimes but that's all there is to it.
She sometimes wishes that he has seen her, really sees her. Really see who's been there for him all along and waiting for the moment for that realization to hit him. Yet it's still wishful thinking.
She scoffed and shook her head lightly, "God I'm really stupid..". She smiles sadly before shutting off her monitor, her reflection looking back at her. She stood up, collecting her belongings before she got off her cubicle, going down to the elevator and pressing the button that leads down to the basement. She leaned her back onto the wall and crossed her arms, shutting her eyes feeling all the melancholy settling in. This is basically what you describe her,
A silent solitude.
Then a hand stops suddenly between the elevator doors from closing. Her eyes half open to see who's intruding her peaceful space. When the elevator reveals who the intruder was: a man taller than her with blonde hair that covered his azure eye, his shoulders that's hunched forward a little showing evidence of exhaustion, his tie loosened a little with his top button left open and his black blazer was hanged over his left arm that was flexed a little seeing his muscle defining through them.
"Leon..", she was astonished, looking at the man before her.
"Hey... Mind if I go down with you?" Leon asked and he seemed to be out of breath. Wait, why is he out of breath? Did he run all the way out here? Ah, it doesn't matter. She feels bad for the poor guy and she should cut him some slack. Painfully aware that it will be the longest week for them all.
"Be my guest", she gestured to her left side as Leon came in with a muttered 'thank you'. Then he presses the button to shut the door, he leans his back to the wall beside her, his eyes shut and he lets out a heavy sigh.
Her eyes are focused in front of her although she is hyper aware of his presence beside her. While she's processing this unpredictable event, she notices how close he is to her. So close that their arms could be touching if one of them moved. She silently scolded her own fast beating heart to calm down or else she'll embarrass herself if it gets any louder than it needs to be. "Rough day?", she noted based on the features that's written all over his face in the reflection.
"You could say that. My table is filled with paperworks needed to sign and reports filling up out of nowhere. Then I suddenly got an email that I need to get some reports submitted tonight and then there's this early briefing tomorrow", he shared with every word spouted, he grimaces of the work he had to endure. It has been a while since they last had a conversation like this, she felt like it has been a long time since they last connected like this.
"Ouch, sorry to hear that. And did you already submit them?", she asked, shyly looking down at his foot, still not having the courage to look at him directly yet.
"Yeah, at least that stuff ticks out. The rest will be for tomorrow's problem", he grumbled. "What about you? You look more tired than I am. Didn't you just come back from the mission?"
Wait, he knows that? Nobody acknowledged it until now.. It's nice, awfully nice that someone notices.
"Yeah, I just came back from Germany and I should've stayed in", she complained lightly with her lower lip out a little. "But this damn report keeps grabbing my attention like it's needy so I have no choice but to finish ‘em up".
"You got it rough, huh", he reacted albeit feeling empathetic with his head turned at her. "Yep. Just print that one out tomorrow morning and tomorrow ‘me’ will handle whatever comes tomorrow" she said begrudgingly as she anticipated the increased workload the next day.
Leon chuckled at her begrudged state for the future. "You can handle it. You're tougher than you look".
"Gee, I'm gonna grow a thick skin if this continues on which we both know it will be forever", she remarked sarcastically and with a chuckle. She misses being this close and open with him. She earned a huff in amusement from Leon, "I can already imagine what you look like in literal sense"
"Oh yeah? Like what?", she asked out of curiosity with her eyebrows raised and she did a side eye at him.
"Something like... Armadillo"
Silence.
She blinked her eyes. Come again?
"... Armadillo?"
"Yep. Armadillo."
"... Of all things, why specifically armadillo?"
"I mean..They have thick skin. Their shells are literally made of armor to fend themselves against predators. And they're tough too. "
She lightly snorted at his answer, "How very random of you"
Then Leon mumbled something else but she did catch one word from that that made her look at him directly to his eyes.
"What?"
"What?", he questioned looking at her with his eyebrow raised. She felt that her cheeks are tinged with redness already because there is no way that Leon said something about that word.
"You said something that Armadillos are...?" she trailed off, having second thoughts of asking that out loud. Then Leon shrugged it off as he looks beyond the elevator doors before him, " I said armadillos are cute, like you"
Oh. My. God.
Please tell me he did not just say that so casually, she thought. She looks down at the floor that's seemingly interesting with a desperate effort to cover up her strawberry-like face from him. What is up with this elevator and why is it going down so slowly?
And by mercy from the heavens above, she heard a 'ding' from the elevator. She walked out first trying her best to calm herself down. She goes the opposite direction from Leon as she walks down with her keys out and ready to get herself out of there before she makes a fool out of herself.
Then she heard her name called.
She stopped and turned to see Leon from a distance, he stood before her with his hand in a pocket and other gripping onto his blazer. "Are you coming this Friday?"
"Oh uh.. Yeah, yeah, I'm going. Are you?"
What kind of stupid question is that?
"Same", he answered back. Then silence befalls between them once more. She tries her hardest not to look awkward before him but what else is she gonna do? What else can she say in situations like this?
Leon who seems to reach a resolution about something. He walked towards her, "Let me walk you to your car", he offered. She was a little taken back but she knew that this is what Leon does all the time. He always has been a gentleman towards her and with no doubt maybe he has been to everyone as well. That's just him being nice. So what's the difference now?
"I'm fine, Leon. You should go on first I mean.. Aren’t you tired?"
" I am but I insist. Let me.", he offered again with a hint of begging. She sighed knowing she cannot budge this relentless man. So she did. They walked side by side towards her car that was parked almost at the back of the basement. She clicks her keys and the car chirps like greeting their owner. She paused in front of the door before she turned to Leon who was waiting for her to get in.
"Thanks for walking me out here", she said shyly, her hand that's free from belongings rubs her forearm up and down. "It's not a problem. I just want to make sure you get back in"
She nodded, looking at her best friend closely. Taking in his slightly dishevelled yet attractive features this man has. Kinda unfair don't you think? Compared to her, she looks like she went through hell. Dark circles under her eyes, skin complexion going pale from work and a bit hollowed from missed meals. An epitome of dead exhaustion is standing there, who's awkwardly looking at her crush for the longest time.
"I'll see you Friday then?", he asked coolly.
"Yeah, see you then", she opens her door and gets in but she feels a presence behind her and the hand above her head that's protecting her from the roof of her car. She looks up seeing his rugged palm and back at Leon who's dangerously close to her. Her breath hitches at the distance between them. Leon, who notices the distance, steps back to give her space. "Sorry, don't want you to hurt your head", he rubs his neck and gazes downward to the interesting ground.
She nodded, not trusting whatever comes out of her mouth as she got in. She started the car, strapped herself in and she rolled her window down. "Thanks again.. Drive safe, yeah?"
Leon looked up to her once more, "I will. Be safe as well".
She gives him a smile, "Always. See you Friday".
Then she drives off, with Leon watching her vehicle go before she's gone from his sight. She feels utterly embarrassed of what happened but at the same time, the giddiness gets in the mixture. She couldn't believe that really happened and how close they both have gotten. And she kept thinking of that particular mammal that Leon compares her to.
Cute. That word kept pondering in her mind and she shook her head. Then thinking about Friday and potentially seeing him again out of work, brought her new kind of excitement. However in the corner, there’s the dreary part of herself, thinking about her feelings that grows enormously again.
Summary: What would you do in a situation where Leon kneels down before you? Giving you the princess treatment that you rightfully deserve.
Contains: Fluff, princess treatment
A/n: Hi ya'll! Welcome to another one shot of our golden boy of DSO, Leon Kennedy. I'm excited to share this with you of my second attempt in writing this. I hope ya'll enjoy it as much as I do while writing this.
~~~~~~~~
It was a Saturday morning in summer, the sun rays brightened the room.
I groaned when I felt the sun kiss my eyes, turning my head towards the chest of my lover. I felt his arms gripped around me tightly. His head leaned on the crown of my head, gently kissing them.
"G'morning..", his morning voice greets me. Can't lie to you when I say his voice made my stomach go through the loops and my chest flutters. "Good morning..", I mumbled through his shirt snuggling up to him more. He chuckled at my clingy antics, his hand that was on my back caresses my hair softly, tucking some strands behind my ear.
I sighed and looked up to him, "How long have you been awake?".
"Just a few minutes before you", he answered. He looked at mine as I observed him, a face once a stoicism became of something vulnerable. With his tired eyes, eyebrows that never creased together and his relaxed jaw. I mumbled with an 'okay' then pulled out my best puppy eyes that I know he'll never say no to, "I don't feel like cooking breakfast... Can we go somewhere today?". He smirked, his azure eyes looking into mine as his knuckles grazed my cheekbone, "Oh yeah? Wanna go out then, Beautiful?". I nodded sheepishly at him, it's been forever since we last went out together for breakfast. Who knows what memory core I'll be able to unlock this time?
Out of enthusiasm, I got up from the covers not forgetting to grab his hand to get him up. He was shocked by my energy burst that came out of nowhere but he laughed lightly which almost made me stop in my tracks. His laughter is music to my ears which adds up to another privilege of being Leon S. Kennedy's girlfriend. And of course, I took my pride in making him laugh so with a smug look I took him to our bathroom as I playfully commanded him, "Arms up, Kennedy". He scoffed at me yet he raised up his arms, I grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it upwards trying my absolute best not to gawk at him but oh my god, I failed miserably.
Leon peeks at my expression then he smirks. He leaned to my ears as he whispers, "Is that how you should look at your lieutenant huh, captain?". I feel my face warmed up and I lightly push him, feeling my snarky remark taking over, "And aren't you invading your captain's personal space huh lieutenant?".
He laughed as he looked intensely into my eyes. He stepped closer. His hands on the counter behind me trapping me with his muscular arms, "Well that space was nonexistent a long time ago, sweetheart". I can feel all the blood gushing in my face as I rolled my eyes and punched his chest lightly before he could send out another one of his long list one-liners, "Alright, alright, we got a breakfast date to go to."
After the shower, we got on to our outfits. Just a casual look— Leon in his light gray henley with sleeves up to 3/4, his brown cargo pants with black shoes on. Mine in a cream-colored tank top with denim skirt that's above knee level, and in my black converse shoes.
Then we went out on a drive to our usual go-to breakfast diner that's open 24/7. The doorbell rang as we stepped in, getting in our booth by the window and the sweet old lady waitress who's the owner of the diner takes up our orders. After we ordered our usual, we talked about a lot of things—our pretentious work, the pet peeve colleague,
and the movie we watched the other night. All the normal stuff that are gifts from heaven above, a small chance to have. Might as well cherish each normalcy we had before we're thrown in the lion's den.
After our orders arrived we ate, left a generous tip and left. We proceed to stroll in the park while holding hands. The park is filled with family picnics, people jogging, children running around and playing. I wonder what it feels like not having to think about being a government agent, crazy scientists, infected, monstrous yet pitiful experiments and everything that's going on in this messed up world.
While admiring the scenery and thinking deeply, I felt Leon tugging at me a little which snapped me back to reality. I looked back at him, one eyebrow raising in a questionable manner.
"Your shoes are untied", Leon said as he motioned his head towards my shoes that were indeed untied. Guess I didn't tie them properly before we went out because of my excitement. I was going to crouch down but Leon kneeled down before me, my shoelaces in his hand going to tie them up as he said, "Let me..."
I was flustered with my mouth agape as I looked down at the man before me who's tying my shoelaces like that did not give me a cardiac arrest. This domestic side of Leon though is an everyday thing that I can only see yet this one hits differently. Treating me like this, Leon does not fail to amaze me in so many ways. And that's what makes me fall harder for him.
"There, all done and secured sweetheart", he said looking up at me with a proud smile, showing me his work.
Please if my eyes were a camera right now, I'd keep it rolling and shoot it frame by frame because of how precious he looks right now. Just how can someone so sweet end up being mine?
I didn't realize that I was staring at Leon until he called out my name. I blinked and I looked away before my face reddens even more out of embarrassment with a muttered 'thank you' to him. Leon got up from his squat, patted down his pants to get rid of the dirt. Grabbing my hands into his and interlocking them. With a teasing smile he says, "Hey tomato, looking cute today."
Can anyone shoot me before I completely turn into one? The power of this man I swear..
"Cute? Me? Pshh please..", I stammered trying to think of a comeback but alas I guess my genius reached its limit. Out of desperate attempts to get myself out of this situation, I reached up and ruffled his hair up that turned into a mess. His eyes widened a little of
my random effort then he called out my name, "You did not—".
I took a step back and shrug innocently, "What do you mean? I didn't do anything wrong". He stepped closer to me but each step he took, I stepped back further.
"You really want to play that game, sweetheart?", he tries to intimidate me with his towering figure but I refuse to back down.
"If you can catch me that is", I smiled cheekily at him before I took off. He shook his head and grinned before he chased after me.
But curse him and his height because he's gaining on me. Then a light bulb appeared as I maneuvered to the trees in hopes of losing him in the chase. I hid behind the tree that covered my figure, I looked around for that brunette.
'Where did he go?', I thought, surveying my surroundings more, a bit terrified of what he'd do to me when he did catch me.
As I tried to recover my breath, I failed to notice him when he grabbed my waist with his left arm and his right hand ruffled up my hair, completing his objective of getting his revenge on me. I squealed when he put me down. Smoothening down my hair before glaring at him, "No fair, you're literally taller than me. Of course you got the advantage."
"Should've thought of that before you ran off then", he said in a matter-of-fact tone then chortled.
"Yeah, yeah, shut up", I pouted and crossed my arms. I hate that he's right on many things but hey, one of many reasons why I love him even if he's irritating sometimes. His face softens as he cups my cheek with his hand.
"What? Getting all sappy on me now, Mr. Kennedy?", I cracked, leaning my head to his hand with a small smile. His thumb caressed through my cheek as he responded, "Just thinking if this is what it looks like without having to think about the world but just... Being like this. No missions, no infected, no nothing".
Now it's my turn to get soft. I un-crossed my arms, looking down as I intertwined my hands with his hand that lays by his side. I squeezed them and brought my gaze back up to him as I smiled, "I think I wanna stay like this for a little longer... What do you say?".
He returns with a smile and kisses my forehead lovingly. He leaned his forehead on mine as he whispered,
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.
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.
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 groaned as I open my eyes, seeing the hazy vision settles down as I look up at my ceiling to a d**m clock that's buzzing my ears like a f***ing annoying mosquito. I glared, slammed it down and sighed. My body defeated from the mission last night, I groggily get myself up in sitting position. Rubbing my hands to my face up to my hair, looking out to a window seeing dawn breaks then as I look besides me, my beautiful wife still sleeping soundly on her side towards me with her hair spreading out the pillow, her hand under it and the other seemingly reached out to me.
I sighed, staring down at her as I caress her cheek with my knuckles admiring how she looks so peaceful as if the world around me paused, letting me to take a mental picture and storing it in my brain file that's titled with her name. God, how did I get so lucky to have her? How that a scarred man like myself managed to grab the most precious thing in the world? Even when I came back home last night bringing nothing but new scars, exhaustion and pain, she's been there for me by waiting behind the door, caring for me and providing me warmth that I've been craving given that my world outside was so cold. I find myself paused at the thought.
Home.
Heh. Who knew I could say it quiet fondly?
I never had a home that's as warm as this. Before, the place I have was merely like a shelter that brings nothing that screams welcoming. I never stayed in one place and another because apparently BOWs, scientists, and collecting information about Umbrella that's lurking in and about just loves to disturb me from my supposed-to 'solace'. Though, as dreading as it sounds, it is just as equal to coming home to the soulless apartment. Because in it was just only the ghosts of my past and I living together, with my roommate by the name of 'Whiskey'.
Story of my life.
Then, she came along. In a most random encounter, in a most common place like café that's three blocks down the street from my place, yet something about her that's enthralling. It's like her aura, so welcoming and warm, brightens up the whole room as if she's the source of light. Then somehow she becomes something that I look forward to everyday. She's a coffee batista and I'm a government agent. Two worlds that never should have clashed. The life of normalcy versus life with blood and death surrounding them.
What was used to be just ordering coffees transitions to small talks as I become their regular.
From small talks to friendship.
I thought that I could keep it that way. Just the friends part and nothing more. Funny how life works (or probably how our hearts work).
Now, she becomes a part of me that I can never let go. Took her out on a date one day and now...
Now I have a place where I can finally belong.
A place where it's not just ghosts, Whiskey and I. Not a cold apartment either.
A place where I can call home.
Home is where I can rest and be with my wife. Doing all the normal things without having to think about missions and constantly watching my surroundings, being on guard.
Home is just sitting down on a couch, watching TV and laughing with my wife, not having to care about another possible outbreak.
Home is where I don't have to wake up with a nightmare and silence is the only greeting I get. Now whenever I get nightmares, she would wake up and be there for me. Comforting me just by her presence alone and with her sweet self the only anchor in my life filled with storms and raging ocean.
Home is a place where my wife stayed at. No, scratch that.
My home is my wife. The only thing that keeps me grounded. My only motivation for staying alive and getting to her in one piece.
"Leon?..", a soft-spoken voice snaps me back to reality, I looked down once again to see my wife awake with a sleepy yet concerned look on her face with a question that reads 'are you alright?'.
"Hey sweetheart, sorry did I wake you?.. ", I replied slowly laying down besides her, she then moves closer to me, her head snuggling on my chest, her arms wrapped around my waist, "No don't worry about it, you look like you're thinking deeply about something. You getting philosophical about how world works or what?", she lightly joked and I grinned, shaking my head as I said, "Yeah, being so philosophical about how the universe just casually gave me a drop-dead gorgeous wife in my arms and make her mine", she flustered at my comment and she smack my chest causing me to grunt.
"Oh hush you smooth talker, I'm being serious", she replied.
"I am", I said looking down at her cupping my hands to her cheek, " I...", I trailed off leaning towards her with our noses brushed against each other, ".. Was thinking of what we should eat for breakfast", that earns with her laugh and I grinned. She then gets up with a stretch that I obviously did not glanced at her silver lining of skin as she gets off our bed. Looking at me and offer her hand as she questioned, "Well, why don't we find out then?", I huffed at her smugness as I held her hand, getting up with a grunt, "Let's freshen up first though. You stinky old man", she lets her tongue out of playful disgust as I quirked my eyebrow at her, "Oh yeah? We'll see about that", she watched in horror as I move closer to her and tickled her sides which earns me her contagious laughter, "LEON LEON STOP-- OKAY PLEASE I CAN'T BREATHE--", she gasped for air when I stopped.
I snickered at her as she breathed in and out then glaring at me when she responded, "Mark my words, I will have my revenge", I patted her head as I said, "Yeah yeah c'mon my adorable gremlin I'm starving now". She looks away, her back turned to me and pouted, "Hmph! Too bad I'm not helping with your breakfast. Make it yourself".
'God you're too adorable', I thought and grinned as I wrap my arms around her waist, hugging her from behind, planting lots of kisses to the side of her jaw as I mumbled, "Aww don't be angry at me love. Sorry for tickling you", I then kissed her temple.
"Forgive me?", I asked pulling out my best puppy eyes at her that I know she couldn't resist. She looks at me and sighed, shaking her head as she turns, flicking my forehead lightly causing me to hissed then she grinned, "Hmm maybe I will if you make us coffee after this". I smiled at her proposal, "Yes ma'am".
After we brushed our teeth and washed our faces to rid of our sleepiness, she then grabbed me towards our kitchen. She lets go of my hand and I watched her as she placed her hair mixed with silver streaks up in a messy bun, proceeding to make our breakfast laying out the ingredients on the kitchen counter, with me behind the table as I watched her move around the kitchen. There's never a moment where I never thought of her as something else other than being so breathtakingly beautiful. Her whisking up a batter to make pancakes, her cooking up some bacon and eggs, her being so focused with her eyebrows creased with a tongue out as she tried to flipped the pancake over that ended with a success causing her to smile brightly, she's a sight for sore eyes. She then turned her head to me with a smirk,
"Babe, I know I look sexy as h*ll right now but the coffee isn't gonna brew itself yaknow?", her face flushed and chuckled that I blinked myself, grabbing our favorite mugs and prepping our coffee, "I mean.. Can you even blame me for staring at the work of art?", I smirked when her eyes widened, her blush deepens and now being so speechless to my compliments. I prepared the table with both of our coffees freshly brewed and hot, helping my wife with breakfast that's placed on our plates and putting them down on the table. I grasped her hand in mine as I planted a kiss on her knuckles. I said her name fondly, ".. Thank you for making breakfast".
She giggled, "Glad to have serve you well my handsome customer", she jokes and I rolled my eyes at her. She laughs, "But really, Leon, there's no need to thank me for this. I'm just doing what a dutiful wife that I am should do", she replied in a wholesome way. I gazed at her eyes lovingly as I responded to her,
"Not just for breakfast.. For everything. I wanted to thank you for being here and staying even when I'm sometimes difficult to handle..", her face softens as she squeezed my hand, "You're welcome, my love.. I also wanted to thank you", I tilted my head head at that. "For what?", I asked to which she replied, "For coming back to me safely". I melted at her response, leaning down to her and kissed her like she's the center of my world.
I am completely enamored with her kindness,
Her warming grace,
Her love,
Generally all about her,
Just her and everything she is.
Greedily I take in of her kiss. I'm addicted just how warm and soft her lips are. My hands cupping her cheek as we kissed, memorizing every detail for this moment. Our kiss ended as we let go, needing to breathe for air. Breathlessly she said something that would get my heart beating loudly and fast like a teenage boy, "I love you Leon".
With a goofy smile, I pecked her lips my forehead on hers with my eyes closed. Taking in her scent I replied,
"You have no idea just how much I love you, sweetheart". Which is true because...
You have no idea how I'm willing to burn the whole world to the ground if it meant keeping you safe, out of danger's reach.
I love you so much that I will do whatever it takes to make sure my home is safe.
No matter what.
And that's a promise I will keep for eternity.
~~~~~~~~
A/n: Hi ya'll! Thanks for taking the time reading my first ever Leon Kennedy x Reader story. I've written fanfictions before in high school but I stopped because of discouragement and time been demanding me to stay focus in life and school. Now that I got some time and I've been in Tumblr like a couple months ago, I thought why not give it a go? Though it's been so long so the skills may be a bit rough but I did my best.
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