tags; anime vergil x female reader, nightmares, hurt and comfort, bed sharing, wing hugs, soft vergil.
Shadows softened in the corners of your apartment.
âThe room was partially dark. Somewhere, something was drippingâsurely the bathroom faucet that had yet to be repaired. The sound was accompanied by the distant murmur of the city. At least the walls were thick enough to keep the noise of the traffic at bay. When you opened your eyes, the faint glow of the streetlights filtered through the curtains, casting stripes of light across the bed.
âYou let out a silent yawn, and the digital clock on the nightstand blinked. The sun was still nowhere near rising.
âThen, the sound of steady breathing reminded your sleepy mind of who occupied the other half of the bed. Beside you, Vergil slept. Or rather, he did what he referred to as sleeping. You described it as remaining eerily motionless for hours with his eyes closed.
He claimed there was no difference, but there was.
âEver since Vergil decided to share a space with youâor rather, ever since you sheltered him in your homeâyou had watched him adjust to being back in the human world. Or among the sapiens, as he sometimes called them. Sleep, among other things, was an abstract concept to him. And it didn't always come easily.
âVergil tended to stay perfectly still, his eyes squeezed shut as if he were listening to something in the far distance. Or as if he were waiting for something to happen. Rare were the occasions when he truly slept, and when it did happen, it was because you were with him.
âYou tried not to let that affect you. You failed.
âTonight, however, he seemed genuinely submerged in sleep. Without his shoulders tensed and his brow furrowed, he almost looked younger, less defensive. His breathing was slow and constant. Peaceful.
âThen, you remembered why your body had decided to wake you. Ah, right, you thought. I need to use the restroom.
âYou tried to be as quiet as possible. The sheets slipped slightly as you climbed out of bed. Once sitting on the edge, you looked over your shoulder. Vergil hadn't moved. You took a selfish moment to look at him. Even while doing something as banal as sleeping and wearing the most mundane clothes, he exuded something that made it glaringly obvious he wasn't completely human.
âThe floor was cold beneath your bare feet.
âYou just needed to use the restroom.
âYou slipped out of the room cautiously, careful not to interrupt Vergil's sleep, unusual as it was. The door remained ajar behind you.
âAnd the room fell silent once more.
âNightmares were enemies whose ambushes Vergil could never anticipate.
âWhen they caught him, they dragged him into a darkness of no return, deeper than the hell that had torn him to pieces only to rebuild him out of rot. Then, he would see them: grotesque demon faces reaching for him, claws and wings pursuing him, training him.
âThen came the fire.
âThe heat of the flames scorching stone, consuming wood until it splintered apart, made him feel terribly small, even within himself. He was. Surrounded by fire once more, back in the body of a child. The panic felt so real. Through younger eyesâhis own eyesâVergil desperately tried to find salvation, only to find it on the ground, pooled in blood. Then the fire consumed everything, and he was dragged to a prison where the horrific heat would only intensify, swallowing his tortured screams along with it.
âHe snapped awake.
âIt was never a gentle return.
âIt was like being ripped from his own mind by claws and fangs.
âIn an instant, Vergil was sitting up, his hands clenched into fists over whatever fabric he could grasp, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. For a dizzying fraction of a second, he didn't know where he was. The memory of the fire and a cell in the bowels of hell were still too vivid. Blood could be smelled in the airâdense, and undeniably his own. What his senses perceived was the darkness enveloping the space, the silence, and the cold. He tasted smoke and the blistering heat on his skin.
âThen... nothing.
âReality rushed back as quickly as it had vanished. The room, the cracked and faded walls of the apartment, the sheets he remembered falling asleep on besideâ
âHe snapped his gaze sideways, letting go of the fabric and instinctively reaching for the space beside him. Empty.
âAny lingering remnant of sleep vanished.
âThe room was empty. Far too empty.
âVergil stood up without a second thought. Every muscle in his body stiffened with a tension he only ever felt before a fight. His breathing grew shallow; to his ears, it was barely perceptible, yet it felt deafening. His gaze swept the room until it locked onto the door left ajar. The apartment remained silent. No voices. Nothing.
âAn unpleasant pressure constricted his chest.
âShe left. The thought surfaced before he could stop it. It was absurd, irrational. And yet, there it was. The ghost of the fire and a childhood shattered to pieces, years of pain and rot. Of being completely adrift.
âGone, gone, gone.
âBefore he realized it, Vergil was standing in the hallway. The air felt heavier, but there were no traces of other demons in the vicinity. Then what...? A current of energy traced a path beneath his skin, as if his body were tearing itself apart to fight something that wasn't even visible. What was he going to fight?
His own fears?
âThen, he heard footsteps. Light, soft. Unmistakably human.
âBefore Vergil could take another step, you appeared, walking barefoot with a sleepy expression and tangled hair.
âAh, he thought, all his instincts silenced by a relief so dense it smothered everything else. There you are.
âYou stopped the moment you noticed him. Your eyes narrowed in confusion, as if you hadn't expected to see him awake, let alone looking like he was about to kill something.
â"Vergil?"
âYou stepped closer to him. Your gaze, clearer now, immediately caught the tension wrapping around Vergil's tall frame like a rope snapped taut. The tightness in his jaw only showed like that when he was angry or irritated, but you had learned to read his moods. Vergil didn't look angry in the slightest. It took you a long moment to recognize the emotion blanketing his features because you had never seen it before. Not on him. You had never seen fear in Vergil.
âThe distance between you closed by a couple of steps.
â"What's wrong?" you asked.
âNothing, he thought. A superficial, useless answer when he clearly looked as though he were about to lunge forward and trap you. Ridiculous. You were perfectly capable of getting up during the night without a tragedy occurring; he knew that.
But a part of Vergilâa terribly human partâcouldn't differentiate between a momentary absence and a permanent loss. Not when there were still times he woke up expecting to find smoke, or waiting to hear his own screams echoing off the walls of a cavern. But now... a vacant bed had been enough for Vergil to imagine the worst, because a door left ajar had been enough to drag him decades back. What kind of weakness was that?
âNothing, he thought again. He didn't grab you only because he remained rooted to the spot, staring at you. Searching for wounds, traces of blood, any sign of danger. There was none. And how sickening it was, the way the pressure in his chest dissipated the moment he realized you were unharmed.
âOnly then was Vergil able to answer.
â"You weren't here."
âThere was a moment where the words hung suspended in the air. Just that. You weren't in bed. It wasn't a reproach, nor was it an accusation.
You blinked, startled.
All Vergil could hear was the rhythm of your pulse.
âYou understood, and your heart took a painful plunge in your chest as it clicked.
âYou knew his nightmares. He had told you about that night and everything that followed. How could you have forgotten? Vergil's nightmares always began like this. He had undoubtedly feared the worst when he didn't see you.
You had seen it before, on the nights he snapped awake with a start and held you tighter, the times he stayed awake staring at the ceiling. You knew where it all came from.
â"I just went to the restroom," you said softly, closing the distance between you. His eyes followed your every step, capturing everything from the movement of your body to the cadence of your breathing. Vergil's eyes were honest in a way he himself could never be. A few strands of white hair fell out of place, disrupting his immaculate appearance, you fought the urge to brush them away. "I'm sorry."
âVergil's jaw clenched before he forced himself to relax it.
â"You have nothing to apologize for." His shoulders sank just a fraction as your scent replaced the air around him.
You tilted your chin slightly to look him in the face.
â"I should have told you," you murmured. "Or made a bit more noiseâ"
â"You are not responsible for my afflictions," he replied in a hushed voice. If anyone else were to hear the tone Vergil used with you, hell would freeze over.
âYour expression softened under the bluish glow of his gaze.
â"Maybe not." Your hand slowly sought his out. Vergil followed the movement as if it were mesmerizing, as if he didn't comprehend that it was meant for him. Slowly, your fingers laced with hisâsoft skin slipping against the hand calloused by swordplay and years of training. "But that doesn't mean you have to deal with them entirely alone."
âIn moments like this, Vergil was grateful you couldn't hear his heartbeat. It wasn't a frantic pulse born of fear or alertness, but it undoubtedly exceeded established boundaries, and it was ridiculous, and he couldn't stop it.
A human making the heart of a half-demon beat for something other than hunger. Perhaps he truly was banished from hell.
âFor a suspended moment, Vergil didn't answer; he simply stood there, watching you. If only you could see yourself through his eyes.
âFinally, his fingers closed around yours, covering them.
â"Go back to bed," he said.
âFor a split second, he almost sounded on the verge of saying please. You couldn't help but smile a little, even as your heart melted inside your chest.
â"That sounded suspiciously like a request."
âVergil shot you an unimpressed look, but the corners of his mouth twitched just enough to give him away.
â"Do not flatter yourself."
"Was it a request?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Completely."
"Because it felt like a request."
"Your perception is flawed."
âYou laughed, and the sound did something inside his chest. Something warm and unknown, something that would take him time to accept. Slowly, the nightmares receded. He knew that, at least for tonight, they wouldn't return.
Because you were there.
Because you were smiling at him.
Because tonight was simply a mundane, boring night.
âVergil didn't let go of your hand on the way back to the bedroom. Your fingers unraveled from his when you flopped onto the bedâthe exact way you knew made him huffâand opened your arms wide.
âVergil watched you the way one observes something entirely nonsensical.
â"What are you doing?"
â"Offering hugs."
âA cricket could have played a concerto in that silence.
â"I do not need them."
âYou dropped your arms and shrugged, looking more amused than slighted by the rejection. You had long since learned not to take Vergil's defense mechanisms personally, but you pulled the entire blanket over to your side of the bed anyway.
â"Your loss," you said, barely hiding your amusement as you cocooned yourself in the fabric.
âVergil sighed. That long, resigned sigh you discovered was reserved exclusively for you. The mattress dipped beside you as he took his place, hogging more than half the space. The bed wasn't built for two people, much less a half-demon.
In the ensuing silence, nothing happened, and you wondered if he was pretending to sleep. You were just about to drift off when a firm arm wrapped around your waist. The heat of his skin bled into yours through your clothes. You smiled against the pillow.
â"So you did need them."
"Silence."
"Caught you red-handed."
"Silence."
"Vergil has feelings."
"I am going to let you go."
"No, you won't."
âHe didn't. You two knew it.
âThe pause that followed was so long you almost started to chuckle.
âThen, a surge of energy filled the room. A warm blue radiance momentarily coated the walls before dimming into a soft illumination. The bed groaned under the sudden shift in weight. The cold instantly vanished, and all you felt was a wall of heat pressing against your back. The arm around your waist grew broader, lined with claws that tickled your skin. The blanket covering you disappeared, and you found yourself face-to-face with... well, Vergil. In his Devil Trigger.
âIt wasn't the first time you'd seen it, but your jaw dropped nonetheless. The bed was definitely not made to sustain the weight of a demon.
â"Seriously?"
"Sleep."
"You're gonna break the bed."
"Irrelevant," he replied, his voice a octave deeper. The handâclawâat your waist hauled you backward, making the poor bed wail. Your back collided with the solid armor of his chest. "You are speaking too much."
âMassive wings unfurled, swallowing up most of the room, but Vergil used them to drape over both of you, creating a barrier. A sanctuary. The most dangerous creature your world knew was shielding you with his wings in an attempt to protect you from that very world. Or perhaps it was just another way for Vergil to harbor himself.
âThe outside world fell entirely mute. Inside that barrier, it was only the two of you. The beat of that heartâwhich was as human as it was demonicâbecame a drum that, of all its lethal purposes, ended up lulling you to sleep.
Slowly your eyelids began to close.
â"Goodnight, Vergil," you whispered.
âThere was a low rumble, a rough sort of purr that vibrated against your back. Vergil pulled you closer.
âHe felt the moment you fell asleep. This time, when Vergil closed his eyes, there was no darkness, no home swallowed by flames. Only your breathing, and the human fluttering inside your chest. Only your warmth.
Slowly, he closed his eyes, silently letting himself drift away, anchored by the certainty that when he woke up, you would still be there. Right beside him.
Synopsis: After returning to Raccoon City nearly 30 years after its destruction, Leon comes to the rubble of your workplace. Within it, he finds the walking remnants of you, his lover from 28 years ago.
Ship(s): Rookie!Leon & Requiem!Leon x girlfriend! medical student! reader (slight canon divergence, Leon was not late on his first day because of a breakup)
Theme(s): Angst, hurt with NO comfort, story told through several flashbacks, people do dumb things in grief, inspired by "The Love You Left Behind" by Michael Schulte and "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane (blue denotes lyrics to the songs)
Content Warning(s): character death, some violence and potentially intense description of Leon putting down zombies, swearing, one mention of wanting to throw up, long because I'm insane, an unkissed brick, Leon cries again does that count?
Raccoon City didnât look any smaller than it did 30 years ago. In fact, memory had a bad habit of making everything bigger- the Raccoon City in his mind had wider roads, skyscrapers reaching for the heavens. Now, though, everything had changed. Roads were littered with the rubble of those towering skyscrapers, decrepit and caved in like the roads that had once carried ordinary citizens to and from work, school, other activities of daily life.
The first Raccoon City in his mind had been one of neon and noise- life milling about as it did, a bustling city that he had once upon a time taken an oath to protect. Leon had joined the academy to see the lives of ordinary citizens safe, to ensure that the children in Raccoon City would be able to live lives without fear, without going through what he had in his own youth. But he had never gotten to see that version of the city in his dreams. Instead, his first day- once intended to be an initiation into the cityâs police force- was one that would come to haunt his dreams for the foreseeable future. He no longer awoke from his slumber each night drenched in cold sweats, the visions of the B.O.W.s plaguing his dreams until he could no longer rest- those nights were fewer and more far between- but he could never quite erase it entirely from his memory. Quiet reminders of that night always lingered in the back of his mind, feeding the reminders that he couldnât save anyone- not even himself.
September 30th, 1998. The end of Leon Kennedyâs beginning. Thirty years ago, he had run from this city with blood on his hands and a promise at his back, an understanding that he would never again see the Raccoon City he had been so adamant to protect. Now, it seemed, that promise had come back to collect.
Rubble crunched beneath his feet with every step he took, each footfall kicking up a cloud of dust and ash that burned his nose, filling his every sense with the fallout. As much as he reminded himself to focus on his mission, he couldnât help but allow his mind to wander the slightest bit as he took in his surroundings. The gun shop in which he had met Mr. KendoâŠand his daughter. An Italian restaurant he had once promised his partner that he would take them when they reunited in Raccoon CIty.
His heart ached, and he stopped in his tracks.
His partner.
He had met you when he was in the academy. Still a green, bright-eyed rookie who was all but enthralled by his upcoming assignment as soon as he graduated. You, at the same time, were set to arrive not long before he did, having finally been accepted into a medical school of your dreams and beginning your first clinicals at Raccoon City General.
âItâll be perfect!â Â you had joyously exclaimed as you all but threw yourself against him, wrapping your arms around his neck in a hug as soon as you opened that acceptance letter. âI get to go to Raccoon City too! We wonât have to worry about long distance.â You were beaming that day, the elation of being matched into a program you loved and the dissipating worry of potentially having to navigate a long-distance relationship or worse, going your separate ways, had you glowing. He couldnât take his eyes off of you, absentmindedly nodding along to whatever it was that you had said. His hands had settled around your waist, lifting you off the ground in a hug, face buried in your neck as he inhaled the familiar scent of your perfume, the scent faint yet consuming all of his senses. The scent of home. âYeah,â he had rasped, holding you tighter. âYeah, we wonât. I knew youâd get in. If anyone could, it would be my brilliant, brilliant girl.â
He would get to build a home with you. It would be difficult, sure, navigating your respective lives in a new place. Medical school was difficult and sure to occupy a large portion of your time, not to mention your energy. He imagined the first years of your new beginning together would be slow, low-energy dates. Cuddling on the couch, watching the same trash movies you always talked him into watching whenever you were together. Falling asleep tangled in each othersâ embrace, your head on his chest and dozing off to the gentle beating of his heart and your soft breathing in a cozy symphony.
He hadnât thought about you in a while, he realized. At least, not consciously. He would never stop thinking about you, a voice in the back of his head reminded him. Even if his thoughts were not focused on you, as they often were not allowed to be due to the demands of his line of work, he realized that you were often in the back of his mind even in the little ways. Remembering your favorite flower whenever heâd seen one. Humming along to your favorite song as if it were second nature to him.
âLeon!â Your voice danced across his memory, and he turned his shoulders to follow the ghost of you in his mind, the same path youâd always traced through his apartment kitchen. âCome on, dance with me!â It was barely a request, already decided by the young woman in his space that he would be joining you whether he wanted to or not.
The sound of your playlist filled the kitchen quietly, a backdrop to the comfortable silence that had filled the space between you up until then as you cooked dinner together. Carbonara, you had insisted, was the perfect beginner meal to make together.
âI walked across an empty land. I knew the pathway like the back of my handâŠâ
âI donât think thatâs a good ideâ!â You grabbed his hand before he could even finish the thought, spinning into his arms with a laugh as your arms came to drape around his shoulders. âAlright, alright, Princess. The ballroom floor is yours. But if I step on your toes, you canât be mad at me.â He leaned down to press his forehead against yours, inhaling your presence as his hands settled on the dip of your waist.
There isnât really space to dance. The kitchen is small, all he could afford reliably on what meager savings heâd put together while he was in the academy, but you made it work. You always did. His other hand found yours, intertwining your fingers together before he begins to sway. The rhythm is uneven at first as he found the rhythm to both the song and you.
âIâll just⊠have to turn you into a frog, then!â
Leon laughed, blonde hair falling into his face as he shook his head. The singerâs voice has blended into the background by now, little more than background noise to all of his thoughts consumed by you, of this quiet moment within your own little world with him. Outside, the world continues- traffic rolls, time passes by- but here? Here, there is only this moment. Everything narrowed down to the now. The faint music, the feeling of your soft skin under his hand as his thumb brushed against your wrist the best he could manage without letting you go. His love pressed against his chest as he looked down to meet glimmering eyes he had all but fallen in love with the first time heâd seen them.
âThere are worse things to be turned into,â he hummed. âBut I could handle being a frog if it meant I still got kisses from you, Princess.â He spun you slowly, hand finding the dip of your spine as he brought you into a dip, his lips ghosting over yours faintly. âJust promise not to let me croak, okay, doc?â
You rolled your eyes, half-heartedly attempting to shove him away from you at his dumb joke. His grip did not falter, though, and he held you steady once again as he straightened you out once again, hands pulling you in once again for a proper kiss this time.Â
"This could be the end of everything, so why donât we go somewhere only we know?â
His forehead met yours, eyes closed as he savored the moment with you. Slow dancing in the kitchen was almost a date night tradition for the two of you by now. It wasnât planned, of course, but it was natural. Somewhere over the course of the night, you would find your way into each otherâs arms, circling in the few spare feet of your own personal bubble.
He didnât notice that the song was already over, too enthralled in appreciating the beauty in his arms, the heavy beating of his heart that grew ever stronger as every second passed with you in his embrace.
âDo you remember when you first heard this song? When you told me you didnât like it?â
He listened to the lyrics for a few moments before a breathy laugh escaped him when recognition finally came to him.Â
"Maybe I'm hopeless, but I'm only human..."
âI hope that you know that Iâd give it all for a moment with you,â Your voice, singing along to the familiar song brought him back to the present. He didnât answer your question immediately, letting himself fall into a rhythm of dancing with you once again. He guides you across the floor of the kitchen, careful not to crash you into the dining room table as his movements got ever so bolder.
âI didnât say I didnât like it.â His head nudged your own softly as he tucked you back into him. âI told you I didnât get it.â You had carried this conversation on before the two of you were official, when he was still dancing around the desire to ask you to start going steady. Biweekly coffee dates, late night phone calls, flowers every time he saw you, yet no label. Denial was the label his friends had put on it for him- denial that he was actually developing feelings for a girl he knew that he may eventually have to leave behind if their fated courses were to diverge.
You looked up at him, eyes glimmering with warmth and chin resting on his chest. âAnd now?â
His lips found your forehead, lingering there for a few moments. âNow? Now, I get it.â He got you.
"These cold hands, this burning heart, will always be hollow without you.â
Holding you in his arms for a few more moments, he let himself simply appreciate the space you filled at his side. Youâd picked him up after joining the academy, after the separation from his last partner. Youâd been friends at first, but Leonâs hopeless heart had done little to stop the feelings that grew ever present more and more by the day. It wasnât until youâd found yourself staying over at his place during a storm that those feelings came to light between the two of you.
âI love you,â he murmured in the comfortable silence, as if speaking it too loudly would shatter whatever this was. âThank youâŠâ His head dipped to bury in your neck.
âLe, what are you thanking me for?â The nickname slipped out so easily now. It filled him with warmth. It was short, simple, and barely a change from his name. But it was wholly, undeniably yours.
âFor being here. For not leaving my sorry ass.â
Fingers finding his hair, you tugged on the soft blonde locks to get him to pull back and look at you. âLe, you donât have to thank me for being your girlfriend. Really, itâsââ
âI mean it.â His hands gripped your waist again, bordering on painful. âI know this isnât exactly the life fitting of a doctor. One bedroom apartment in the busiest part of the city. I canât provide everything for you yet, not until I finish with the academy, butâŠI will. I promise.â He sounded almost like he was on the verge of tears. âIâll get there. Iâll be able to give you everything you want. A ring, one worthy of the person who lit up my life like the brightest star in the sky. A house to raise our family in. Our future will be bright.â
Your hands found his face, your steps slowing until you stopped, just cradling his cheeks in your hands. âLeon Scott Kennedy-â Gods, hearing his name fall from your lips got him weak at the knees. For a brief moment, he imagined giving that name to you, dancing like this in a different scene. The blue sundress you currently wore longer, and white.
Maybe it was too early to pop that question- it definitely was- but your impending move to Raccoon CIty would be one step closer. Youâd agreed to move in with him, sharing an apartment in the city that you would both start anew in together. Youâd be going first since your clinical rotation started earlier than his assignment began, meeting the movers and ensuring everything was in place before he joined you about three weeks later.Â
One day. And he couldnât wait.Â
He never made it to that apartment to meet with you. The last time he had seen you in person was the morning he said his temporary goodbye, sending you off with a chaste kiss and the promise to tell you all about his last weeks in the academy, about everything you had missed while you were separated. You had been unable to attend his ceremony, having fought tooth and nail to get an excuse from your clinical shift that week to no avail. You were left to hope that you would eventually see photos, sooner or later.Â
He wondered where you were these days. Every time he thought about you, fighting back the sharp pain that bloomed in his chest each time, he pictured your escape from the city, getting out and starting anew elsewhere. Had you moved on in the last 30 years? Gotten married, started a family with someone else? Heâd always imagined that the two of you would have a daughter together, a miniature version of you that he would get to watch grow up into the same type of intelligent, resilient woman that had raised her. Elena. It was the name that came to mind every time heâd had the thoughts. Bright light, to accompany the nickname he had given you, his Golden Girl. You were his sunlight, the bright warmth that greeted him at the beginning of every day, and the light that shone upon him at the beginning of every dark night he spent weathering through night terrors.Â
Light streamed through the window of his bedroom, bathing the both of you in a warm gentle light as the sun crested the horizon to greet the world and guide it through a new day.
Rolling over onto his stomach, Leon was lured closer by a familiar weight to his left. Reaching out to wrap an arm around your waist, he pulled you to him, his chest finding your back as he buried his face in your neck. âGood morning,â he mumbled, tucking you securely into his grasp with a sense of finality, closing his eyes again with the full intention of going back to sleep holding you. âNot time to get up yet. Go back to sleep.â
He was successful for a short while, letting himself doze off again when your contented sigh made way for the sound of your rhythmic breathing only a few minutes later. He wondered if you were ever truly lucid, or simply half-awake when heâd slid you closer. You only stayed asleep for another half hour before your eyes fluttered open and the cruel state of consciousness fell upon you.
Groaning lightly, you moved to sit up in bed, only to be stilled by Leonâs arms resolutely holding you in place. A soft laugh escaped you and you settled back into his grasp, slowly turning over to face him. He wasnât quite awake yet, affording you a few minutes to simply observe his sleeping features. He was so peaceful like this, face relaxed with the soft embrace of slumber. His nose twitched every so often as a strand of his hair brushed against his face, and a smile grew upon your features as you reached out to brush it back to protect his peace.
A larger hand caught your own as Leon pressed your palm to his cheek for a moment before turning his head to press his lips against your palm, eyes still closed. He lingered for a few moments before his attention was on you once again, baby blue eyes meeting your own. He settled his head back into the pillow, but not before leaning forward to press his lips to yours, something he had once promised you would always be the first thing he did in the morning. âMorning, gorgeous,â he greeted, voice low and scratchy from sleep. âSleep well?âÂ
You propped yourself up on an elbow beside him, your other hand idly moving to begin tracing patterns on his bare shoulder. âI always do when Iâm with you,â you hummed. âYou want breakfast, or do you want to stay here a little bit longer? You gotta go in today?â
He shook his head. âNope, not today. Come here, you.â Reaching out as soon as he sat up to lean against the headboard, he pulled you back to his chest until he had your weight against his shoulder. âNo plans for today, either. Do I get a day to do nothing but spend time with my golden girl?â His lips pressed against your shoulder where it peeked from the collar of the t-shirt you had stolen from his dresser to sleep in. âBreakfast can wait.â
Tipping your head upward, you observed your boyfriend, warmth growing in your chest. He really had grown into himself more throughout the course of your relationship, namely with showing affection to you. You had to hold back a laugh at the memory of him turning your favorite plushies around before he would even kiss you for the first time.Â
âThey canât watch that kind of debauchery!â he had exclaimed then, much to your chagrin, before you pulled him into you, his face flushed pink and breathless in the aftermath.Â
âWhat are you thinking about?â His lips caught the corner of your mouth, you having failed to hide the smile during your reminiscence, and an inquisitive hum rumbled through him.
âYou.â The answer was simple, honest. âWell, us. Where we were and where weâre headed. Raccoon City is where itâs all really going to begin for us, huh?â
âYeah, yeah it is.â A comfortable silence fell over the two of you, contemplative, as you thought of the future that was fast approaching for you. You had worked so hard to get here already, many sleepless nights during your undergraduate degree to get the credits you needed to graduate early. Day in and day out, you worked and worked, often wondering if the struggle was worth it and worrying about where you would go if you werenât accepted to the medical schools you had applied to. Would you have to end things with Leon? Would you be happy knowing you had gotten into a school that wasnât one of your first picks? Would you get in at all?Â
âOf course youâll get in.â Leonâs voice echoed in the recesses of your mind, just as it had every time you had begun to express these doubts to him. âYouâre my golden girl, and youâve got a good head on those shoulders. And if they donât accept you, IâllâŠIâll find a reason to arrest them for you.â He hadnât been serious, of course, but it had cheered you up nonetheless.
In the pause that stretched between the two of you, Leonâs hand had found the charm of the necklace that had dipped under your collar, gently twisting the charm between his fingers. He had made it for you, somehow, during a brief stint with interest in crafting. He had wanted to gift you something to show his appreciation for you as his partner, but nothing he could find was quite good enough to suit the image of what he had in mind.Â
âI tried to make it perfect.â He had looked away when he presented her with the box over breakfast that morning several weeks ago. âButâŠâ
Youâd smiled softly at the gesture, lifting the necklace from the box and examining it.
The pendant was small, a dented disk that was hand-engraved with a crude, uneven design. Heâd intended for it to be molded into the shape of the sun, if the person looking at it squinted and tilted their head, created while he sat at the kitchen table, fumbling with tools he barely knew how to use.
âIâd rather it be yours. Itâs beautiful. Thank you, Leon.â She undid the clasp with skilled hands. âWill you help me put it on?â Nodding energetically, he had done exactly that, fumbling with the clasp for a few minutes before finally succeeding in his endeavor. Brushing your hair out of the way once more, heâd pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck before stepping back from you.
Youâd worn it every day since then.Â
âAre you nervous?â He finally asked, slowing his fidgeting with the charm.
âA little,â you answered honestly on an exhale, breath light before you let an anxious little chuckle escape from you. âButâŠIâm excited, too. I mean, weâre starting a new life. Why wouldnât I be? Besides, we wonât be apart for too long.â
âHey, three weeks is a lot of time for things to happen.â His hand migrated to rub your arm. âThe world could end in three weeks, you never know.â
You playfully pushed him away. âEven if it did, youâll still come back to me, you loser.â
He laughed, pulling you flush against him once again before finally moving to sit up with the intention of getting out of bed. âIâd always come back to you, golden girl.â He kissed you lightly. âNow, come on. Letâs go get breakfast.â
He didnât realize that he had gone the wrong way until he looked up at the remains of Raccoon City General Hospital. Perhaps part of him had forgotten his mission objective, letting his mind do more than just wander in passing.
It was a source of pride for Raccoon City. Alongside the R.P.D. headquarters, the city hospital featured some of the most ornate exterior decoration, a testament to the history the facility had grown alongside the rest of the population. The inside technology had always been advanced for the times, cutting-edge and attracting patients from even the farthest corners of the large city.Â
You had always been enthralled by the technological advancements headed by the hospital under the guidance of Umbrella. Youâd been proud of working there, even, and he couldnât help but wonder if the corporation still had you under its employ, wherever youâd found yourself in the aftermath. Did you know what Umbrella had done to the people you wanted nothing more than to protect?Â
His head craned upwards to look at the remnants of the large facility. It stood ahead of him in a broken silhouette, upper floors sheared over by the blast that had cleaved the top half from the bottom in seconds, its concrete bones and wire ribs exposed to the elements. Wind moved through the upper portion freely now, carrying once-white bedsheets like flags of surrender where they were partially trapped under rubble and debris. Nearly thirty years and it still hadnât finished falling, instead standing as a cold reminder of the night that changed his entire world nearly three decades ago.Â
What remained of the facilityâs perimeter signage was rusted over the years, the directional signs having faded until they were illegible and any authority eroded alongside them. His gaze traced the outline of the building once more, his current mind attempting to reconcile the signt before him with the one he carried in his memory. There would have been life inside, then, bright lights and people milling about.
He imagined you looking down at him from one of those upper floor windows as he passed by during one of his patrols, waving at him as you leaned against the glass. He swallowed thickly, unable to stop himself as he approached the front doors of the facility. His gun hand hovered over his holster as he broke the barricade away, breaching the doors with one swift kick to the hinges, giving way with a dry metallic groan.Â
Dust and ash covered the interior of the hospital in a thick blanket, undisturbed over the past years. The air was stale, heavy, and the lobby was barely recognizable now between the caved-in ceiling and broken tiles scattered about like an abandoned puzzle. His gaze found the clock on the far side of the room, long frozen in time at 2 P.M. âStill punctual,â he mumbled to himself. The time you often found yourself calling him on days you werenât together, having started your lunch break right around that time. âHope you arenât mad at me for being late to this one, sweetheart.â He climbed over the reception desk that had been thrown sideways, metal drawers pulled out and long emptied, and ventured further inside.Â
He moved slowly, gaze catching on fragments of the life that stood frozen in time.
A wheelchair knocked upon its side.Â
A childâs shoe, dingy and half-charred.
Metal chairs fused to the floor and to each other from the heat.
Had they gotten out?
Your first unit had been on the third floor, that much he remembered. How could he forget? Youâd seldom stopped expressing your excitement over getting to work in one of the pediatric units. You were perfect for that part of the job. He had looked forward to seeing the change you brought about in their world.Â
The climb to the third floor felt much longer than it should have, as if the very building itself resisted the idea of being revisited, and was attempting to keep him away. By the time he reached the unit, the sky was beginning to darken, the whisperings of sunset impending not far off. Muted light spilled through jagged openings in the half-collapsed walls of the rooms where remnants of normal life still clung stubbornly to the notion of normal existence. The horizon spanned wide and indifferent in the distance, not sparing him any more time to reminisce.Â
âI was late,â he murmured into the dead-silent air around him as he looked around at what could, and would have been. Colorful paint that once colored every wall was muted, peeling and chipping away from the patterns that had had been painstakingly placed there to keep the young patients from being scared in the cold, clinical white walls of the hospital. âI told you Iâd come back to you. I guess I couldnât keep that promise, huh?âÂ
A gust of wind threaded through the broken structure as he looked outside, singing a mournful song to carry forth to him. He refused to turn and chase its voice. There was no point.
Instead, he found the old paper that heâd kept with him on every mission since then. It was old now, yellowed and worn at the edges, creased from the constant folding over the years. It had been taken after your first official date at your insistence, captured in a moment that had no idea what was coming for them down the road. It had rarely left his side when he was sent out on a mission. Sherry had offered to give him a restored version, rendered again with modern technology and breathing new life into the old, lower-quality photograph. He had always refused, wanting to keep you with him in the same form he remembered you since then.Â
âIâm still looking. Just in case youâre wondering.â He wouldnât stop, that he had vowed the second he was out of Raccoon City. There would only ever be you, even if it took him 30 more years to find you.
If you had that much time, he thought wryly, fist tightening at the grim reminder of the growing black splotches up the expanse of his arm and neck.Â
Silence was the only thing that answered him, and the wind with its ongoing, mourning song. âYeah. I figured as much.â
Turning from the hospital room, accompanied only with his thoughts, he paused at the doors. Opening his mouth as if he wished to speak, he silenced himself with a shake of his head before continuing on his path.
Making way towards the stairwell once again, deciding it was high time to get back to his mission now that he was in his right mind once more, his footsteps faded into the hollow quiet of the hospital.Â
He had only gotten halfway down the corridor before something slid across the floor behind him. No, not slid. This was soft, carrying a rhythm to it. Something was dragging. Turning around, retrieving his firearm from the holster at his side, he trained his eyes on the junction of the next hallway. Every one of his instincts stood on high alert, decades of training and fighting pulling him still. Sneaking forward closely, he prepared to turn the corner and face the creature that heâd certainly alerted. This was a hospital. If there was one, there was likely more not far behind it.
The sound came again, this time closer. Turning the corner, he pointed his firearm at the B.O.W. at the far end of the corridor, moving between the shadows. The figure moved unsteadily, lumbering forward toward him and catching itself against the wall with a jerking, unnatural gait.Â
His world narrowed to a single, unbearable point, blue eyes widening in disbelief as they focused on it. Time and decay had taken their share of the body, that was certain. What remained of its hair hung in uneven strands, greyed with dust and ash with each brittle strand. Light pink scrubs, once purchased with the intention of making the wearer more welcoming to the younger population, were torn and fused to char-darkened skin. One arm hung at an angle that would not be seen on a living, breathing human, the other extended straight out with fingers twitching in small, aimless motions.Â
But when the setting sun glimmered against a dented, circular pendant, he suddenly felt the contents of his stomach threatening to make a reappearance.Â
âNoâŠâ
Thirty years was a long time to think of different endings, and Leon Kennedy had likely come up with dozens of scenarios in his mind on how he would reunite with you. None of them looked like this. Not a single one had prepared him for this, for the way his legs rooted him into the ground as if they suddenly weighed two tons.Â
âYou⊠Youâre notâŠâ He couldnât find his words. What could he even say? It couldnât understand him.
You couldnât understand him.Â
âHey.â Despite his more rational brain and better judgement, he found himself trying anyway. Hope foolishly bloomed in his chest for a fleeting moment, unable to be schooled just yet. He knew this was hopeless, he was hopeless, but part of him still could not bring himself to believe that this was the reality he was living.
Pinch him, wake him up. Bring him back to the reality where he got to wake up with you asleep beside him again. Anything but this.
âYou remember me?â The plea escaped his mouth before he could pull it back. âItâs me. Hey, itâs Leon. I-â
It lunged. It was erratic and sudden, stumbling. Hunger and instinct were the only things that controlled what had once been you. There had been no recognition that crossed your features despite his reminder. He knew there wouldnât be. He tried anyway.
It was wrong. This was all wrong. He shouldnât be finding you here. You shouldnât be here. You should be outside of the city limits, happy and healthy with the family you had wanted to build, even if it wasnât with him.
Knowing what he knew now, he should never have let you follow him into Raccoon City, into the clutches of the organization that had taken so many people from him. Even if it meant that you would have been led away from him, into someone elseâs arms, or to an entirely different path in which the two of you became little more than strangers, supporting roles in each otherâs stories.Â
His training snapped him back, the instinct to survive driving him to move aside, swiftly grabbing the wrist extended towards him and twisting until he heard a sickening snap as he only worsened what was broken. You stumbled forward, slamming into a nearby wall with heavy impact and a snarl before rounding back on him.
His heart pounded in both fear and sickening recognition as he stepped back, hands returning his gun to the space in front of him as he observed her from downsight. He should shoot, his mind screamed at him. Shoot, before this went too far.
âNo,â he repeated, louder this time. Even he wasnât sure if it was at his thoughts, or at the situation he had found himself in. âNo!â
Your hand reached for his chest again.
Turning his head away so he wouldnât have to watch himself do it, he fired. The sound was deafening, a sharp sequence of cracks that shattered the fragile silence. The recoil of his firearm, the Requiem that sang only for you, jolted up his arm as he aimed true with one, two, three shots.
The sound of the weight hitting the ground as you crumpled was almost cathartic. His stomach still threatened him, as did the burning behind his eyes that still refused to look at the body on the floor, but in his own dark way, Leon almost felt a semblance of peace for you at knowing that you would no longer have to live as something you would hate.
If you had been lucid enough, and still had an ounce of humanity to you, would you have asked him to do the same? To grant you mercy and take you away from the suffering you would undoubtedly face as you turned?Â
Would he have been able to do it if you had?
His grip faltered at the thought of you in what had been your last moments. Were you alone? Or had you barricaded yourself in with the children on the unit, holding them close and keeping them calm despite your own rising panic? He hoped it was the latter. You had always been the most gentle presence in his life, and if there was anyone who could keep those kids calm even in the face of impending danger, it would be you. Selfishly, he also hoped it meant you hadnât been alone at the end. The thought of you, alone and forced to sit idly by as those all-too-familiar black splotches bloomed against your skin tore at the very fabric of his being. He had never wanted you to be alone.
Setting his jaw and remaining there unmoving for a few more beats, his arm slowly lowered, slipping the gun back into his holster securely.
And finally, he looked at you. Rather, what had once been you. The version of you in his mind was alive and well, not laying half-decomposed and forgotten in the walls of the hospital youâd thus devoted your time and life to, cursed to wander these corridors until something granted you the kindness of permanent rest.Â
âIâm sorry.â The words felt inadequate. âI shouldâve been there.â Against his wishes, a traitorous tear slid down his face, leaving tracks in the grime settling on his features. Dust stirred around him as he knelt upon one knee at your side. Wind passed through broken walls again, its wail echoing the one he was warring with himself to contain.
A gloved hand brushed back brittle, ash-kissed hair, remembering what it had felt like twenty-eight years ago beneath his fingers, smooth and familiar when he carded through the locks every time you fell asleep against him.Â
âYou wanted to save lives here.â His voice was rough,breaking halfway through the sentence. âAnd I couldnât be there to save yours. Iâm so sorry.â
His hands were shaking, and his gaze tore from you to stare at them as if they were not his own. They belonged to someone else, surely, and that would explain how they had done what heâd done.Â
âBut all the love you left behind will alwaysâŠâ
âI didnât know what else to do.â Against his better wishes, a sob tore through his throat, sudden and violent, as he all but buckled, curling over the remains of you as twenty-eight years of worry, of wondering where you had disappeared to, came to the surface at the cruel truth that you had been here. And that he would never get to live out any of those visions of your reunion, even if they were too far in the future to rekindle anything at their age. âYou wereâ Fuck, you were looking at me, but it wasnât you. I⊠Iâm so fucking sorry.â
He stayed there with you until the sun threatened to set on him, casting him into a darkness that would only bring new horrors alongside it. Part of him didnât care, couldnât bring himself to care now that he had lost you officially, but the rational part of him reminded him that he not only had Grace to rescue, but the part of him that you remembered. You wouldnât want him to stay here, to give up and die, after all. He had promised to become a man worthy of you, and that was a promise he fully intended to uphold, especially now.
When he could no longer stay by your side, having no more tears left to cry and leaving himself with only trembling shoulders with each heaving sob, Leon wiped his eyes and slowly schooled his emotions once more. Focus.
Rising to his feet, Leon paused only to remove the sun pendant from your neck. His hands trembled still, fumbling with the clasp just as he did 28 years ago when he had first placed it around your neck. It was old, fragile, and practically melted shut. Finally managing to remove it from your eternally still form, he tucked the pendant into one of the pockets of his harness. It was missing a few of the rays heâd painstakingly crafted all those years ago, having been lost to time and the erosion of nature, but it was so heartbreakingly you.
âIâm sorry I was late. A lot happened in three weeks, butâŠâ
He hesitated again when it came time to say goodbye to you, standing a few paces away and looking back to where heâd left you.Â
âYour loser came back to you,â he said quietly, turning his back on the past once again as he took his firearm from its holster again to fight his way out of the facility. âGoodnight, my Golden Girl.â
"...Remind me of you"
All dividers by the wonderful @/strangergraphics!
Author's Notes: I had tormented a friend of mine with this idea a while ago and decided it was time to commit to the bit. Big thanks to Enso for sitting with me and making me lock in to finish it! Also... big thanks to Petal for being my first victim in beta...I love you pookie I'm sorry for making you cry even though you don't even go here
Likes, comments in tags and thoughts ALWAYS appreciated! I feed off of knowing y'all like what I write And, as ALWAYS, do not feed any of my works through AI systems of any sort. Keep AI out of creative spaces.
Summary: A mission meant to be routine becomes a race against the clock when youâre bitten, and the only antivirals are destroyed. With the infection spreading and time running out, Leon Kennedy abandons everything except the one objective that matters: getting you back alive.
Warnings/tags: bite injury (reader), infection themes (fever, delirium), mentions of blood/wounds, mission-related violence, guns, angst, protective leon
The hallway smells like antiseptic and old rain, sharp enough to taste at the back of your throat. Emergency lights pulse a slow red, painting everything in the color of a heartbeat that refuses to settle. Somewhere deeper in the facility, something metallic groans, the sound carrying through the walls like the building itself is shifting in its sleep.
Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.
You.
He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.
"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.
"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.
His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."
"Very."
He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.
Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.
Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.
"Don't," you breathe.
Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.
Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.
"Persistent," you mutter.
"Understatement."
It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack.Â
For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.
"You okay?" he asks without turning.
"Fine."
He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.
"Your heart rate's up."
"So is yours."
"Occupational hazard."
You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I adjusted my stance."
You snort. "Sure you did, hero."
His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.
"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.
"You hate sand."
"I could learn."
"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."
"It started it."
He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."
"Coward."
They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.
Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.
Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."
"And our worst bet for everything else."
"Probably."
He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.
You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."
"I am standing back."
"Further."
He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.
"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.
"Try not to worry so loudly."
"I don't worry."
You glance up. "Leon."
"...I worry a normal amount."
You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."
You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.
"You can let go," he says gently.
You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.
"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."
"Very."
But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.
Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.
Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.
"Help," he croaks.
Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"
The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."
His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner. Â Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.
"Careful," he murmurs.
"I know."
His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.
The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."
Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.
"Jackpot," you whisper.
Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.
Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."
You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.
Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."
"I'm here."
"Good."
"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've gotâ"
The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.
The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.
"Back!" Leon snaps.
You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.
One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision.Â
More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.
"Too many," you shout.
"Move!"
You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.
A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.
The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.
"Leon!"
He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.
Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.
Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.
He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.
"You hurt?" he asks.
You shake your head, throat tight. "No."
"Good."
His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.
"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."
You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.
Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.
The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.
Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.
"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."
He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."
"You got a call."
"We both got a call."
"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."
"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."
"That's not a crime."
"It should be."
You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."
"I'll buy you dessert."
"You said that last time."
"I meant it last time, too."
His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.
"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."
You glance at him. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."
"I'd last three."
"Two and a half."
He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."
The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.
Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.
"Hold."
You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.
He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."
"Could be."
He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"
"Always."
One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.
You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."
"Switch packs with me."
"I'm fine."
"That wasn't a suggestion."
"It wasn't an order either."
For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.
Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.
"Tension," he says softly.
"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."
"Comes with the badge."
"You don't even carry a badge."
"Metaphorical badge."
You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.
"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.
"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.
He gives you a look. You give him one right back.
"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."
"Yes, dear."
His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."
"Yes, sir," you salute.
Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.
"Stand clear," you say.
He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.
For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.
"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."
He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.
"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."
Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.
"On you."
You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.
Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.
All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.
Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.
"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.
You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.
"Stay close," he murmurs.
You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.
"Always do," you whisper back.
The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.
Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.
A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.
"Probably just settling," you whisper.
Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.
Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.
"Leonâ!"
He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.
You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat.Â
Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.
"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.
Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.
The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.
"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."
You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."
His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.
The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.
You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.
"Oh," you say softly.
Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.
"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.
He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.
"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."
You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.
"Good news," you murmur.
His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."
The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.
"This won't stop it," you say quietly.
"I know."
He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.
"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.
"No."
"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"
"No, Leon."
He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.
"Hey," you say softly.
His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.
"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."
You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.
He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.
He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.
"Stay with me," he murmurs.
Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.
"Always," you whisper.
Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.
"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.
"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."
His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.
"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.
He glances at you immediately. "What?"
"Nothing. Thought I heard something."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.
The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.
"Hey," Leon says quietly.
You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."
He stops anyway.
"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."
Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down.Â
When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.
You shake your head. "We don't have time."
"Sit."
There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.
The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.
His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.
His brows draw together. "You're burning up."
"Shock," you say weakly.
"You know that's not true."
His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.
"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.
A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.
"Look at me," he says softly.
You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.
"We're going to fix this," he says.
"You don't know that."
"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."
Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.
"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."
His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"
"No."
"Dizziness?"
"...Maybe."
"Confusion?"
You hesitate.
His expression darkens. "How long?"
"Ten minutes."
He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.
"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."
"I'm right here."
His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.
"Leon."
"Yeah."
"If I start to..."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."
"You need to be ready."
"I am ready."
"That's not what I mean."
His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.
"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."
Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.
"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."
"Maybe," you echo.
He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.
Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.
You blink. "Leonâ"
"Save your strength."
"I can walk."
"I know."
And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.
"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.
You nod weakly. "Yeah."
"Good."
He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.
Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."
"I'm trying."
"Talk to me."
"About what?"
"Anything."
You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.
"...Dessert," you mumble finally.
A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.
"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.
His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.
Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.
Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.
"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"
A pause. "...Yeah."
The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.
The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.
Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.
"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."
A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."
He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.
"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."
You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.
"It's... dark," you mumble.
His chest tightens. The lights are still on.
"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."
Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.
"...Leon."
Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."
Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.
"You look... tired."
He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.
Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.
"You should sleep," you whisper.
The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.
"Soon, sweetheart," he says.
Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.
Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"
The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.
Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.
"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."
Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.
"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."
His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice.Â
Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."
Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.
"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."
You stir weakly. "...'m tired."
"I know."
"So tired."
His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.
"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.
Your eyes open a sliver.
"...Promise?"
The question is so small it barely exists.
He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.
"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."
He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.
He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.
"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.
"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.
He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.
"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."
He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.
"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."
The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.
Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.
A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.
"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."
He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.
"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."
Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.
"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.
Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.
"Where are we?" you murmur.
"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."
Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."
His throat tightens.
"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.
He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.
He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.
He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.
A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.
Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.
"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.
He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.
Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.
Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.
He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.
"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.
From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.
Behind him, the ward remains still.
Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"
He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.
"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."
You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."
"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."
Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.
The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.
"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."
Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.
The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.
Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.
Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.
He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.
"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."
He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.
His pulse hammers harder.
Not here. Not here. Not here.
"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.
He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.
"Don't do this to me," he whispers.
Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.
A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.
He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.
ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL â EMERGENCY USE
He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.
Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.
Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.
"Damn it," he breathes.
The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.
Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.
For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.
He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.
"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."
His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.
His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.
He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.
Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.
Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:
ANTIVIRAL SERUM â FINALIZED STRAIN
For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.
He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.
"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."
Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.
"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."
No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.
A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.
"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."
Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.
"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."
His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.
"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."
Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.
"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."
His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.
"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."
He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.
"You hear me? We've got plans."
Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."
He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.
"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."
He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.
"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."
The needle presses into your skin.
He hesitates.
Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.
"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."
He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.
"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."
He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.
Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.
"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."
He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.
"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."
Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.
"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.
Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.
He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.
"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."
He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.
"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."
Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.
There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.
"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."
Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.
Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.
"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."
Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.
"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.
"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."
He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.
Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.
His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.
"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."
Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.
Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.
"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."
Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.
Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.
Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.
Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.
The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.
Leon.
He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.
Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"
He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.
For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.
"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."
You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."
Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.
"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."
"Was I... gone?"
His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."
You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.
"You scared me," he says quietly.
Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."
His head snaps slightly. "Don't."
The word is sharp, then softens immediately.
"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."
You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.
"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."
He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."
He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.
"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"
"Everything hurts."
He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."
Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.
"...You found it," you whisper.
He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.
Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."
You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.
"You were crying," you say softly.
Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.
"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."
A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.
"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.
Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.
"I'm here," you whisper.
He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."
He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in.Â
"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."
You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.
"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."
He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.
"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.
A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.
Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.
Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.
Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.
"You're staring," you murmur.
"Monitoring," he corrects.
"You blink?"
"Sometimes."
You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.
"I'm okay," you assure him.
He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.
"You hungry?" he asks.
"Always."
He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.
When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.
"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.
Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.
You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.
"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."
Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.
Your chest tightens.
"You remembered," you whisper.
He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."
You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.
An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.
Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.
For a long moment, you can't speak.
"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."
"Leon..."
He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.
"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, orâ"
You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.
"Thank you," you say softly.
Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."
You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.
"Worth it?" he asks.
You nod. "Absolutely."
You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before.Â
You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.
"I love you," you whisper.
His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."
Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.
"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."
You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."
"Still."
His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.
Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.
"Two weeks," you murmur.
"Yeah."
"You think you can handle boring?"
He huffs softly. "I'll manage."
You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.
Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3
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A/N: this was lowkey inspired by THIS by @2yai bc why did I yearn for mom Kennedy? Other than that, I actually have no idea what compelled me to write this apology in advance.
Warnings: angst, pregnancy, slight re9 spoilers, children (lmao) Leon POV, all four Leon eras, (re2,re4,re6, re9) Leon is a workaholic, low-key.
Summary: Leon has spent a lifetime saying goodbyes at doorways, in passing, and over distance, always promising heâd come back. But when the life heâs built finally stands on the edge of being taken from him, heâs forced to confront a truth heâs avoided for too long. Some goodbyes donât wait for you to be ready.
1998
Leon had already checked the time twice in the last minute, his gaze flicking back to the grandfather clock that sat to the left of the stairs. He still didnât know how his girlfriend managed to get that massive thing through her front door when the rest of her apartment barely fit two people and a couch, but somehow, she had made it work. It ticked loud enough to fill the whole space, each second landing a little heavier than the last.Â
Glancing at it a third time might have been excessive, but today wasnât exactly a normal day. It was his first day. His first real assignment. The first time walking into the station as something more than a name on paperwork.Â
He adjusted the collar of his uniform in the small mirror by her front door, smoothing it down like it might somehow make him look more put together than he felt. His palms were a little clammy beneath his gloves as he dragged a hand through his hair, trying to convince himself he looked fine, like he belonged in it.Â
âYouâre staring at yourself like youâre about to go on stage," she said from behind him.Â
Leon huffed out a quiet laugh, glancing over his shoulder. âFeels like it.â
He turned a little more, giving her a half spin like he was showing it off. âWhat do you think?â
She was still in her pajamas, and it was five in the afternoon. The soft pink shorts barely brushed mid-thigh, one of his button-ups hanging loose like sheâd thrown it on without thinking. It clung to her in that effortless way that made it look like it always belonged there. She must have finally dragged herself out of bed after sleeping most of the day glued to him, doing everything she could to keep him from leaving.Â
If he didnât have to go, heâd be fused to her instead of those clothes.Â
Her eyes dragged over him slowly, far more dramatic than necessary.Â
âI think,â she said, stepping closer, âyouâre going to make every other cop there look bad.â
Leon snorted. âThatâs the goal.â
Her oversized bunny slippers shuffled softly across the floor as she crossed the room, one hand lifting to scratch absently at the back of her head. She looked half-awake, like she hadn't fully decided to be a person yet. Messy hair. Sleepy eyes, probably still thinking about coffee. It was⊠distracting, in the best way.Â
As she reached for him, he turned back toward the mirror, watching her reflection instead. She lifted her hand, adjusting something on his shoulder that didnât actually need fixing, her fingers lingering against the fabric.Â
âYouâre nervous.â
âIâm not nervous,â he said quickly, meeting her eyes in the mirror.Â
She raised a brow.
Leon paused.Â
â... Okay, maybe a little.â
Her smile softened, and for a second the teasing slipped into something quieter.Â
âYouâll be fine.âÂ
He turned toward her and nodded, because of course he would be. It was just his first day. Heâd go in, do his job, come back, and be right here again tomorrow like nothing had changed. Still, he leaned into her touch when she lifted her hand to his face, her thumb brushing lightly across his cheek, giving him that look that made his chest feel just a little too full.Â
Heâd been staying here with her the last few days since her place was closer to the station. His apartment sat halfway across town, and he hadnât been too eager to spend his last stretch of freedom alone. She hadnât hesitated when he called, already halfway through listing everything she could cook before heâd even finished asking.Â
Theyâd done all of itâdinner, dishes, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch while she made him watch her favorite movie, staying up far too late tangled together in her bed like time didnât matter. She was a night owl in every sense, completely opposite to the routine the academy had drilled into him. Early morning, coffee, runs, structure. Her messy hair and barely open eyes now told him everything he needed to know about how that usually went.Â
Theyâd only been together for a little under a year, and somehow it still felt like this every time. New. Easy. Like he was still learning her, still wanting to. He caught himself thinking about it more than he probably should, whether the job, the hours, or the things that came with it would ever be too much. Not everyone loves cops.Â
But she never made it feel that way.Â
If anything, she looked at him like he was something worth holding onto.Â
His eyes flicked to the clock again, more out of habit than urgency this time, but they didnât stay there long. They drifted back to her instead, catching on the way her shirt rode up slightly when she shifted the soft line of her thigh where the fabric ended. It was distracting in a way he wasnât entirely proud of, especially given the fact that he was standing here in uniform, about to walk into his first day like he had everything under control.Â
He didnât.Â
Not really.Â
Because part of him was still in her bedroom from a few hours ago, half-asleep and tangled in her sheets, her legs hooked around his like she had nowhere else to be. It would have been easy to stay there. Too easy. Call in, make something up, and spend the day exactly the way they had beenâlazy, quiet, and wrapped up in each other like the rest of the world could wait.Â
He could already hear the lecture heâd get for even thinking it.
Still⊠the thought lingered longer than it should have.Â
His gaze dropped again, slower this time, like he wasnât even trying to stop himself anymore. He wondered, briefly, if she was doing it on purposeâwalking around like that, looking like that, knowing exactly what it did to him.Â
Probably.Â
That alone made him laugh.
He leaned down to kiss her, laughing softly into her lips as his arms slipped around her waist. Without warning, he lifted her a few inches off the ground, catching her completely off guard. She melted into it anyway, wrapping her arms around his neck as he gave her a small twirl before setting her back down, her slippers brushing against the long strip of carpet that led to the front door.Â
When she pulled away, her hands stayed planted against his chest as she huffed out a laugh, still a little breathless. âWhat is it?â
Leon tilted his head, his gaze dragging over her like he was trying to memorize something without meaning to. Seeing her like this, hair a mess, barely awake, still wrapped in sleep and warmth, did something to him. It made everything else feel a little less important, like the day waiting for him on the other side of that door could wait a few minutes longer.Â
The words slipped out before he could stop them.Â
âI just... love you.âÂ
The second they left his mouth, reality hit him like a truck.Â
She pulled back just enough to look at him, brows lifting slightly, and Leon felt his stomach drop straight through the floor. They hadn't said it yetânot out loud now he was standing there in full uniform, blurting it out like it hadn't been sitting in his chest for weeks.Â
He almost physically recoiled from himself.Â
But then she smiled.Â
Not just smiledâlit up.Â
âLeon S. Kennedy, the man you are,â she laughed, shaking her head as she gave his chest a playful shove. âI look like a cave rat and this is when you decide to tell me you love me?â
Leon's brows furrowed immediately, confusion overriding the panic. He thought she looked perfect. Better like this, actually.Â
"Iâ"
âI love you too.â
She didn't give him time to recover before she rose onto her toes and kissed him again, soft and certain, and whatever lingering panic he had left dissolved instantly. His arms tightened around her without thinking, pulling her in closer like that alone could keep the movement from slipping away.Â
Leon barely had time to process the fact that sheâd said it back before she pulled away, her hands still resting against his chest as she looked up at him, that smile lingering on her lips.Â
âI wish you didnât have to go.â
He let out a quiet breath, something warm settling in his chest as he shook his head slightly, like he couldnât quite believe how easily that had just happened. For a second, he just looked at her, thumb brushing absent circles against her side before he finally took a small step back, his hand slipping from her waist.Â
âHey,â he said, lighter now, that familiar teasing tone slipping back into place as he hooked his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. âIâll be back when I get off. Youâre stuck with me, right?â
He said it lightheartedly, carefree.Â
Heâd see her in the morning, and she knew heâd come straight back here.Â
She smiled right back, not missing a beat. âRight.â
And for a second, that was enough. Leon turned, heading toward the door, already halfway into leaving, already shifting back into the version of himself that has somewhere to beâ
âWait,â she said, her hand catching his wrist before he could make it any further.Â
He glanced down at her hand, then back up at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. âWhat?â
She tilted her head slightly, like she was considering something, then tightened her grip just enough to pull him a step closer. âGive me five minutes.â
Leon blinked.Â
âFive minutes?â he echoed, a quiet laugh slipping through as he glanced instinctively toward the clock again. âIâm already cutting it close."
âThen you better make it count.â
There was no hesitation in her voice, no room for argument, and for a second he just looked at her, caught somewhere between responsibility and the very obvious fact that she was standing in front of him now with that look in her eyes, asking him to stay.Â
His grip on his own schedule slipped faster than heâd like to admit.Â
âYouâre gonna get me written up on day one,â he muttered, but there was no real protest behind it, not when he was already letting her pull him back, not when the bedroom door clicked shut again behind him like it had never even been opened.Â
"Worth it,â she said.
Leon let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as his hands found her again without thinking, settling at her waist like they belonged there. âYouâre a terrible influence, you know that?â
âAnd yet, here you are.â
Yeah.Â
Here he was.
He told himself it was five minutes. That he could spare five minutes. That nothing was going to fall apart if he showed up a little late, that it wasnât the end of the world.Â
It wasnât like anything important was going to happen today.Â
His eyes dropped to her again, slower this time, taking her in like he wasnât even pretending not to. âFive minutes,â he repeated, quieter now, like he was convincing himself more than her.Â
She didnât answer.Â
She just smiled.Â
And that was enough.Â
Leon closed the distance himself this time, his hand sliding up her side as he pulled her back into him, already forgetting whatever time the clock was trying to keep as he kissed her again, slower at first, then not at all.Â
Five minutes wasnât going to be enough. He knew that the second she melted into him, he just didnât care.Â
And so Leon kennedy was late to his first day of work.Â
2004
Leon noticed the ring before anything else.Â
He always did.Â
It caught the light when she moved, subtle and easy to miss if you werenât looking for it, but his eyes found it anyways, watching the way her thumb rolled over the band like it had become second nature. She did it when she was thinking. When she was nervous. When she didnât want to say something out loud.Â
Heâd learned that.Â
Seven years had taught him a lot.Â
The airport buzzed around them in a constant hum of pieces and movement, people coming and going like none of it meant anything, like goodbyes were just another part of the day. Leon stood just slightly behind her, one hand resting at the small of her back, not guiding, not pushingâjust there. Grounding. His eyes moved without him thinking about it, scanning the exits, the people, and the space around them before settling back on her like that was the only place they ever really wanted to be.Â
She turned toward him, still absentmindedly twisting the ring, and he reached for her hand without thinking, stilling the motion with his thumb. It wasnât a large ring, light on her finger, simple in a way that didn't match how much it meant.Â
There hadn't been a plan. No drawn-out proposal, no perfect moment. Just a courthouse that smelled like old paper and had heavy fluorescent lighting, a pen that didnât work the first time he tried to sign his name, and her standing across from him like none of that mattered. Only he did.Â
He hadn't wanted distance.Â
That had been the whole point.Â
After Raccoon city, after everything heâd seen and everything heâd been pushed into, the only thing that had made sense was her. Keeping her close. Making it real in a way no one could take from him. He hadnât even asked in a way that felt like asking. Just stood there with her hands in his and said it like a fact.Â
Stay with me. Marry me.
She had... And now he was the one leaving.Â
His grip on her hand tightened slightly, just enough for her to feel it, and she looked up at him again. There was something softer in her expression than before, something that hadnât been there years ago when goodbyes still felt temporary.Â
âYou keep doing that,â he said quietly, nodding toward her hand.Â
Her lips curved just a little. âDoing what?â
He brushed his thumb over her ring again, slower this time. âYouâre gonna wear a groove into it.â
She huffed a quiet laugh, but her fingers didnât stop moving entirely, just slowed under his touch. âMaybe I like reminding myself itâs still there.â
Leon's jaw flexed faintly at that, something unspoken passing through him before he looked away for a second, eyes dragging over the terminal again out of habit more than anything. He didn't like that she needed reminding. Didnât like that thisâstanding in an airport, watching him leaveâwas becoming something she had to get used to.Â
Heâd offered to take her with him once.
Noâmore than once.Â
It hadn't been some grand conversation, not planned or thought through. It had slipped out of him the same way everything else with her seemed to, unfiltered and a little too honest for his own good. Come with me. Heâd said it like it was simple, like it was something he could just offer her without consequences, like the life he was living was something she could step into without it changing her.Â
Sheâd looked at him the way she always did when she was choosing her words carefully, hands wrapped around his like she needed him to stay long enough to hear her.Â
"Leon... I canât do that.â
Heâd wanted to argue, almost had, but he knew she was right.Â
He didnât realize heâd moved closer until his hand was already at her back again, settling there like it belonged. His thumb brushed lightly against the fabric at her side, a slow, absent motion that didnât need attention drawn to it.Â
âI wonât be gone long,â he said, the words automatic, practiced.Â
Safer that way.Â
He felt her shift closer to him, her hand tightening around him as she looked up, searching his face like she was trying to decide if she believed him or not.Â
Leon held her gaze, steady and controlled, giving her just enough of what she needed without letting the rest slip through. That part had taken time. Learning how to leave without making it harder than it already was.Â
He exhaled slowly, his grip on her tightening just a fraction as he looked down at her.Â
âIf somethingâ"
The words stopped before they could fully form.Â
His jaw shifted, the rest of the sentence dissolving somewhere behind his teeth as he shook his head once, subtly, like he could erase it before she noticed.Â
âJust⊠call me if you need anything,â he finished instead. âIâll call you when I land," he added, quieter.Â
She softened at that, a small breath leaving her as she shook her head just slightly. âI know you will⊠itâll be okay, Leon. Iâll be okay. Okay? JustâŠcome home in one piece."
He watched her as she said it, really watched her, like he was trying to catch whatever she wasnât letting show. Sheâd gotten better at this over time, better at smoothing it over, at hiding the worry behind something steadier, something meant more for him than for herself. The fidgeting was still there, the way her fingers twisted at her ring, the small tells heâd learned to read without thinking, but her voice stayed even, calm in a way that didnât quite match.Â
It should have reassured him. But it didnât.
If anything, it made something in his chest pull tighter, knowing she was doing this for him, holding herself together so he wouldn't have to carry it with him when he left.Â
Leonâs jaw shifted slightly as he stepped closer, his hand finding hers again, stilling the motion of her fingers as his thumb brushed over the band again. âHey,â he said, quieter now, not correcting her, not arguing. Because the truth was he knew she would be okay.Â
âLove you," he said, the words low as he hovered just inches from her face. âDistance wonât change that.â
He leaned down, pressing a slow, steady kiss to her lips, his hand tightening around hers as he pulled her gently against his chest. His suitcase sat forgotten just a foot away, abandoned in the middle of the terminal like the rest of the world had been put on pause. For now, he let himself stay here, let himself take what he could from the moment while it was still his to have, memorizing the feel of other lips against his like it might be weeks before he got it again.Â
When she pulled back slightly, her expression had softened, the tension easing from her face in a way that almost made it look like none of this was real, like she wasnât about to watch him walk away. Like she already knew heâd come back.Â
âI love you too, stud,â she said with a small smile, her hand settling against his chest as her fingers moved absently over the fabric of his shirt.Â
Leon let out a quiet breath at that, his hand covering hers where it rested against him, holding it there for a second longer than needed.Â
âYou missed a spot,â she said suddenly, reaching up without warning.Â
Leon blinked as her finger brushed just under his jaw, thumb swiping lightly like she was fixing something only she could see. He stilled for it, letting her adjust him like it was the most natural thing in the world.Â
âThere,â she murmured, satisfied.Â
He huffed a quiet breath, the corner of his mouth lifting. âYou gonna start checking me over every time I leave now?â
"Someone has to make sure you look presentable.âÂ
He shook his head, but the small smile stayed.Â
When the woman over the intercom called his flight to Spain, the sound cut through the moment like it didn't belong there. Her brows pulled together instantly, her hand returning to his chest, gripping him a little tighter like she could hold him there just by wanting it hard enough.Â
This wasnât like his first day. He couldn't make that mistake again; he couldn't afford it.Â
Leon glanced over his shoulder toward the gate, watching as the doors slid open and the flight attendant stepped out, already preparing to board. For a second, he just looked at it, like he could delay it by not moving.Â
Then his attention shifted back to her.Â
She was already watching him, studying his face the way she always did right before he left, like she was trying to read something he wasnât saying; the worry had slipped back in, quiet but impossible to miss.Â
Leon didn't say anything. Instead, he took her hand and brought it to his lips, closing whatever space had formed between them. He kissed her this time with more weight, his hands coming up to frame her face as he pulled her into him, like he could make it last longer if he just held on hard enough.Â
He couldn'tÂ
When he pulled back, his thumb brushed gently beneath her eye, catching the tear that had managed to escape despite everything sheâd tried to hold together.Â
It was always like this. No matter how many times he left. No matter how much they told themselves it would get easier.Â
His hand lingered against her cheek for a moment as he exhaled quietly, and then he said the same thing he always did, the words familiar, almost practiced.Â
âYouâre stuck with me, remember?â
She let out a small, breathy laugh, even as her eyes welled again, lifting her hands to wipe them away before they could fall. âYeahâŠâ she said softly, the smile still there even if it trembled a little. âI remember.â
Leon nodded once, like that settled it, like that made it easier, before leaning down to press a quick kiss to her forehead. It lingered just a second longer... Then he stepped back.Â
He grabbed his bags, the weight of them nothing compared to what he was leaving behind, and turned toward the gate before he gave himself the chance to hesitate.Â
He didn't look back right away.Â
Not this time.Â
2012
Heâd gotten the call a few hours ago, an outbreak in Tall oaks, bad enough that they needed him there immediately. No timeline, no estimate, nothing to anchor it. Just go.Â
That alone had almost been enough to make him say no.Â
It had been happening more often lately, that hesitation sitting heavier in his chest than it ever used to, pulling him back right at the edge of decision. Especially now. Especially with how things had been at home.Â
Leon set his bag down by the door, the sound quieter than it should've been, like even that felt too loud in the space they were in. His eyes drifted across the room, landing on her where she sat on the couch, facing away from him, a small pile of freshly washed baby clothes to her left and a neatly folded stack to her right.Â
She didnât look back at him and just kept folding.Â
He watched her for a moment longer than he meant to, taking in the way she moved, slower now, more careful, the weight of the last seven months settling into everything she did. She sat for most things these days, and he couldn't blame her. With only a month left before their daughter arrived, he could only imagine the strain on her back, the constant ache she never complained about as much as she probably could have.Â
It wasnât always like this.Â
There had been days, more than he could count, where heâd come up behind her without a word, sliding his hands around her middle just to take some of the weight off, lifting gently until he felt her relax against him. She'd always let out that quiet breath, the one she always held after a long day, her head tipping back against his shoulder while he stayed there, holding her up while she finished whatever sheâd been doing.Â
Other times it was simpler.Â
A passing comment about something she wanted, something small, and he was already out the door before she could tell him she didnât actually need it, coming back with whatever it was in hand like it had been the easiest thing in the world. Like taking care of her wasnât something he had to think about.Â
Because it wasnât. It had become instinct, all of it had.Â
Watching her change, watching her body shift and grow to carry something that was theirs⊠it had done something to him, something quiet but permanent. There was a new version of her in front of him now, softer in some ways and stronger in others, and he found himself drawn to it just as much as he had been to every version of her before.Â
Maybe more.Â
Still, he could see it now⊠the way she pressed the fabric a little too firmly when she folded it, in the way each piece was set down with just a bit more force than necessary.Â
She was upset.Â
Hell, so was he.
When theyâd told him the president's life was in danger, it hadn't even felt like a choice. Obligation came first. It always has. This was what he knewâwhat heâd been shaped into over years of doing the same thing over and over again until it was second nature. There wasn't really a version of him that walked away from something like that.Â
But there wasnât really a version of him that had this before, either. Her. A home. A child on the way.Â
The thought of it has shifted something in him, deep and quiet, changing the way he looked at everything whether he wanted it to or not.Â
He moved toward her, slowly, like he was approaching something fragile, his hands settling gently on her shoulders as his thumbs pressed into the tight muscles there, working small, careful circles into the tension he could feel without even trying.Â
She didn't stop, didnât lean back into him. Didn't even pause for a second.Â
She just kept folding, picking up each tiny piece one by one, smoothing it out, and stacking it with the others, like if she kept her hands busy enough, she wouldnât have to acknowledge anything else.Â
He'd offered to help earlier, more than once, but sheâd shut that down immediately. Something about him not folding them right, about how they wouldn't fit in the drawers if he tried. Normally, he wouldâve pushed back, teased her a little, and made a joke out of it.Â
Tonight, he let her have it.Â
His hands slowed slightly against her shoulder, thumbs pressing just a little deeper before easing off again, his gaze dropping to the small clothes in her lap. They looked impossibly small. Too small. It still hadnât quite clicked for him, not fully. Not until moments like this, when it was right in front of him.Â
A quiet breath left him as his hands stilled for a moment, resting there like he didn't want to let go just yet. âYouâre gonna run out of things to fold at this rate,â he said finally, his voice low, softer than usual, like he was testing the space between them instead of filling it.Â
She didnât answer right away. Just picked up another onesie, smoothing it out a little harsher than necessary before folding it with practiced precision.Â
âThen iâll unfold them and do it again,â she said, not looking up.Â
Leon huffed quietly under his breath, something almost like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite everything. Despite him having to go again. So he moved around the couch instead, stepping over a laundry basket into her space until he lowered himself in front of her, his back brushing the glass coffee table in the middle of the floor.Â
He crouched there, one knee pressing into the floor, close enough that she couldn't keep pretending he wasnât there anymore.Â
âHey,â he said softly, his hand coming up to hers still mid-fold, the small piece of fabric caught between her fingers as he gently pulled it from her grip and set it aside. âLook at me.â
She didnât at first. Her jaw tightened, eyes fixed stubbornly on the pile beside her, like if she ignored him long enough, he might disappear back to the door, back to the version of the night where none of this was happening.Â
âHey,â he repeated, quieter now, his hands sliding up her thighs, his head moving into her line of sight so that she couldn't avoid him anymore.Â
Her eyes met his.Â
And there it was. Everything sheâd been holding in.Â
Leon's expression softened instantly, something in his chest pulling tight as one hand moved from her thigh, settling instead at her stomach, his palm flattening gently over the curve of it like he was trying to understand something he still hadn't fully caught up to.
âYouâre gonna wear yourself out,â he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of her stretched-out shirt, the words âcoming soonâ cheesily printed out over where her stomach goes.Â
She let out a breath that sounded more like it had been forced out of her, her hands finally going still in her lap. âIâm already tired, Leon,â she said, her voice wavering just enough to give her away. âThatâs not the problem.â
His gaze flicked up to hers again. He knew. Of course he knew.Â
âYou said you wouldnât go,â she continued, the words coming a little faster now, like theyâd been sitting there waiting. âYou said you were going to stay. That you were done for a while. That you were going to be here.â
Each word landed heavier than the last.Â
Leon swallowed, his hand stilling where it rested against her, his fingers pressing just slightly like he needed something to hold onto. âI know,â he said quietly.Â
âNo, you donât,â she snapped, her voice breaking as she shook her head, her hands finally pulling away from her lap just to gesture helplessly in front of her. âYou don't because if you did, you wouldn't be standing here with a bag by the door like this is just another job.â
âItâs not just another job,â he said, more firmly now, even if his voice stayed low. "It's Ashleyâs dad. I donât get toâ"
âAnd what about us?â she cut in, her eyes glossing over as she leaned forward slightly, her hands hovering over her stomach like she didnât know where to put them. âWhat about her?â
The room went quiet.
Leon's gaze dropped instantly, drawn to where her hands rested, where his own still hovered just beneath them.Â
Like the question had weight. Like it mattered more than anything else sheâd said.Â
âSheâs coming in a month,â she said, softer now, but somehow worse. âA month, Leon. What if you're not here? What if something happens and youâre not here? What if I have toâ"
Her voice cracked, cutting herself off as she looked away, her hand coming up to press against her mouth like she could stop the rest of it from spilling out.Â
And thatâ That killed him. Not the words. Not the fear. Heâd heard fear before. Seen it. Lived in it.Â
But this?
This was hers.Â
After everything theyâd been through to get here.Â
Getting her out of Raccoon city when the world had already started to fall apart around them. Finding his way back to her after spain, after ashley, after everything that mission had taken out of him. The years that followed, being pulled in and out of operations with chris, disappearing for weeks at a time, or something longer. Every time he left her behind with nothing but a phone call and a promise he couldn't always explain.Â
And sheâs stayed.Â
Sheâd been there every time he came back, every time he walked through the door like he hadn't just crawled out of hell again, grounding him in something real when everything else felt like it was slipping.
He thought about her constantly when he was gone. More than he should have. Enough that it got hard to carry.Â
There had been too many nights where heâd sat alone in some dim hotel room or safehouse, the silence louder than anything heâd faced in the field, and heâd reached for a drink just to take the edge off it. Just to quiet the part of his mind that kept picturing her here, waiting, worrying, living a life that kept getting interrupted by his.Â
He hated himself for it. Still did.Â
Because it never actually helped. Especially when Chris started to notice.Â
It just made the distance feel worse when it wore off.Â
But this, sitting here now, watching her try to hold it together like this, knowing exactly what it felt like on the other side of it. He couldn't let her carry that. Not like this. Not now.Â
Leon didnât let it go any further.Â
His hand moved fully over her stomach again, covering hers this time, grounding it, steadying it, his thumb brushing slow, careful strokes like he was trying to calm something he couldn't fix.Â
âIâll be here,â he said, quieter now.Â
She let out a small, broken laugh, shaking her head. âYou canât promise that.â
He didnât answer right away. Because she was right.Â
Instead, his hand shifted slightlyâand then he stilled.Â
Not in confusion, but recognition.
His fingers pressed just a little more against her stomach, his gaze dropping as he felt it again, that familiar movement beneath his palm, small but strong enough to catch his full attention every time.Â
â...Hey,â he murmured, softer now, like he always did when this happened, his thumb brushing lightly over the same spot like he could follow it.Â
She felt it too, her hand settling over his, guiding it without thinking, her breathing still uneven from everything that had just spilled out of her. âShe hasnât done that all day,â she said quietly, The edge of her voice dulled by something else entirely.Â
Leon huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something shifting in his expression as he kept his hand there, like he didnât want to miss it this time.Â
Like he never did.Â
His thumb moved again, tracing a small path over her stomach as his head dipped slightly, his voice low and almost absentminded as he spoke, more to her than anything else. âShe always does this when im here.â
The tension in the room changed.Â
Not gone, but... Different.Â
Leon lifted his head, leaning forward slightly, his forehead coming to rest against her, his hand still spread protectively over her stomach, holding both of them there in that small space between everything else.Â
âIâm coming back,â he said, low and steady, not rushed. âIâm not missing this.â
Her breath hitched again, but this time she didnât pull away. Didnât argue.Â
She just leaned into him, her hands finally settling against him instead of fighting him, gripping his shirt like she needed something solid to hold onto.Â
âYou better not," she whispered.
Something soft broke through the weight of everything as Leon huffed, pulling back just enough to look at her, his thumb brushing once more over her stomach.Â
âYouâre stuck with me,â he said, like so many times before, the faintest hint of that familiar tone slipping back in, quieter now, but still there. âBoth of you.âÂ
2028
This goodbye was different from the rest.Â
It wasn't the kind at the door, a kiss on the cheek with a bag in his hand as he said heâd be back soon. It wasnât an airport lobby, his hand wrapped around hers while she stressed over the flight. It wasnât even the kind where he got to hold his family a little longer before turning, taking a job he already knew heâd end up hating.Â
No.Â
This time it was different.Â
"Sherry?âÂ
Victorâs office felt cold. Too cold. Cold enough that Leonâs back straightened from where he leaned over the desk, the computer screen still lit with the reality he hadn't figured out how to process yet.Â
"Yeah, Leon?âÂ
He took a steady breath, trying to pull his eyes away from the screen long enough to keep himself together. âCan youâ" he paused, shutting the computer off before pushing away from the desk completely, his hand dragging briefly across his face as he closed his eyes for a second. âCan you patch me through to my wife?â
There was a pause on the other end. A long one. Then Sherry let out a quiet, sympathetic sigh. âOf course.âÂ
He heard the line connect. One ring. Two. by the third, he was sure he couldn't breathe, the thought of her not answering settling heavy in his chest in a way that felt worse than anything heâd just seen on that screen.Â
Thenâ
âDaddy!âÂ
His ears were flooded instantly with the overlapping voices of his daughters, Casey first, loud and excited, and Ellie right behind her, already trying to take over the call. He winced, leaning back against the desk as he crossed his arms, his head tipping slightly as the noise hit him all at once.Â
Fifteen years ago, he told his wife heâd come back. That he wouldn't miss this.Â
Now, listening to them fight over who got to talk first, his shoulders felt heavy with the sudden realization that he may not be able to keep his promise this time around.Â
âI wanna talk to him first, Casey!âÂ
"No, Ellie. He called mom not you.â
"Girlsâ" he tried, but it didnât land.Â
âGirls.â
Casey must have finally gotten control of the phone, because the noise shifted, her voice coming through clearer this time. âHey Dad. What ya up to?â
Hearing her, both of them, did something to him he hadn't been ready for. It filled something in his chest and twisted it at the same time, the normalcy of it almost painful in contrast to everything else.Â
They sounded calm. Happy.Â
âSweetheart⊠where's your mom?"
There was a brief shuffle on the other end and muffled voices as she turned away from the phone, probably shoving Ellie back just enough to get a word in.Â
"Uhâoutside, I think. Want me to grab her?â
âPlease.â
For a second, just a second, the sound of their voices eased the weight pressing down on him. He listened to them bicker in the background, the familiar rhythm of it pulling at something deep in his chest, memories stacking over each other faster than he could keep up with.
Casey.Â
The first time he held her, how something in him had shifted instantly, like that was it. That was the moment he was supposed to walk away from all of this. Be done. Be present. Be home.Â
Ellie.Â
And then her, years later, smaller, louder, just as stubborn⊠and somehow that had been the moment he stepped back into it, convincing himself they still needed him out there.Â
Why?Â
The question hit harder than it ever had.Â
Why couldn't he let go?Â
Years of this, of leaving and coming back, of telling himself it was worth it and now it all felt like it was crashing down on top of him at once. The guilt.Â
Casey must have handed the phone off again, because the sound shifted, smaller this time.Â
âHi daddy.â
It made him smile.
âHi, baby girl," he said, his voice tightening just slightly as he forced it to stay steady, like this was just another call, another day.Â
âWhen are you coming home?â her voice was so small. Softer. Too innocent for the weight behind the question.Â
He paused. Just for a second. He didnât want to lie to his little girl. But he had to.Â
"Soon, baby," He said gently. âI just need to talk to Mommy first, okay? Is your sister getting her?â
There was a quiet pause, like she was looking around, checking, âMmmâŠ. yeah.âÂ
He heard the front door open and then soon after her voice filtered through. âElousie anne give me my phone.âÂ
That made him smile again; despite everything, the sound of her moving through the house grounded him in a way nothing else could. He could hear her footsteps across the hardwood, the soft shuffle of movement, a bit of protesting and a bit of shooing as she directed the girls away.Â
âPlease, Ellie, thank youâheyâhey, hon, sorry, I was outside watering the plants. Everything okay?â
He didn't answer right away. He just listened.Â
The faint creak of the front porch door as it shut behind her. The hollow shift in the sound of her voice as she stepped outside, and the house falling away from the line, replaced by something quieter. Open. He could almost hear the wind brushing past the receiver, the distant hum of cicadas and the soft scrape of her shoe against the wood as she settled in the same spot she always did when she needed a second to herself.Â
He could see it.Â
The porch light was casting that warm glow across the railing. The hanging plants sway just slightly, the ones she insisted on keeping alive even when he wasnât there to help her water them. Heâs killed every plant heâs ever had, but at least he had her. Then the chair she always sat in, angled just enough to face the yard.Â
He could picture her standing there now.Â
Phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. One hand resting absentmindedly against her hip, the other probably still damp from the hose.
Waiting.Â
â...Leon?â
Her voice softened as she said his name, just enough that it pulled him back.Â
âYeah,â he breathed, quieter now, like the air had been knocked out of him somewhere between hearing her and realizing how far away he actually was. âYeah, iâm here.âÂ
There was a pause on the other end. Not long. Just enough.Â
âYou donât call like this unless somethingâs wrong," she said, and there it wasâthat steadiness. Not panicked. Not accusing. JustâŠknowing.Â
God.Â
After all these years, she still knew.Â
Leon closed his eyes, his head tipping back slightly against the wall behind him, the weight of it pressing in all at once. âYeah,â he admitted, voice rougher now. âSomethingâs wrong.â
The line went quiet again.Â
He could hear her shift on the porch, the wood creaking beneath her as she sat down, like she needed something solid under her before he said whatever he was about to say.Â
"...Are you safe?â she asked finally.Â
Leon let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but there was nothing light about it, his hand bracing harder against the desk behind. âIâm⊠still here.â he said, the words careful, like he was choosing them for her and not for himself.Â
That wasnât what she asked. And she knew it.Â
âLeon.â
Just his name⊠but it carried everything.Â
He swallowed, his jaw tightening as he stared at the ceiling for a second, like maybe if he looked anywhere else, he wouldn't have to say it out loud. His free hand dragged slowly down his face, pausing at his mouth as he exhaled through it, steadying himself before he spoke again.Â
âIâve been getting worse,â he admitted, quieter now, the truth settling into his voice in a way that made it impossible to take back. âLast couple of days⊠I thought it was just stress, or bad air, I donât knowâŠ" he shook his head slightly, eyes closing again as the memories lined up clearly now. âItâs not.â
The coughing.Â
The blood.Â
He paused, his gaze flicking briefly to his arm, to the faint dark illness beneath his skin that he could feel even if he couldn't fully see it.Â
âI know what it is now.â
The silence on her end sharpened.Â
âYouâre saying that like youâve seen it before,â she said, something tight in her tone, something already bracing for impact.Â
Leon swallowed, his grip tightening slightly as he leaned his weight back into the desk. âI have, it'sâ" he paused, contemplating giving too much away. âItâs the T-virus," he said simply. âAnd I know what happens when it takes hold.â
The words didn't shake. He didnât let them.Â
âIâm not going to sit here and wait for it to take me,â he added more firmly, like saying it out loud made it real, made something he could push back against. âIâm going to figure this out. There's something hereâdata, labs, whatever the hell they want from GraceâI just have to find it.â
The porch creaked again.Â
âLeonâŠâ She breathed, and this time there was no mistaking it. The steadiness sheâd been holding onto was slipping, not all at once, but enough that he could hear it.Â
âIf you know what this does to peopleâ"
He didnât answer. Because he did, of course he knew. But that didnât matter.Â
âIâm not them,â he said instead, stubborn in a way that hadnât left him in all these years. âIâve walked out of worse.â
âYouâve walked out of lucky," she corrected, her voice breaking just slightly now, the truth pushing through whether she wanted it to or not. âYou donât get to pretend this is the same thing.â
Leon's jaw clenched, his eyes finding the ceiling again, like he could will himself into believing what he was saying. âIâm coming home,â he said, more firmly now. âYou hear me? Iâm not done yet.âÂ
He was met with silence, heavy and unsure.Â
And thenâ
âYou donât know that.â
It was quiet. Too quiet, and Leon's hand tightened against the desk, his fingers curling as he pushed off it, pacing once across the room before stopping again. Like he needed movement to keep himself grounded. âI do,â he said, almost immediately. âIâm not leaving you like this. Iâm not leaving them like this.â
Her breath hitched on the other side of the line. He heard it. Felt it, and it hit him harder than anything sheâd said so far.Â
âYou think I donât know what that looks like?â she asked, her voice thinner now, the control finally cracking in a way she couldn't hold back anymore. âYou think I havenât seen what that virus does? What it turns people into?â
The porch creaked faster this time, like sheâd started pacing, the same way she always did when she couldn't sit still with something.Â
âYou got me out of raccoon city,â she continued, her voice shaking now, emotion bleeding through every word. âI watched what that place did to people, Leon. I watched what it almost did to you. Donât stand there and tell me youâre just going to walk it off.âÂ
Leon's chest tightened, something sharp cutting through him as he stopped pacing, his hand coming up to rest against the back of his neck, gripping it like it might keep him steady. âIâm not saying that,â he said, still holding the line. âIâm saying iâm not giving up.â
âYou donât get to decide that!â she snapped, and this time it didnât hold together, the control finally splintering in a way she couldn't pull back from. âYou donât get to just fight this because you want to. Thatâs not how it worksââ
Her voice just⊠cracked open.
Leon froze where he stood, the shift in her hitting him harder than anything sheâd said so far, his hand tightening at his side as the sound of it carried through the line.
There was a shuffle on her end, hurried and uneven, like sheâd turned too fast or lost her footing for a second before catching herself. The porch creaked again, louder this time, and then softer as she sank back down into the chair, the movement small but heavy enough that he could picture it perfectly.
And thenâ
She cried. Quiet, uneven sobs that she was trying to swallow down and failing, her breath catching in between them like she didnât want him to hear it but couldnât stop it either.
It broke him.
Leonâs chest tightened so hard it almost hurt, his hand coming up to press against it like that might steady something that was already slipping out of his control. He didnât move. Didnât speak. He just listened, the sound of her trying to hold herself together on the other end of the line cutting deeper than anything else could have.
âYou have to come home,â she said finally, the words barely holding together between breaths. âYou always come home.â
His jaw clenched.
âYou always do,â she repeated, quieter now, like if she said it enough times it would make it true again, like it had every other time.
Leon closed his eyes, his head dipping forward slightly as he fought to keep his own voice steady, but for a second, just a second, he couldnât find it.
âI canât lose you,â she whispered, and that one⊠that one didnât sound like a fight anymore. It sounded like something she already knew the answer to and didnât want to say out loud.
âThe girls need you,â she added, her voice shaking again as another quiet sob slipped through despite her trying to stop it. âThey need you, Leon. I need you.â
God.
He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he dragged a hand down his face again, trying to pull himself back together because if he lost it now, thereâd be nothing left to give her.
âIâm coming home,â he said, quieter now, but not weakerâjust⊠heavier. âYou hear me? Iâm not leaving you like that.â
The words didnât land the same anymore.
They didnât fix it.
They just hung there, something he needed to say even if neither of them fully believed it.
He took a step forward, then stopped, his hand bracing against the desk again as he tried to ground himself in something solid, something real. âIâm gonna figure this out,â he added, more firmly this time, like saying it again might give it weight. âIâve handled worse than this. I just need time.â
A quiet, broken breath left her on the other end, and he could hear itâthe way she wanted to argue, wanted to push back, but didnât have anything left to fight him with.
Because she knew.
That was the worst part.
âI know youâre gonna try,â she said finally, softer now, her voice worn thin from the effort of holding it together. âI know you are.â
A pause. Long.
Heavy.
âBut you donât know if you can win this.â
Leon didnât answer right away. Because she was right
And for the first time since the call started, he let that sit between them, the truth of it settling into the silence without either of them trying to fix it.
ââŠNo,â he admitted quietly.
Another quiet sob slipped through the line.
And stillâ
He held onto what he had left.
âBut youâre still stuck with me,â he said, softer now, something familiar threading through his voice despite everything, something that had always been there between them. âUntil I die.â
There was a small huff of air through the line, but it didnât feel like the rest of the conversation. It felt full. Too full of everything they werenât saying, everything they didnât have time to say⊠everything that sat between then and now with no clean way through it.
On the other end, her breathing was still uneven, quieter now but not steady, the kind that came after youâd already cried and were trying to convince yourself you were okay when you werenât. Leon stayed where he was, his fingers digging into his earpiece like letting go of it would take her with it, his other hand braced against the desk just to keep himself grounded in something.
It was right then he understood why this goodbye felt different.
Because it wasnât one.
Not really.
He wouldnât let it be.
Not when he could still fight. Not when there was still something left to hold onto. Not when she was on the other end of the line, breathing, listening, still there.
âI didnât call to say goodbye,â he said finally, his voice low, quieter than before, like the fight in him had settled into something steadier. Something more honest.
A small, broken sound left her on the other end, not quite a laugh, not quite anything else.
âI know,â she whispered.
He swallowed, his throat tight as his gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers curling slightly against the edge of the desk. âI justâŠâ He paused, exhaling slowly, trying to find the words that didnât make this sound like what it was.
âI needed to hear you,â he said, softer now. âAll of you.â
Because that mattered more than anything.
He let the words sit there, not rushing to fill the space after them, letting them carry their weight without trying to soften them into something easier.
âThey sounded good,â he added after a moment, quieter now, something fragile threading through his voice. âThe girls.â
A pause.
âTheyâre okay,â she said, her voice still thin, still trying to hold together. âTheyâre waiting for you.â
That one landed harder than the rest.
Leon closed his eyes for a second, letting it settle somewhere deep in his chest, somewhere he knew heâd carry no matter what happened next.
They would see him again.
He had to believe that.
âTell themâŠâ he started, then stopped, his jaw tightening slightly as he shook his head. âTell them Iâll call again,â he corrected quietly, choosing the version of the truth he could live with. âSoon, and that I love them.â
She didnât argue.
Didnât correct him.
She just let it sit.
He wasnât sure what that meantâif she was trying to come to terms with it, or if she was holding onto his determination the same way he wasâbut she didnât take it away from him.
âI will,â she said.
The porch creaked again, softer this time, like sheâd leaned back into the chair, like she was staring out into the yard the way she always did when she needed to think. He could picture it so clearly it almost felt like he was there, standing just behind her, his hand resting at her shoulder the way it always had.
He wished he was.
ââŠLeon?â
âYeah.â
âIâm right here," she said softly.Â
Not "I love you." Not âcome home. â Just that. Simple...and somehow that hurt more than anything else she could've said.Â
Leon let out a slow breath. âI know," he said quietly.Â
The silence that followed wasnât empty. It just lingered. Neither of them moved to end it, neither of them willing to be the one to let go first, like staying on the line just a second longer meant something. Like it could hold this movement in place a little longer before everything else caught up to it.Â
âCall me,â she said after a while, softer now.Â
âI will.âÂ
Another pause.Â
â...Okay.â
The line stayed open for just a second longer. Thenâ
A quiet click.Â
Leon stayed like that for a moment, standing in the silence left behind by the receiver, the absence of her voice settling heavier than anything else in the room. For a second, it threatened to hollow him out completely, but then something else followed it, slower, steadier. Determination. It crept in quietly, filling the space sheâd just left behind, grounding him in a way nothing else could.
He had to push through.
Had to keep going.
For Sherry. For Grace. For Casey and Ellie.
For his home.
For her.
â
When he set his bags down on the front porch and knocked softly against the door, it felt like something had finally lifted off his shoulders.
Not all of it.
But enough.
After the dose of the cure, he felt⊠different. Clearer. Lighter. Better than he had in longer than he could remember. Coming that close to losing everything had forced something into place inside him, something he wasnât willing to let slip again.
He wasnât going to almost lose this.
Not ever again.
The door barely had time to open before his two girls came barreling into him, all momentum and noise, hitting him full force like they always did. He laughedâreal, unguardedâas he caught them, lifting both of them halfway off the ground, steadying himself as he stepped back into the house, swaying them slightly like he had when they were smaller.
This.
This was what it meant to live.
All those years heâd spent chasing that feeling, through work, through missions, through places that never felt like home, thinking maybe the next one would give him something he was missing.
And it had been here the whole time.
Standing right in front of him.
His wife stood a few steps back, arms crossed, dressed in casual sweats and a loose tank that hung at her hips, watching them with that same quiet smile she always had when he came home. There was something softer in it now, something that hadnât been there before. Something that looked a lot like relief.
The second he saw her, everything else faded.
He pressed a quick kiss to each of the girlsâ heads before setting them down, barely giving them time to protest before he was already moving, closing the distance between him and her in two strides.
He didnât stop.
His hands found her waist, pulling her into him as he kissed her, firm and grounding, like he needed to make sure she was really there. His hands moved to her face, holding her there as she melted into him without hesitation, whatever had been left from that phone call, from that night, dissolving into something warmer. Something real.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers for just a second before he drew her in again, softer this time, his arms wrapping around her as he bent slightly, pressing his face into the crook of her neck like he could anchor himself there.
She held him just as tightly, her arms coming up around his neck as she pressed closer, like she wasnât willing to let him go just yet.
Behind them, the girls groaned loudly, already booing the display, their voices echoing through the house and pulling a quiet laugh from him despite everything.
And in that moment, right there, in the middle of it all, he knew.
He was done with goodbyes.
âI guess I really am stuck with you,â she murmured into his coat, her voice softer now, her grip tightening just slightly.
The breath that left him was shaky, like the last of everything heâd been holding onto finally slipped free.
âYeah,â he said, pulling back just enough to look at her, his hands coming up to frame her face again, his thumbs brushing lightly over her skin.
Jason Todd's poll, but it's the Joker actually live-streaming the whole thing and asking actual people if he should kill him or not.
Now imagine Batman, weeks later, staring at the recovered footage. Realizing Jason didnât die because he was too late. He died because the world said he should.
Bruce tracks down every single IP address. Every voter. Every username. Every person who clicked âyes.â
WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, angst, use of guns & weapons, military operations, death, shootings, interrogation tactics, etc.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
Sitting in a guarded building halfway across the base, your ears twitch at every little sound from beyond the door.Â
Alex is hereâso are three other men who fiddle with the guns in their hands and try not to stare at your deathly still face. You haven't spoken a word, and your mother, who sits with a medic stitching up her arm, calls out quickly.Â
âI-I donât even remember what he looked like,â she breathes and Alex has a hand on her shoulder, squeezing while his blue eyes dart back from the door to her tear-stained face.
âItâs alright, Maâam. We have cameras all around here. No worries.â He smiles tightly. âLetâs just focus on gettinâ you stitched up.â
The words are so similar to what Kyle would say to you that your hands clench under your chin, your body leaning forward in the chair. Your elbows dig into your knees harshly, and your unmarred leg quivers to jump up and down, restrained only by your iron will.
It was supposed to be me.
Your tongue pokes out to lick your lips, a slow breath pushed out on tight lungs.
It was supposed to be me.
Lowe is deadâLaswell had been brief in her explanation. Shot between the eyes. Your mother's attack had been a distraction, and while people had been rushed to her location, someone had gone in and killed Joey just as youâd seen someone do in the execution videos.Â
Heâd warned you, too.Â
âIâm not someone's pawn,â you mutter under your breath, only heard to your ears. It was getting harder and harder to deny that every win on your part had been a set-up. Laswell had told you that you knew the answer already, you just couldnât admit it to yourselfâwhat did that mean? All you had were fractions; moments that were slowly piecing together.
âShooter coming in from the East,â Alexâs radio buzzes, just as all the others do. From what youâd learned when Kate had pushed you in here, there were a handful of hired guns that had broken past the checkpoint only minutes after Gazâs plane had taken off.Â
âHow are there so many threads,â you grunt. âWhy is there so much going on right when Iâm at the edge?âÂ
At every instance, all progress was halted.
âBar the door. You,â Alex motions to one of the soldiers. âWith me.â All in the room are more tense than lions. Alex and the rest rush to the door frame, leaning against it as the third man barricades the door with a chair under the handle.Â
âItâs like Iâm beingâŠwatched,â you whisper, brows furrowing. âEven down to when the reporters had shown up at the mansion right after I found the journalââ
âSweetheart,â your mother calls quickly, worriedly. âGet away from the door.âÂ
You ignore her, your face grim and your pulse echoing.Â
âEx-military being used as mercenaries. Leverage.â Your eyelids flutter. âLowe said Samson had girls; a family. Could that have been something to use against him? Is it being used against other people now? A trail like this leaves behind bloodâwas Samson killed to try and cover it when it went South?â
And again, the biting question even you turn up blank onâ
âWhy was he told he had to kill me? Why was he told he had to kill anyone?â
Forget drugs; weapons. If you had to guessâŠYaromir Osipov and Mala Kham werenât even involved in this as much as everyone else believed. A setup? A lie?
By who? For what?
âWhat does this mean,â you growl, hands moving up to grasp the back of your head, your skull tilting forward. âNone of this is adding up.â
Gunshots ring in the hallways outside of this room.Â
Only desperate men and women would storm a military base knowing that nothing they did would assure their victory. It was stupid. Reckless.Â
It was utter fear of something far larger than themselves.
This was never about your fatherâs smuggling business. This ran deeper than you could have ever anticipated.Â
Your motherâs voice calls your name harshly. âOver here. Now!â
âYou need to stop lying to me,â you stand and hear your cane clatter to the floor. Your leg shakes, almost sending you over when you press your full weight on it, but nothing compares to the fire inside of your breast.
You walk over to your mother and stare into her eyes.
She startles, blinking quickly; taken aback.Â
âW-what are you talking about?â
âYou know what dad did, donât say you didnât.â Your face burnsâlungs fast-paced. Alex calls to you from behind, but even the medic who pauses at your sudden hostility doesnât interfere. âYou can lie to everyone else, but you canât do that to me. You fucking knew.â
âYou watch your language,â she snaps, eyes going enraged. âWhat are you even saying to me? Your father? What does he have to do with this?â
Your hands jerk, taking the woman by the tops of her shoulders. She yelps, surprise alighting in her expression.
âWhat are youâ?!â
âTell me the truth!â You yell. âYou knew he worked in the smuggling business this entire timeâyou knew about his dealings with Yaromir and Mala before I was even born, admit it! The drugs, the weapons; his damn dock with all of his goods! Youâre not being honest with me, even three years after heâs gone.â Your face is hot with anger. âIf you didnât see the traces of it, youâre blind.â
The room is utterly silent.
Your mother opens and closes her mouth, face open to the air like sheâd seen innocent people get shot in front of herâlike sheâd had to run for her life because of someone elseâs sins.
âTell me what you knew,â you hiss, grasping her shoulders tighter. âTell me what you hid.â
âYouâre sick,â she breathes, looking around at the others. But Alex will be no help, nor the soldiers. They guard the door, eyes snapping back and forth. The medic only watches, unprepared for your outburst. âShe hasnât been feeling well lately.â
âTell me!âÂ
âSpitfire,â Alexâs yell makes your body pause, eyes narrowed in distrust as the sounds from outside get louder. Blinking out of whatever stupor youâd been in, your face freezes at the nickname, and your subconscious flashes to Kyle.Â
Stepping back quickly, you drop your motherâs arms and look away; shame settling in the lines on your forehead. But you pointedly donât apologize, only moving back quickly and moving to press the heels of your palms into your eye-sockets.
Kyle. The shootings. Lowe. Samson. Blood on your hands, blood on your hands, blood on your hands.Â
It was supposed to be me.
You take a quivering breath, spine bending forward.Â
Gunshots continue to boom, on and on, and you feel your mother's eyes on you; unwavering in her constant attention.
There isnât a single part of you that can look back.
â
You stare at the phone as it sits in your hand, your limping leg walking slowly along the tiled floor. The entire building was set on lockdownâalong with the base. This place, however, was now filled with trusted personnel; soldiers that had served for far longer than youâd just learned Joey had.Â
Only one deployment had been under his belt, but that was enough to meet Samson. It was enough to know his character.Â
Maybe everyone involved in this plot hadnât suspected the Private because there was never anything to be suspicious about.Â
Your face hadnât let up on its tension, not for a minute, but in this tiny instance of relative calmâin some devoid hallwayâyou slipped into a storage room and stopped. Taking down a deep breath, your eyes flutter as your phone illuminates cleaning supplies.Â
Tapping into your contacts, your thumb hovers over one of the only icons set there.Â
Swallowing down saliva, your fingers twitch before, without enough time to tell yourself to stop, you press harshly and move the device up to your ear.Â
Standing in the darkness, you let your eyes slip closed.Â
The ringing persists, putting you into some kind of trace the longer it goes on.
RingâŠringâŠringâŠring. Nothing.Â
You scoff, eyes opening as the phone dips down. Your hands shake over it.
âFigures.â Shrugging, your heart sinks heavily in your chest. Taking a firm step forward, your hand moves to let the device slip into your coatâs pocket before the sudden buzzing of it startles you. Head snapping down, your face blanks as you stare at the incoming call.Â
âBritâ
Only a moment passes before you take a deep breath and settle the phone back at your ear, tapping at the green button.
Thereâs a long second of silence before a soft clearing of a throat.
âSorry, Love. Was getting ready for bed.â
You forgot the nine-hour time difference. Mouth opening and closing, you ignore how your body sags at the smooth toneâthat accent. He sounded tired, and in the background, you could hear the rustle of sheets. You had a sneaking suspicion heâd, in fact, been in the bed instead of getting ready for it.Â
âI can call back later,â you mutter, already pushing off the awkwardness that perpetuates the line. Hell, he didnât even know about what happened when he left. Do you tell him?
âWoah, woah, hey.â A small chuckle. âNo, itâs okay. Good to hear from you.â
â...Yeah,â you grunt, feet shifting.Â
Another long silence permeates like a lingering curse.
â...Everything going alright, then?â Is the slow and even question; a bead of hesitation. He wasnât sure how to speak to you like this, and, neither did you. âNo messes I need to clean up?â
Your body stills.
âOnly the ones you make yourself,â you sigh, huffing. A slow infection of guilt hits you. âI donât know why I calledâŠthis is stupid.â
Kyle makes a noise over the line. âYou want me to hang up?â
âNo,â you whisper after a second, head moving along the walls to look at the various items slowly. âIâŠI just donât know. Things are weird.â
Feet shifting, your eyes lightly flinch at the pull of your stitches. While youâd been feeling slightly better physically, meaning the vomiting and the lightheadedness, there were still aftershocks. You were well enough to grab your own food now, and when you made your own coffee, you werenât shocked at all to find it tasting better immediately.Â
âYou?â Your voice asks.Â
âNah,â Kyle mutters. âHave nothing to do besides talkâbeen running around ever since I got here. Good to see the boys, though.â
âIâm sure theyâre thrilled to have you back.â
âAs thrilled as theyâre able to get, eh?â Your lips quirk at that. The near-kiss in your room strikes you in the stomach like a knife. âBut it's been nice, minus the wholeâŠbeing away part. Still donât like how far away I am from you.âÂ
âCareful,â you breathe. âStarting to sound like you like me over there.â
âShit,â he laughs, and you fight the softness that washes your face at the sound. âYouâre right. Better cut it off while Iâm ahead.â
But the way his words still hold that serious edge makes your lips thin into a line. You wondered what your conversations would be about if you ever had the chance to calm down.Â
âThe talk with Lowe? Howâd it go, then?â A deep breath, trying to be casual. âBe honest with me here, Spitfire.â
Your eyes flinch a bit, your body shifting around as you tap your foot for a moment. People will look for you soonâyou have to keep this quick. Youâd just needed to hear his voice.Â
âIt was another piece I canât put together.â You end with that. âI feel like Iâm running in circles over here, Garrick.â
Sheets rustle once more, a throaty grunt before a low breath. âI said itâll all work out, yeah? You have to believe it will, Love. We have to keep pushing until it breaks.â A smirk is easily heard. âWe all know how you like breaking things, Sweetheart.âÂ
You raise a slow brow, smiling even if he canât see your expression. âYou know I like having you over a callâit means I can stop hearing your voice whenever I want.â
âYou going to hang up on me?â
âYou know, I might.â
âNah, you wouldnât,â Kyle teases. âYou called me, remember that?â
âAnd now Iâm regretting it,â your voice is low and sly; face hot.Â
Gaz chuckles, and your own mirrors before your heart slows to a steady pulse the longer this conversation moves on. Youâd called him for a reason, and, steadily, whatever this was doingâŠit was making your mind slip back into a tranquil state. Part of you wanted to sit on the floorâroll up in a blanket and talk. About anything; about everything.Â
But you really needed to see his face, too.Â
Your tongue skates over your teeth, and you hum under your breath. âIâm thinking about asking Laswell for the USB. Try that code one last time. Think sheâll give it to me?â
Kyleâs sound momentarily stops.Â
âSpitfireâŠâ
âDonât try to talk me out of it,â your voice is low. âPlease, Kyle, I just need someone on my side with this. Will Kate give me a chance to crack the USB?â
Perhaps sensing how off-kilter you are, the Brit relents with a tiny sigh and a slow response.Â
âI can call herâtry to get on her good side.âÂ
âDoes she have one?â You quirk a brow.Â
âClassified.â Chuckling, your eyes stare off, delicate in every sense of the word. Like an arachnid, you dwell in this back room waiting to be caughtâif only a few more moments to try and make your web; a small silk hammock of brown eyes and smooth words.
âThank you,â your voice whispers. âSorry for waking you up.â
âIf I didnât want to talk, I wouldnât have called back.â He huffs a few laughs, sheepishly admitting to you. âAccidentally slapped the phone to the floor, actually.â
An unexpected laugh is pushed from your lungs.
âWhy the hell would you do that?âÂ
âWasnât like I meant to, Love. Startled me.â
Your eyes roll, amusement in your tone. âStartling the SAS SergeantâI should get a medal for that.â
âNot until you get me the one you were talking about before. Still waiting for it.â
Your legs shift over the floor. âThe one with âidiotâ on the plaque?â
âThatâs the one.âÂ
Your expression goes to exasperation, but the smile doesnât leave. âWhy would you want something like that?â
âWell, youâre the one giving it to me, arenât you?â The deep tease strikes you in the throat, and you have to discreetly clear your throat so he wonât hear the heat rising to your face.Â
âCheeky,â you, dryly, state.
âI liked it.âÂ
âGo back to bed, Sergeant,â your grinning face is stuck to the doorâs face, trying to study the woodgrain in the darkness.Â
â...Yes, Maâam.â Thereâs a pause where you wait for the other to hang up, though the cut of the line is absent from both parties. Kyleâs voice smoothly comes back to grace your ears. âCall you tomorrow?â Â
âYeah, okay,â you nod, knowing he canât see you.Â
âOkayâŠtry to get some sleep tonight, Spitfire. Iâm one phone call away if you need me.â
âIââ You cut yourself off, the strange sentence being choked down in your throat like a cinder block. Eyes blinking, you partially startle at the words that nearly slipped out of you to the awaiting ear on the other side.Â
âRight,â you quickly move the phone from your ear and hang up.Â
Standing stiffly in the storage room, your blank eyes dig ahead, and with a shaky breath, you stumble forward.
Moving out into the hallway, you swiftly backtrack to your room.
â
Sitting in your room, you insert the USB into a new laptop and lick at your lips.Â
âIâm sorry aboutâŠbefore,â your mother walks over, placing a plate of food down in front of you along with your coffee cup. You blink up at her, a sheen of embarrassment layering itself like paint along your eyes. âI was just overwhelmed. It isnât an excuse, I know, butâŠI,â you pause. âI feel bad.âÂ
Your mother sighs, and her hand comes up to rest on top of your head. âI knew.â
Eyes snapping up, you freeze.Â
âI never told you about it, because I knew it would ruin how you saw him.â She breathes lowly. âYou donât get to choose who you end up loving. It happens and then it sticks until something else pries it loose. You donât have to apologize to me.â
Watching her, your fast words fumble over themselves. âBut what about the drugââ
âI only knew the surface,â she backs up, shaking her head. âI would appreciate it if we left it at that, please. Even if we had our problems, he was the love of my life; when he died, I shut it all out. I had to.â
You look away swiftly, but itâs a long time before you can answer her. You had no reason to think she was lying about this. All of it added up to you.
A kiss is pressed into your scalp. âEat up. Keep your strength.âÂ
Watching her walk out of the room, your attention is torn away by the laptop booting up, eyes darting to it.Â
Questions on questions on questions.Â
Taking up your coffee, you sip at it slowly. Setting it down, you cringe at the taste. Stifling a cough haggardly into your arm, you rub at your thigh before getting to work.
â
Kyle rubs his face, sighing deeply. âThis is all we've got?âÂ
âAnd thatâs being generous,â MacTavish mutters, sending a slow glance. âLaswell wasnât lying to youâwe have shit-all.âÂ
âHow is that even possible,â the Sergeant mutters, standing straight once again. Heâd been bent over the countless mission reports for more than an hour, all fruitless beyond thin leads to individuals connected to your fatherâs business dealings.Â
âRats are used to staying in their holes,â Ghost grumbles from the other side of the table, dark eyes shifting to where their Captain comes in from the main door to the meeting room.Â
A hand is slapped on Gazâs shoulder.Â
âGood to have you back, Sergeant.â Brown eyes glance at him, a smirk flickering Kyleâs lips.Â
âGood to be here, Sir. Letâs get this finished.â
Price nods firmly, a hard expression on his bearded face. With strong legs, he moves to the head of the table and grunts his orders.Â
âCurrent HVT is in Tula,â he utters in that gruff accent. âIt's the only lead we haveâthis isnât something we can miss.â Gloved fingers reach out to the interior blueprints of a small townhouse. âTwo teams will move interior and connect the dots. If this target is in possession of any intel involving Osipov and Kham, we need to find it. Soap, youâre with Ghost, Garrick you stick with me. Total, weâve got two teams of five involving local assistance.â
The Scot knocks forearms with his silent counterpart, and Gaz nods at the Captain in understanding. âTime frame?â
Blue eyes glance at the Sergeant. âWe have a window of thirty minutes for prep and transport. We need to move fast.â Price huffs, fixing his hands onto the collar of his combat vest. âThereâs the possibility of non-combatants on site. Check your shots.âÂ
The debrief is quick and thorough, and that night everything comes to a head.Â
Kyleâs body soon sits in the back of an armored vehicle, a night-vision rig on his head, rifle in his arms, and his body hunched forward on the seat. In the back of his pocket, his phone sitsâset to mute even if he yearned to take it up and see if youâd called him.Â
Being away made him nervous for you. Such relentless pursuersâŠbut he had to believe that the actions heâs taking here will make all the difference in the end. Keller can watch after you and your mother; he placed his faith in the Agent before, and he can do it again.Â
But there was an ever-present pressure on his chest that wonât leave. A weight. Some kind of fishing hook stuck into the back of his brain that pulls every so often, dragging him back to the pole.Â
He needed to get this over with as quickly as possible and try to find a way to get back to you. Even that first phone call had been layered with hesitationâyou werenât telling him something.
That only made him more worried.Â
âGarrick,â Priceâs voice snaps him out of it, brown eyes snapping up from where theyâd been spacing out. His Captainâs voice is low. Steady. âOn you.â
The vehicle had come to a stop. Blinking, Gaz nods quickly. âRight.â Hand reaching out, it settles heavily to the side door and pushes after a glance to everyone in the seats.Â
Boots hit to concrete in muffled thumps, bent knees taking weight as eyes scan relentlessly like wolves.
It was deep nightâa night where the air is even still in slumber. Mist hung like a pale shroud, and over puddles in the potholes, Kyleâs focus instantly hardened as he splashed through them.Â
Now wasnât the time to think, it was the time to act.Â
He hurries down a long stretch of alley between the targetâs house and the one beside it, slinking along with his rifleâs stock pressing into the clutch of his shoulder. His cheek rests against the side, breathing slowly.Â
Adrenaline overtakes his heart.Â
Conforming to the side entrance of the townhouse, he waits as Price moves past him to the other side. They look at one another, the bodies of the other soldiers surrounding them. Over the coms, Ghostâs voice comes through.Â
âIn position.âÂ
âLetâs do this,â Kyle grunts, intent on Priceâs expression. A moment of silence passesâonly the anticipatory carnage thatâs to follow; unthinking minds as fingers pull triggers. Instinct.Â
The Captain gives a quick nod, and the hunt starts.
After a quick breaking of the door, they all move interior. The skeletal-faced Lieutenant and the Demolitions Expert take the upper floor working down with their team, and below, Garrick and Price do the same, going up.Â
Sneaking nearer to the kitchen, Gaz lays eyes on two men taking near the dining room. Body flattening against the door frame, his Captain mutters to him as he passes the opening undetected. âDrop âem.â
Itâs a quick endâthe only sound is the metallic clink of shell casings and the thump of bodies. Behind the Sergeant, one other soldier follows at his six.Â
Dead eyes stare ahead as Garrick passes, and he glances at them only once before moving on.Â
Waiting at the stairs, Kyle re-joins the main unit, and after a quick once-over, they all begin ascending as more sounds from the level above are picked up on twitching ears. The sharp hushing of civiliansâthe drop of bodies. Itâs all familiar, but somewhat jarring after being away from it for so long.Â
Part of him had gotten used to the trials of VIP work.Â
Thereâs a shout from just above, and the rush of the job comes in a fast wave. The coms alight.
âWeâve got the bastard.â Soapâs sharp voice bounces off the walls and their ears, going through the house.Â
âGood,â Price barks. âStay where you are.â
Cautiously, yet quickly, all of the men regroup where their HVT is being heldâin his office near the South corner.Â
âShura Makarovich Agapov,â the Captainâs voice is a low rasp as his body thumps forward. It was plain to tell that this game was getting on his nerves. Lead after lead drying up more than water in a desert.Â
This man was all they had.
Gaz blinks at him as the other soldiers move about the office, grasping papers with quick fingers and looking through themâlooking for anything of importance. Lowering his rifle back to his chest, the Sergeant studies the walls; eyes slipping over hung-up maps.Â
âYouâre going to tell me about your superiors,â Priceâs voice lowers to a harsh whisper as he nears the man.Â
Shura Makarovich is a large man. Sure of his body so much so that Ghost had tightened the restraints until he saw the Russianâs hands start to go blue. Johnnyâs grip never leaves his weapon.Â
âI do not speak to men who follow orders,â the man eases out casually as if not at all disturbed by the death of his friends and the arrest of his family. âOnly the ones who give them.â
âIâd say Iâm giving more orders than you right now, eh?â Price taunts, head tilting as he addresses the squad. âAnything?â
âNothing yet, Sir.â
Priceâs jaw clenches. âYaromir Osipov. Where is he?â
âYaromir Osipov?â Shura Makarovichâs face twitches. He seems confused for a moment, and Gaz clocks it instantly. The Sergeantâs brows pull in slowly as the hostage flips his tune. â...Why would I tell you that?â
He doesnât know him, Gaz knows.Â
Price kneels down as papers are tossed and pushed to the floor; Kyleâs brain working overtime.Â
If he doesnât know about Yaromir, then why was he an HVT at all? Why did the thread lead to him? His boots take him across the floor, moving to the papers on the desks, moving them as Soap asks a low question as to what heâs doing. Kyle shrugs him off, looking for something that could explain things.Â
âGhost,â Price mutters, and the Lieutenant moves out into the hallway quickly. The Captain looks deeply into Shura Makarovichâs eyes before standing.Â
Thereâs a commotion from outside; yelling, before Ghost returns with a woman in hand, harshly pulling her over the ground until her feet stumble.Â
Gazâs eyes shoot up, and he goes deathly still.Â
The woman only speaks in Russian, glancing at her confidant quickly and calling his name. Shura seems taken aback, blinking rapidly.Â
âWhat are you doing?â
âWhereâs Yaromir?â Price gets up and moves back. Shura makes a play to bolt up, but Soapâs hand shoves him harshly back down.Â
âStay the fuck down,â the Scot growls.Â
âWhat is this?!â Kyle watches, stiffly standing from a few feet away. All of it wasâŠyour face flashes through his mind, and before he can tell himself to stop, heâs moving over to Price on heavy legs.Â
âCaptain,â he slips beside the man, his voice nothing but a murmur but the sharp shock is no trick on the senses. âWhatâs the play here?â
Blue eyes move slowly his way, face twitching.Â
âSergeant, set aside,â Kyleâs expression tightens, dark eyes darting to the woman that Ghost holds.Â
âPrice, I canâtââ
âYou can leave if you need to, Garrick.âÂ
âThis isnât the way we have to do things,â Gazâs voice lightly raises, and thatâs all it takes for Price to grasp his shoulder and take him out of the door firmly.Â
Getting lightly pushed out into the hallway, the Captainâs grim face swivels as the door is tapped closed with a boot.Â
âAre you in or out, Sergeant?â Is leveled at him without emotion. âWe donât have time to play morality games. Youâre either in that room with me, or you aren't. Which is it?â
âWe canât have a repeat of three years ago,â Kyleâs expression is troubled, his once sure mind fracturing.Â
This wasnât right.
âPrice, there has to be another way.â Blue eyes donât blink at him, but the Captainâs low sigh and the fix of his feet are all the words needed.Â
âStay out,â Price eases, eyes moving over the Sergeantâs face. A hand pats Gaz on the arm, and soon the Captain disappears back into the room, closing the door behind him.Â
It wasnât disappointment that the man had given Kyleâit would never be that. But some things had to be done.Â
Some people had to get dirty to keep others clean.Â
âFuckingâŠâ the Sergeant trails, head moving in aggression and his legs shifting. His hand comes up and rubs at his chin, eyes half-closed in concern.Â
Youâd gone and messed with his head.
Kyleâs mind flashes to youâthe way your eyes had gazed into his as your lips had been so close. Your breath over his face. Even the pound of your pulse when heâd put his hand to your forehead to check your temperature.
How your body would melt when he pulled you out of nightmares.Â
This wasnât right.Â
It had all been his fault. It was the type of guilt that heâd carry to the grave with him; one that would never leave for as long as he tried.Â
What heâd done to youâŠ
âItâs fucking unforgivable,â he whispers under his breath, fingers tapping his rifleâs stock. He canât let it happen to someone else.Â
âWhat am I missing,â Kyle urges himself, feet shifting along the floor. âThereâs something thereâwhat is it?! He doesnât bloody know Yaromir, what does that mean?âÂ
But what if Yaromir was never involved in this cell in the first place?
Brown eyes spark as a sharp scream echoes from under the door. Barreling through with a slam of wood, the words coming out of Gazâs mouth are loud, but oh so steady.Â
Itâs as clear as day.
âWe know about the location in China.â
Wide eyes from all around jerk back to him, and Priceâs face slashes from shocked to enraged in a mere second.Â
âWhat the fuck are youâ?â
âChiyou,â Kyle barks, moving closer on fast feet until heâs taken Shura by the collar of his shirt and forced him to his feet. The Russianâs eyes are jumping, his mouth opening and closing.Â
Gazâs face leans in close, searching for itâfor the one emotion he needs from him to prove the lie heâs spewing from your hypothesis is correct. Behind him, the tiny sobs from the woman are muffled by her hands.Â
âWe know all of it is centered in Eastern China.âÂ
At the fast sweep of fear, Garrick already knew he had won.Â
Youâd been right.
Without another word, the Sergeant lets Shura drop and walks out of the roomâalready on the phone with Laswell.
WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, angst, mentions of guns & weapons, gore mentions, talks about shootings, etc.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
Your mind isnât itself as you hear every clink of your cane hitting the floor. It echoes inside the cage of your skullâamplified like not even a brain sits there with its pulsing flesh.Â
You can hear every one of your broken footsteps taking you farther away from him.
âWhen you get in thereâŠâ Laswellâs words blur heavily.Â
Gaz was leaving. He was leaving now. The Brit was walking out onto the tarmacâentering the metal of a cargo hold before he settled down for the long flight to Russia. Joining back up with his Task Force. So why was a part of you still trying to make your feet turn around to follow?
Joey lowe.
The name snaps you out of your brooding thoughtsâyour shaky fingers as they strangle your cane.
â...Be watching the entire time.â Kate sighs under her breath, and from the corner of her eye, she glances at you. âYou donât have to worry about the possibility of him attacking you. Heâs fully restrained to his chair.â
âIâm not worried,â you mutter. âLetâs just get this over with already.â
The womanâs stare narrows, glancing behind even if she knows that the Sergeant wouldnât be sneaking after you. That wasnât how Kyle was. But stillâŠa part of her looked.
âI couldnât agree more. Follow me.â Kate pulls ahead and guides you along.
Staring at the back of her head, you fight the sharp sting behind your eyes, but even you canât force a knife out of your skin and expect it not to hurt.
When Laswell hears a stubbornly inhale, she doesnât even mention it. Â
The walk isnât long, and while the bullet wound on your thigh pulls, you welcome it as a distraction. Your other hand had slipped into your pocket, reaching for your coin, but when it had brushed the picture that youâd folded inside, that almost kiss flashing through your consciousness, it nearly left you bending over yourself.
A door appeared ahead of you, your pulse as loud as a roaring lion.Â
âRemember,â Kate moves her keycard from her lanyard. A firm glance. âWeâll have eyes on the entire time.âÂ
Like a phantom, you enter the unlocked barrier just as it beeps.
Joey is just how you remember himâexcept now he was minus the bulletproof vest and the gun in his hands. Perhaps youâd just become used to all of this because the memory slips off of you like water to a metal surface; it doesnât matter. There were only so many things that you could tear at your mind about at one given moment.Â
Gaz seems to take precedence, and you have a deadly knowledge as to why.
Loweâs eyes move up as you slip inside, letting the door close behind you with a definitive lock. Itâs a classic interrogation roomâlike the one youâd been brought to when all of this started. Sitting in a metal chair, the man that had been sent to kill you was reduced to a flushed mess of tanned skin and a bruised, bald, head. The sunglasses were gone, just as the lower face covering. Now, all that you saw was the round face directed right into yours.Â
âYou,â Joey snarls, hands yanking at the handcuffs that leave him restrained to the table. Your eyes slip to his middle. The padding of bandages was thickâjust like the ones on your thigh.
âYou shot me,â you blankly comment, feet moving closer.Â
Like a droplet of blood hitting the floor, your heartbeat echoed through the tingle of your nerves; raced up and down your spine.
Answers.Â
You were done playing all of these pieces in someone else's game. The videos on your fatherâs laptop, every lead stopping at a brick wall just when the reveal was at the tip of your tongueâit was ending.
âShouldâa done more than that, Brat,â Lowe snaps, hands swelling with blood.Â
âCareful,â you numbly glance upwards. Locking your eyes with his for but a moment. âYouâll break skin.â
âI donât give a shit!â Lips flickering, you grasp the second chairâs back, peeling it out with a huff and delicately placing yourself down until you can sigh out the tension.Â
But the manâs words are more layered than heâd like to admitâyou picked up on it instantly. Fear. You knew because, in every instance along the long line of this story, your own sentences had been dripping with it; that undertone like a sharp knife. It was bleeding from his heart.
âAlright,â you mutter under your breath, glancing at the large wall of one-way glass to your left. You canât see anything, but you know people are back there. Waiting. Your head swivels back. âThen why are you shaking?â
Joeyâs eyes burn you one glare at a time. The man only stops when he grunts in pain, midsection bending in as his throat clears quickly.
How quick youâd gone from the one in the very same situation as him, to the one holding the gun. It was almost poetic.
Again your mind slips into images of Gazâs brown eyes, a longing growing the more you canât look over your shoulder and find him waiting for you. You nearly do just thatâturn around. Head half-turned until it hits you like a strike of lightning.Â
Your fatherâs journal sits heavy, hidden in your coat.
âI donât expect you to tell me anything worth my time,â Joey looks up at your words, face tight with aggression. âBut I want you to listen.âÂ
You let that pause linger, and the hired gun is about to yell at you again before you do the best thing you can: lie.
âWe have the laptop,â you shrug, licking your lips as your thighs move over the chair to re-settle. A spark of heat moves through your wound. âAnd we also know who hired you and Samson. Nothing you tell me will be worth my time,â you tilt your head, âbecause we already know it all. The gameâs over.âÂ
âThatâs bullshit,â Joey laughs. âYou expect me to believe that? I had a deal in placeânothingâll break it âcept my damn death.â
âWe struck a new one,â you utter, and suddenly his eyes arenât hard to look into at all. A bout of courage overtakes the raging waters of your hope that Kyle will come through the door and back you up on this.
But he wonât.
âYou,â Lowe looks increasingly more panicked. âYouâre lyinâ. The fucking government would never take up a deal with Chiyou.â
Your eyes take on a sharp hue, honing in. The entire air goes tight with eagerness.Â
âItâs the government,â is all you dryly state, trying not to sound so excited.Â
Joeyâs eyes dart to the one-way slashing around frantically. His pulling at the cuffs gets harder, and the blood that falls only moments later makes you stare. If it were someone else, maybe you would have cared.Â
âNowâs the time to clear your name,â you continue, motioning a hand as your other plays with the material of your cane. A flicker of something moves along your faceâmimicking his very words from when the barrel of a gun was pressed into the back of your head. âYou should be thanking meâŠâ
âIâm notââ
âTell me about Samson,â you interrupt, eyes stuck on him. Anger begins to overtake youâbuilding. Your body leans forward in the chair stiffly. âTell me about how he wasnât strong enough to get the job done.â
âIf you already know, why are you asking?!â Blinking, you send a glance up and down Joeyâs body. He was shaking in pain, and you had no doubt that his stitches were pulling. No one had come in from the other room to tell you to stop.Â
And you were always so stubborn, anyway.
âI think weâre done,â you shrug. âI was rightâyou canât tell me anything.â Standing, you move as if a walking bone to a chained dog, slinking through gore and blood until youâre already to the door. Feet slow and steady, you raise your knuckles to knock. Like clockwork, a thunk of the lock lets your hand shift to the handle, grasping it and adding pressure toâ
âWait!â You push open the door, head sticking out only enough for Kateâs stiff-eyed form to show from the room a foot away. She has herself half in and half out of the frame, watching you closely.Â
Raising a slow brow at her, your body pivots back and disappears once more.Â
Perhaps this was so easy because Lowe was retrained. If he hadnât been, things could be wildly different. Gaz would have told you that even if he was cuffed, this was still not your job. You shouldnât have to do this.Â
The door behind you closes once more.Â
Staying on your two feet, you tap your fingers against your cane and incline your head. âYou have the floor, Joey.âÂ
âYouâve just signed my death warrant,â he barks, eyes still unable to stay still. âYou donât know what youâve done. I need a dealâI-I need witness protection.â
âTalk,â you hiss. Impatient nature rearing its head, you glare tightly.Â
Kyle must be on the C-17 by nowâmaybe it was even taking off as you were having this conversation. Why did you feel so anxious about it? Why were your feet still wanting to turn even when you were on the cusp of blowing this wide open?Â
He canât really mean this much to youâŠcan he?
âSamson was too good of a guy to get stuck in this, dammit!â Dark eyes lock with yours, and you frown. âAll the decent ones are already dead, and itâs your fuckinâ fault.âÂ
âIâm failing to see how Iâm supposed to care at this point,â you dryly spit out.Â
Joeyâs head shakes back and forth, bald head shiny in the overhead light. âYeah, Iâm not that surprised, Sweetheart. Samson let you live, but, hell, Iâd have put a bullet in you a thousand times before I did that to your father.â
Your spine tightens up. Lowe keeps talking as your heart stops beating.
âFuckinâ fool,â Joeyâs jaw clenches, his wide face bright with rage. âHe should have just gone through with the ordersâit would have been quick; he would have been alive to see his girls grow up.â
You partially open your lips but stop yourself quickly. He has to keep going.
âI knew he was too damn righteous for that; knew he wouldnât kill you like he was supposed to. Damn idiot went and shot the fucking husband instead. God. Served with him and everythingâI know that bastard didnât kill himself.â
Wide-eyed, your thigh throbs as your entire body seizes up.Â
Joey tries to stand, growling and yelling becoming increasingly more violent; and still, that fear stays in his eyesâdeep into his soul.
âYouâre ex-military,â you whisper under your breath. Louder, âTell me what you know about Chiyou,â you snap. âWho is it?â
âThis is your fault!â He shouts, and the table jerks against the bolts holding it to the floor. You flinch, taking a small step backward as your face blankly of all else besides thinly veiled fear. âYouâve got your hands all in it! Itâs you!â
Alarms blare over the speakers with the sharp screech of dying dragons.
Gasping, your head snaps to the one-way in shockâthe lights flickering overhead as you blink quickly, confusion making your heart speed. The sound is so sharp your free hand has to physically snap to the side of your head to cover one of your earsâmouth releasing a fast yell.Â
Your back shifts to slap into the door, and with a quick hand, you reach for the handle. Yet, it opens before you can even touch it; fingers grapple for your clothes as youâre peeled out.
Joey screams above the alarm.
âDonât leave me here! Donât! Itâs what they wantâ!â The door slams as Kate bullies you down the hallway quickly. Soldiers rush past.Â
In her hand, she holds the body of a small pistol.
âWhat the hell is going on,â your voice is smoother than you thought it would be, but nonetheless firm. You hurry along as fast as youâre able, adrenaline taking most of the intense pains and stacking them away for now. Namely, the one in your heart. Thereâs no time to think over what youâd just uncovered about this plotâno time to act on it.
âIâm getting you to a secure area,â Kate levels, not fully answering you.Â
âAnd are you going to explain on the way, orâŠ?â You trail off, eyes digging into her and voice loud above the noise. A man rushing past clips your shoulder, and you stumble before your cane stops your fall. Laswellâs grip gets harder.Â
âYour mother was attacked in the medical ward. We donât know who did it,â the woman explains in a swift breath.Â
Your face blanks, snapping over to her even as countless other people nearly run into you. Shouts and yells spring upâguns carried in hard grips as the sounds of boots connecting with the floor make you beg to hear more familiar ones.Â
But an instinctual glance behind you leaves nothing but electric air and millions of bodies of people you donât know. You have to admit, that makes you more scared than anything that was revealed previously.
âIs,â you stutter, head jerking back to Kate. âIs she okay?! What happened, she was supposed to be safe here!â
âYou need to focus on yourself,â is the harsh and blunt answer. Blue eyes grace yours, sharp as youâre taken down the next hallway on fast feet.Â
âHow many times am I going to be told that before you people realize itâs not going to happen?â You shout, but itâs lost to the blaring, insistent, noise that makes your head ache the longer youâre out hereâstuck in the bright lights and the screams.Â
It reminds you of the park.
Shoved into a side room, youâre released to stumble for a moment as Kate jerks the door closed with a rattling frame.Â
âIt is going to happen,â she looks at you, hand low at her hip as she motions to you. âKyle isnât here anymore to watch you. Until this is over, you have to rely on your own skills to keep you safe.â
You narrow your eyes in disbelief, a sneer coming to your lips. Your body steadies itself as your breaths come quick.Â
âIsnât that literally someone else's job? Iâm sorry to tell you this, Laswell,â you growl, moving closer, âbut I donât know how to deal with hitmen!âÂ
Youâre given an unimpressed look before Kate shakes her head and frowns at you.Â
âYouâre smartâKyle saw that. But you make stupid decisions.â You move your hand out in a hostile gesture, teeth snapping like a dog. âYou need to think, Spitfire. The pieces are all laid out, you know the answer to this.â
Confusion now overtakes that feral panic.Â
âWhat are you talking about?â Kate moves to you, grabbing at your shoulder with her free hand. You glare into her eyes, blinking away after a minute of contact.
âNo one can figure this out but you. Youâre the catalyst. It starts and ends with youâLowe gave you the last of it. Thereâs an answer here, and youâre not willing to see it.âÂ
âWhereâs my mother,â you bark in question, annoyed at this line of conflict. âYouâre not making any sense.â
Kate takes a step back and stares heavily at your face. She licks her lips and says slowly, the words nearly lost to your ears above the alarms, âToo many men and women have died over this already. You know that.â
âWhat I know is that youâre making my head explode!â You shout. âYouâre going on and on about thisâwhat about you?! You and your little Task Force that doesnât even know the people they work with!â Your mouth moves in a laugh. âYou send off the one person who Iâm starting to trust, and then I find out Samson was meant to kill me.âÂ
âWe should be glad he didnât,â Kate tilts her head. Sheâd gone too far in life to gain that sheen of guilt now. Her experiences were a long line of statistics and facts.Â
You were the target, now the question had shifted as to why. You had never been involved in any illegal activities with your fatherâthere was never any evidence of that, and everyone knew it to be true.Â
One question leads to another, and another, and another.Â
You knew something. Something that you maybe didnât even know yourself yet. But time is rapidly coming to a close.
âWe should be glad I didnât leak your fucking file onto the internet when I had the chance,â you point, teeth bared. âIâve seen itâI know how you work. Itâs goddamn disgusting the things you do.â
âIâm not discussing this with you,â Laswell utters, frowning. âItâs my cross to bear.â
âOh,â you laugh sarcastically, âso high and mighty. Kate Laswellâa martyr.â
Kyle seemed to have taken the key to your anger with him and left the door wide open. Your cruelty slipped through the frame to bleed its black blood over the hardwood floors like some possessed dog, dragging itself home time after time for only a faint memory of warmth. You were just so angry all of the time. Being hereâaround these people; these bases and the secrets.Â
Every ounce of you is bathed in wrath.Â
âTrust me,â you grin numbly. âMy eyes are wide open.âÂ
Blue stares into you, unblinking until the earpiece makes the woman move back and press her fingers up to itâto listen above the noise.
All she gives you is a firm and unemotional, âAre they?â Before her face turns away from you.Â
You clench your jaw and scoff, neck shifting as you tap your cane into the ground. The wound burns, but your free hand easily moves into your jacket pocket and presses into your coinâdigging your palm into it. A distraction, maybe.Â
But all you can think about is how Gaz would be giving you that disappointed look and turning his head away. It makes you want to throw something.Â
His stupid hat; stupid voice. How he carries himselfâhow he felt so guilty about his part to play in this.
How he left.
He left you here.Â
With your mother, with Laswell. He regretted it, sureâŠand the worst part was that youâd entirely forgive him if he came through that door right now. For everything. But, God, please donât make him leave you here alone after everything heâs done to make it right.
The realization makes your eyes water, a sting again forming. You wanted him here with you. You wanted his jokes and his smileâthat smirk of his. Gazâs stories about his trials and his achievements.Â
His history.
You could study all you wanted about that topic, but the section that was titled his own would always be the most interesting. Heâd snuck in and grappled onto the place between your ribs; heâd stuck a knife into your heart and refused to peel it outâto let you bleed him away.
Damn him, damn him, damn him.Â
This wasnât supposed to happen.
Kateâs face goes grim while you fight your own inner monologue. Her sentence rips you out of the bubble youâre stuck in.Â
âLoweâs dead. Get ready, Iâm moving you across base.âÂ
NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER VIII
PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)
WORDCOUNT: 7.4k
WARNINGS: Angst, intense stalking & stalking behavior, talks of death/injury, toxic modeling standards/expectations, dark implications, symptoms & descriptions of dissociation, scar descriptions, etc. (Series 18+)
A/N: This is where some of the more serious/dark aspects come into the story involving Seraph's job and the pressures that are put on her. It's only implied in this chapter, but in the next, it'll be talked about more. Just to let you all know.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
The day after your meeting, your gifted clothes came to the lobby of the penthouse.Â
Youâd gone down with Nikto and picked up what you could, bags and bags of designer goods including purses, makeup, and jewelry. It was excessiveâlike Fedorov was trying to buy your silence; buy your affection so youâd cozy up into bed with him.Â
This job tried you every day, but that was a line you would never cross. Never.
Still, the items needed to be taken and packed for the trip regardless. Eyes would be on you from the moment this adventure from hell started until it ended in what hopefully was a peaceful fashion.Â
But you severely doubted it would be anything close to peaceful.Â
You take another gray dress and slip it into the garment cover, legs folded on the floor of your living room as you hum under your breath. Music wafts out from your record player, and youâre desperately trying to focus on the task at hand. Nikto reads from the couch.Â
âHave they called you yet?â You ask, not looking up as you slide the coverâs zipper, missing it once as your hand shakes unexpectedly.Â
The Russian responds with a slow and even, âĐĐ”Ń. No calls.â
You sigh, licking your lips.Â
No one had been telling you what was in that last gift at AMAânot even your mother. Aly had said it was probably nothing when sheâd been briefly over to assist with the clothes, on a tight break in her schedule, but you werenât too sure of that.Â
Pale eyes blink slowly, and a page turns. âNo use thinking. Pack.â
âYou make it sound like itâs that easy,â you huff, body leaning back and spine resting against your various rugs. The penthouse was warmer today, and you wear comfortable loungewear; shorts, and a dark baggy t-shirt. Your head shifts, arms out beside you. âHow are you so calm about everything? My heart feels like itâs constantly going to break out of my chest.âÂ
Your phone goes off on the coffee table, a short buzz that has to be either your mom or Alyona. Rubbing a palm into your right eye, you hear the bear grunt and close whatever he was reading, finding it pointless to try and focus if you continue to speak to him.
He stares for a moment, hidden face a mystery you long to solve. With a tap of his finger on his thigh, he explains.
âTraining,â you blink, intrigued. Nikto seems to notice, tilting his head and looking down at you. âYou are scared, Woman, yes?â
âOf course.â You had no trouble admitting it. âAnyone would be.â
âIn military,â the air of the penthouse moves with the weight of his broken words, the rough bleed of vocals. You really did like his accentâit just added so much to his already intimidating form. Just a stack of bricks being constantly grated against one another. âWe were taught how to become used to itâthe adrenaline. Fear. In the end, it held little over many; failure was the only fear that never left.âÂ
Your brows furrow, lips frowning. âYou fear failure, Nikto?â
You expected a blunt refusal, quick words. But the man had been softening to you over the time youâd known himâif that was your own doing, or something more, you canât quite tell anymore. Any talk on soulmates has feld you like a rabbit in a dark wood to shy away from the looming presence of something bigger; parties and scorned maniacs.
You still wonder if ignoring the gifts was the right thing to do. Would that make it worse? You think youâd read about that somewhere.Â
A trigger. But the stalker had already pushed one of those, hadn't he? What could he do that was worse than killing three men? Mutilating animals?
Nikto surprises you.Â
The man blinks, not looking away from your pleasing eyesâeven now, your pupils were small with anxiety; heâd noticed how you adamantly avoided social media and the news, plastered with your pictures and the case. The window had never been opened fully since heâd been here, only a creak of natural light slipping from the crack of the half-risen blinds.Â
For a gruff beast of action, his eyes missed nothing.
âYes,â he grumbles, blinking away for a moment before his attention returns. âBut it isâŠlesser than what you feel. ĐĐ”Đ·ĐœĐ°ŃĐžŃДлŃĐœŃĐč. Minor.âÂ
A small smile flickers your lips, skull to the ground even as it aches slightly.Â
âI like it when you speak to meâit helps,â you mumble honestly. It wasnât flirting, not really.Â
The Russian looks slightly confused at your sentence, but that doesnât stop his shoulders from minutely tightening. You chuckle, shifting your head to the ceiling where your little bits of painted glass hang.Â
âNikto,â you point upwards. âThat oneâthe bird. What color is it?â
This was a game youâd taken a fast liking to. Youâd point and ask the color; Nikto would answer.Â
âRed,â is his monotone reply after a glance. Eyes from behind his mask shrouded in dark paint. You doubted the face grease could come off anymore, the chemicals already bone deep.Â
âI thought it was orange,â you sigh. âI still canât tell the difference.âÂ
âObviously,â is the dryly amused response, with you glaring without venom and putting your hands to the ground to help push you back up.Â
âHey,â you try to hide your teasing smirk. âIâm getting better at itââ
Your voice is strangled off as a sharp inhale, eyes blinking rapidly, and your vision blurs in a moment of ricocheting pain flaring in the base of your skull. Snapping one hand to the back of your head, you strangle down a small scream, reducing it to a whimper of utter agony.Â
Neck bending forward, your mouth fills with saliva as your spine pulls in, yet you canât even focus on that. You feel like if you even have a single thought, your brain will explode out of the back of your head.Â
Nikto startles, eyes widening, but he doesnât waste time on shock. Feet already rush over at the slighted change in the air, a hand grasping the base of your neck tightly, attention snapping into place. Your breath puffs as your frantically moving face tenses and eyelids twitch. Your nerves were on fire.Â
The Russian watches, confusion and a certain unease striking him through his pounding heart. What had happened? One second you were speaking and the next your body was so steel-like it shook harder than heâd ever seen it.Â
âSeraph,â he barks, face close to your head, looking at the spot you grasp at with your visible knuckles, the sound of your gasping pants leaving his throat echoing with reverberations of unease.Â
Nikto pulls at the skin of your wrist, peeling your hand back before you draw blood, trying to assess what to do. He only sees it then.
Itâs a rabid-looking thing, the scar. With your hair as such, your fingers stuck in the knots, theyâre pulled back just perfectly to see it. Pale blue eyes stare unabashedly, struck dumb for a moment in their concerned sheen.
It spans from the base of your skull upward, a jagged bulge of healed tissue and fissuresâthe shade of skin is different there, hyperpigmentation just as Nikto had. Halfway up the back, the rough line breaks into two places, creating a âYâ with the one nearest to the right stopping sooner than the other.Â
But it was deep. Deadly-like. An indent lives at the middle point.
For someone so in tune with the ways of the body, Nikto was horrified and fascinated at the very implication; how had youâŠsurvived this? Your entire skull might have been broken open from the force of whatever had happened, judging by the strength needed to achieve such brutality. Was this the injury that youâd been speaking about?Â
An overwhelming emotion takes him by the lungs.Â
Your body had scars just like his did.
Form curling even farther forward, your legs pull into you, and Nikto finds that at the moment, none of that even matters.Â
âSeraph,â he orders again, equally as urgent but noticed less sharp. His thumb curls your wrist to trap itself at your pounding pulse; running as if being chased by whatever nightmares he hears you whine from in your sleep.
You swallow down your bile with a clicking of your throat and a small cough, eyes stinging.Â
âBurns,â your lips whisper, lids closing firmly. âGod, my head burns.âÂ
Itâs a brief thoughtâa small moment of slip-second thinking that had saved his life many times.Â
A chilled palm spreads itself over the back of your head, directly over the broken fracture of flesh, without an utterance of a word. The effects arenât immediate; you donât just calm down and stop panicking. But it helps. Like a light in the dark, it helps.Â
After a minute, the chill seeps into your bones. It goes deeper and deeper, the large grip of Niktoâs fingers stuck into your hair perhaps a little harder than they needed to be, but you werenât about to complain at the pressure. After two minutes, your panting slows to a small ragged wheezeâfeeling like a sick duck as your beady eyes finally open. You see the unblinking pale orbs directly to your right almost immediately after the abyssal dots go back to wherever it was they came from.Â
He doesnât speak; you didnât expect him to. Nikto was arrogant, prideful, but he never spoke unless he knew he had something he needed to say. A blunt hound who never hesitated to bark, but only when he could see something was up in the tree.Â
When youâve seemed to calm down, the hand on your wrist leaves with a brush of rough gloves to the skin, making you shiver. You notice the hastily tossed material of the matching product, belonging to the other limb, near your knee.Â
Cold fingers. Cold hands. A corpse would be jealous, but youâd never felt so thankful.Â
Nikto studies your face rapidly, and your raspy voice levels out a meek, âSorry.â
Barely visible brows furrow tightly, almost disgusted. You perhaps misinterpreted that expression the wrong way, because just as youâre about to rush into a wild explanation as to why, how, and every excuse you can give, youâre once more taken off guard today.Â
Bulky arms circle your waist and under your vibrating knees.Â
With a sluggish reaction, you blink rapidly as youâre settled against the hard Kevlar of his chestâkept firm in his grip. Your legs hang, hand stabilizing yourself on Niktoâs pec.Â
âWhat did I say?â He asks heavily, looking down at you as your shock bleeds away to focus on how to calm your heart. âSeraph?â Nikto prompts, his fingers digging into your clothes.Â
You try to think, stuttering, âYou donât like it when I apologize.â
âSo do not,â the Russian grunts, clenching his jaw out of sight. His words are low, and he rolls his shoulders. âThat is the end of it.â
He sets you down on the couch, sinking into the multiple plush pillows. You feel weakâlimp. Not looking into the manâs eyes, you curl your hands around your waist, leaning back and being careful to not hit your head on the back.Â
Nikto watches with hidden concern.Â
âExplain,â he utters, not moving an inch from in front of you. Itâs a minute or so before you can find the words. All the Russian does in that time is shift his arms over his chestâfix the stance of his feet. You can feel his eyes like a knife, but you canât feel how his brain is on high alert; vigilant to any pain that may be hidden from him.Â
âHappens sometimes,â you whisper, one vibrating hand coming up to lightly run over the back of your skull. You trace the scar softly, feeling the pulse underneath. âItâs just⊠sensitive.â
Niktoâs eyes narrow.Â
After a pause, where itâs obvious you feel some sort of embarrassment judging by your avoiding gaze, the great beast sighs long. A slow blink makes his dark lashes up and down.Â
He hated how he despised that look on your face.
Moving, Nikto sits beside you, leaning back with a grunt and extending an arm behind you on the hardwood of the couchâs frame.Â
âTell me. I want to know.â You side-eye him, knees pulled up to your chest. It has a distance to it, your focus. Everything feels like itâs underwater.Â
âItâs not a good story,â you force a broken huff, smiling wobbly. Numb eyes donât waver over the lines of your face.Â
âNo,â Nikto bluntly says. âI did not expect it to be. NonethelessâŠâ he trails. âI am asking if you are willing to answer.âÂ
It wasnât like you were against saying what had transpired, but there was a lot of history thereâso much. The event had happened when you were young, so many years had passed to a point where the mental pain of it had dimmed to all except the consequences. The aftermath.Â
This was a give and a take; you consider yourself a fair person.Â
âHow did you lose part of your finger?â You turn it around, licking your lips and staring at his neck. The manâs body stills at the question.Â
Nikto slowly loosens a grumbled scoff. But it isnât a feral thing. Perhaps he was even impressed that you had the forethought to gain something of his story when youâd already told so much of yours.Â
He reminds himself once more, not dumb.Â
âVery well,â Niktoâs head tilts like a wolf, his knee hitting the place where your feet hang over the edge of the cushion. He looks you up and down as his finger taps the wood behind your head. âSecond year with PMC. Operation in far-off countryâwe do not care to remember which anymore.â You listen, heart calming with every scrape of vocal cords. Nikto explains slowly, thinking over every word carefully as his vision trails to rest at your nose. âHostile hiding under floorboards.â The Russian rolls his shoulders. âI was reaching down to grab at the hatch; it confused me because it was partially open.âÂ
Your body lightly turns his way, the side of your skull meeting the hard build off the inside of his forearm. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath, getting everything under control again one second at a time. As if a book, you turn the pages of Nikto, painting a picture of his tale, oblivious to the way his eyes are stuck on your face. His arm stays completely still for you.
He longs to look at that scar again, and he canât understand why.
â...Large knife came up through the wood. Cut it off and damaged the others near it. It is numb most days. Barely can tell I still have finger. Very inopportune, but all was not lost.â
âWhat wasnât lost?â You hum, sighing, and open your eyes again. The Russianâs gaze darts away.Â
âI killed him,â he says numb-like, a vicious smirk in his voice. âIn the end, it was only us who could tell the story, yes?â
âDoes it hurt?â You change the subject back to his scars, liking how his forearm acted as your pillow. You could feel his tendons as they pulled.
âSometimes,â Nikto shrugs at your quiet question, thighs over the couch cushions. âLike all the others. Natural.â
He doesnât need to ask if yours do.
You dwell on what he insinuates about his bodyâthe scars you already thought heâd have; why he wears that mask.Â
âI fell,â you share, not letting a long silence linger. Niktoâs feet shuffle on the floor, but otherwise, like a waiting cat, he was completely beholden to your soft voice. âFar. Cracked my head open on a rock.â
Thereâs so much more to itâbut this is the version you always tell everyone. Itâs lessâŠcomplicated. Gets you less looks of pity, even if youâre not sure Nikto is the type to do that.Â
The large man hums, nodding. He wants to know more; heâd have to look into it further on his own. âYou are lucky to be alive after an injury like that.â
âYeah,â you whisper, lips twisting. âLucky.âÂ
Your skull pulses.Â
âBut, anyways,â you wave a hand, locking gazes. âThank you.â
Niktoâs knees crack as he stands, moving away; his heat leaves. Hands situating themselves at the collar of his vest, the Russianâs throat rolls with a noise of acceptance.Â
âIt is my job. Do you require anything?âÂ
âI think Iâm okay,â you admit, feet delicately moving to the rug on the floor. Itâs back to packing, pushing this to the back of your mind just as you do the remembrance of his fingers tight in your hair; tight at your wrist. Niktoâs hard voice in your ear, saying your angelic title.Â
Your throat clears itself, blinking, as you stand.Â
The man takes it as lightheadedness, one foot moving closer. Your hand raises, and he stops. A small chuckle moves out of your mouth, side-eyeing him with a crinkle to your lids.
âIâm okay, Nikto. Trust me, please.â
He sighs, fingers twitching. But he doesnât grumble any blunt vitriol, he just watches. Always watching.Â
Your spirits are lightened by his presence.Â
Brushing down your t-shirt, you close your eyes and shove away the memories, tiny tingles of pain still present as they go up and down your spine.Â
âNow, we have to get to work,â you brush past the episode, used to them. âIt would be helpful if you lent a hand, Big Guy.âÂ
Your joke leads to a huff, fingers taking back their book from the tableâall in Russian script, so you didnât know what it wasâand a roll of eyes.
âThat is not my problem. Your clothes, your parties.â
âThe parties youâre going to have to go with me too,â you smirk, eyes glimmering as you grasp your phone, flipping it over to turn it on and look at the text youâd received. âI hope you like suits.â
Pale eyes widen before a growled Russian sentence wafts over the music from the recorder. You laugh, already knowing the contents of curses and refusals. He was so much like a child sometimes it takes you aback. A brute, utterly refusing what was in front of him and owning a short fuse.Â
âOh, calm down,â you blink, signing into your phone. âIâm good at finding clothes as long as you tell me colors and shades. Youâre in the best hands in the business, Nikto.â
âDo not say it like that,â he barks, eyes narrowed and his body moving forward to pass you, most likely to go back to your bookshelf and return the book, seeing as heâd get nowhere with it now. âI do not want your hands, Whelp.âÂ
âYouâre saying that now,â you tease, pointing with your free finger. âEveryone says that before they have a taste ofââ
âQuiet.âÂ
You laugh, spine lightly bending forward, and Niktoâs back turned to you to where you canât see his face soften at the sound. His body unconsciously loosens, orbs gaining a distance that has nothing to do with his condition. Your existence is a curse to him, and he doesnât know how to deal with it.
Itâs only after youâre able to calm down, the Russian putting his book away with a large hand, when you finally look down at the text youâd gotten.Â
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
âI sent you a gift and you didnât even open it?â
Your face freezes mid-smile.
 âIâm giving you everything you wantedâyou didnât open the letter I gave you in the grocery store, either, did you? I waited for hours for you to show up! Hours for you! Iâve waited YEARS to be near you! I love you more than anything in my life and youâre ignoring me? How can you do that when Iâve risked so much? Please, Seraph, I love you but youâre breaking my heartâIâm trying so hard to be kind to you. Please, donât make this harder than it needs to be. ĐŃĐŸ Đ»ŃĐ±ĐŸĐČŃ Ń ĐżĐ”ŃĐČĐŸĐłĐŸ ĐČзглŃЎа! ĐŻ ĐœĐ” ĐŒĐŸĐłŃ Đ¶ĐžŃŃ Đ±Đ”Đ· ŃДбŃ!Â
Iâm trying to forgive you, my ХлаЎĐșаŃ, I promise. Iâll always forgive you, but let me show you how much you mean to me.âÂ
Images pop through, scent quickly as your glee stiffly drops like glass to the floor. Youâd never felt yourself go so still as when youâre halfway through the block of text and you see yourself at the grocery store, alone, and Niktoâs shadow disappearing around the aisle. Moreâso much more. You in AMA...inâŠin the photoshoot wearing nothing but the lingerie, skin on full display.
Your eyes flood with tears, jaw open.
He had been in that fucking room. Heâd been there when your manager had brought in the dead birdsâhe, he hadâŠ
Heâd been right there.
You canât speak, youâre only looking down at the continuing barrage of photos.Â
Outside of the Consulate building, walking down the street, talking with Aly on a girls outing from months ago. Your phone vibrates with every one, quivering hands already moving but now more so. Like a rabbit being hunted down. It shows an escalationâthe more you see the closer this freak was getting in each, slowly slinking with vile intentions until the last.Â
An image of the direct back of your head, a hand reaching, and almost touching, exactly where your scar lives.
Youâre going to vomit.
The entire device is snatched by gloved fingers.
Nikto glares in confusion, ears twitching at every buzz of your phone. âWhat is wrong withââ
The man is suddenly more wound up than a dog under a noose.
Rushing past, you only reach the kitchen trash can two seconds before your bile rocketed from your mouth, heaving what little youâd managed to eat of Niktoâs cooking into the bottom with a tight sob.Â
Niktoâs hand holds the thingâreading, looking, with dead eyes. Dead eyes that gradually become enraged with a certain type of anger that breeds in silence. The skim, a ruthless finger tapping the screen and dragging the conversation back to the top before he stares. He stares and stares and stares at the pictures. At you.Â
The way you live your life, oblivious to the threat right behind you. Stalking closer.
Nikto canât remember a time heâs felt so angry at an enemy before. Not just an enemy, no, an animal. This wasnât like the rules of war, this was for pleasure; for a selfish need. He knew how to keep himself separateâhad to for his sanityâbut this was something no one could not get wrathful at. Even him.
He hears you wretch, vomiting into the trash just below the island where heâd made the both of you lunch, the choke of your sobbing breaths. The sounds make his hands tighten over the phone, to smash it to pieces like a toddler with a block castle.Â
And then the device buzzes one more time as Nikto silently finishes reading the first text youâd been sent.Â
âDonât worry about the bodyguard, Seraph, I can take care of him, too. We can finally be together, just like itâs supposed to be.â
Nikto is hitting the call button before his brain catches up to his finger.
Slotting it to his covered ear, he breathes like an afflicted hound, eye buggy and chest rattling with air. Panting echoed from behind his mask, the hot breath moving back to warm his slashed and burned flesh.Â
It picks up on the second ring, but nothing is said. No words from the other end.Â
In the corner of his eye, Nikto sees you hyperventilating. The former soldier speaks entirely in Russian, slipping back into his native tongue as easily as he slips into violenceâit is nothing more than a slide of sandpaper.
âI am going to watch the life bleed from your eyes,â he grinds out. âAnd then Iâm going to make your corpse wish it had been set on fire instead.âÂ
Nikto hangs up, tossing the phone to the coffee table and making a mental note to get Yaromir and Galina to trace the number. Stomping over to you, your body was away from the trash now, hand to your mouth.Â
âIâm okay,â you say hurriedly, tears tracking your cheeks. âIâm okay.â
âYou are not,â Nikto wishes he could go to the shooting rangeâwishes he could spar and slam someone down to a wrestling mat. He needs flesh under his fingertips.Â
The Russianâs chest is wide and rising with the pulse of untamed lungs. The bulge of his pecs stuttered over their course and the old scars he carries itch under the barrier of his gear.Â
Growling, the man clenches his eyes shut, shaking his head to the side firmly.Â
But there was something about the implication of you being threatened that made Nikto need to feel the weight of his service weapon in his grip. To feel the recoil of a bullet being sent into someone. A nameless figure; a silent phone call.Â
Nikto scoffs, rolling his neck and shoulders.Â
Thinking like this was making him reckless.Â
âI guess I should have told you about the letters, then,â you taste bile on your tongue, images swirling in your headâparanoia was firm. Suddenly, every memory was tainted. You gag on your saliva, coughing.Â
Nikto doesnât respond to the self-deprecating comment.Â
Once more today, hands move to touch you, pulling at the space under your arms and lifting. Blinking, youâre moving around when your feet are flat on the groundâhands going to rest on the edge of the counter behind you.
Niktoâs hands stay stuck at the meat of your limbs, great head tilted. Eyes lock on the tear tracks spreading down your skin, and he pauses.Â
A thumb slowly pushes at them, spreading the liquid along your flesh as your blurry vision stays at his neck. With a shuddering inhale at the unneeded attention, your head lightly sags forwardâconnecting with Niktoâs chest.Â
He tenses, looking down at you from the corner of his eye.
After a minute, his nose releases an unheard sigh, and his arms lower to his sides.
Nikto lets you rest there as long as you need.
â
Youâre in the bath tonight, and Nikto listens to the water sloshing as he pushes the envelopes around from inside the lockbox.Â
It was safe to say you hadnât gone back to packing.
That woman, Alyona, was hereâsheâd made a big fuss about the texts before sheâd taken you with her and led you into the bathroom to clean yourself up. You were both in there nowâtalking. Nikto wasnât going to act like he wasnât eavesdropping; he didnât care if your friend or you knew it. It was mostly about the parties, the talk, and the Russian could understand that Alyona was trying to occupy your mind.Â
His mission was more important.Â
Youâd passed him the box and watched as Nikto had retrieved the letter from your coat pocket. The former soldier had already called the investigators and promptly told them to arrest Sergi, or they would have him to deal withâthere hadnât been time to respond before heâd hung up and smashed his phone to the nightstand of your rented room. The resounding echo had made both parties in the bathroom go silent for a minute before hesitantly starting back up.
And now, there was the scratchy English script of a stalker in his hands. He felt disgusting even touching them; he was glad heâd put his gloves back on. A permanent sneer was stuck to his hidden face like a curse, eyes narrowed.
Standing, the man trades weight from his thighs as he reads the letter that had been stuck in your jacket.Â
âMy ХлаЎĐșаŃ,Â
This is the one-hundredth letter Iâve written to you, though you havenât been sent all of them yet. Iâm still waiting for you to notice me, and Iâve grown disquieted by your response to the way I disposed of your three guards. Was that not what you wanted every time you looked at me?â
Niktoâs hand comes up to rub at the fabric over his neck, digging until he feels the bulge of his scar against his fingertips.
âI thought you would be thankful, but now you have that man following you everywhere. He took your doves from youâthe doves that were supposed to make up for the misunderstanding about the dead men. You looked beautiful with the red fire moving over your face that day, you know? It caught every curve and the softness of your skin perfectly. HereâI even took a picture for you to enjoy as I thoroughly have. I hope it brings you the pleasure it brought me to run my lips over your holy image.â
Fingers crumble the side of the letter, creasing it. Not once do they delve into the envelope to look for that picture. If he had the choice, Nikto would rip this entire thing into little bits.
It falls off into nothing but rabid script; illegible even to Niktoâs best abilities. The letter is saturated with somethingâspots of the paper pulling in on itself with droplets offâŠ
Nikto stills, disgust and insult moving in his gut. There wasnât any DNA on the box, but they certainly had some here.
Dropping the letter into the lockbox on the nightstand, the man takes the top and rams it shut with a rattle of the nesting dolls on the upper shelf. Nikto removes his gloves and tosses them into the garbage bin.Â
Stalking to the bathroom door, he moves on instinct. Ever the animal.Â
Knuckles rasp to the wood. Conversations halt once more.
âSeraph,â he eases, accent tight. âYou are well?â
A bead of silence, the moving of water.Â
âYes, Nikto,â your voice is still shaky, but it comes out from under the door.Â
Nikto stares at his feet, blinking. With a grunt, his feet shift and he forces out, âGood. You will call if you need us.â
It wasnât a question.
Moving back, he nods to himself firmly, shaking out his right handâhe canât seem to stop being on edge. Every creak, every shadow of your decorations moving, made his eyes dart to them, honing in as if behind the scope of a rifle. Â
Nikto brought his hands to the side of his skull, pushing in. You were messing with his head, he tells himself again. The moments of dissociation were becoming more frequent as of late, and he could feel it in the back of his mind even now. A glaze over his brain that made everything feel like it was worlds away from himâit was sharp and sure of itself. Words jumbled, âIâs came out as âWeâs, things were lapsed from his brain; important things. Moments of confusionâaggression. Leaving you behind in a grocery store at the flip of a coin. Snapping at you in real anger when you were just curious.Â
He canât do that. He canât lose his grip.Â
From inside the bathroom, your eyes stay locked on the door, your head resting on the wall behind you as your skin soaks in the claw-footed tub.Â
âI donât know if this is good for me, Aly,â you confess lowly, eyes shifting back to the wall ahead of you, a little black and white ceramic fish on a shelf. Candles let off the scent of linen and pine.Â
Alyona sits on the stool a few feet away, watching your face worriedly.Â
âĐĄĐŸĐ»ĐœŃŃĐșĐŸ,â she starts slowly, âwe both know it isnât. Itâs going to passâI canât hope for more than that.â
Itâs like a repeating recordâItâll be okay, just keep strong, push through.
It wasnât Alyâs fault; sheâs involved in this too.Â
âIs Nikifor worried about you?â The womanâs head perks, her lips twitching as the orbs inside of her head soften.
âSeraph, you donât have to change the subjectââ
âTruly,â you move a hand up from the water and rub at your face. âReally, Aly, I need a distraction. Please, justâŠtalk. You know I love to hear about the two of you.âÂ
She sighs, looking to the wall. After a moment, she chuckles, head tilting down. âYes, heâs worried. He worries about you as well. You have a home with us, little ĐĄĐŸĐ»ĐœŃŃĐșĐŸâI want you to know that, yes?â Alyona brings a hand to your cheek, pinching in good nature.Â
You shuffle away in mock annoyance, lips twitching.Â
â...I know, Aly.â
âGood,â she huffs. âI would not be a good friend if you didnât. At least that brute is taking care of you, it seems.â
âHeâs a good cook,â you ease out. âYou should try it sometime.â
Gray eyes blink at you, shocked. âHe got you to eat a meal?âÂ
âYouâre saying it like I never do,â you chuckle, eyebrows pulling in as the dimmed overhead light shines down on your avoidance of the problem at hand.Â
âNo, itâs not that,â Alyâs eyes rove with unseen emotion, her concerned heart gaining a smidge of affection for the man outside of the door, whose shadowed feet can still be seen pacing. âI amâŠglad, Seraph. Food is always the way to someoneâs senses, eh?â
Your lips twitch, but the weight on your chest remains. A tense pause grabs the both of you.
âI wish you were coming with,â you have to admit on a stiff tongue. âEver since I first got here, youâve been with me for all of itâthe parties especially.â Your open mouth stutters. âAly, I donât think I can do it again by myself. All of those people; what some of them expect from me, itâŠitâs justâŠâ Getting choked up, you move a hand to your mouth, covering it. From behind the flesh, you mutter, âI canât do it again, itâs just the same as staying here, as a matter of fact, I think staying would be better.â
âYou need to think rationally,â Aly shakes her head, getting closer to take your hand in both of hers. She squeezes, her top shiny in the light as it moves. âNothing is worse than staying in this city. The man outside the door agrees. It is the safest option for you, even if,â Alyona closes her eyes, looking away as she opens them. She never finishes her sentence.Â
âI donât want to,â you fight a whimper. âAly, we tried so hard to get out of them sending us like meat.âÂ
But thereâs nothing that the woman can do to you when you say it like that, and even her expression gets far away. Alyonaâs eyes blink fast, getting glossy before they avoid your eyes for the rest of the night.Â
âIâm sorry, My Seraph. Iâm so, so, sorry.â
And thatâs all that can be said.
When night comes, you donât think you sleep at all, and by Niktoâs pacing of his room, the occasional pause to peek his head through your doorway, neither does he.Â
â
The time to leave came far quicker than you could anticipate as the days blended. Chelyabinsk was nearly a three-hour drive if you went the fastest route, and in the time before it, you and Nikto hadnât spoken much about the letters. Theyâd been taken by the investigators the next day, along with your phone, for testing and tracking. While youâd been given a new device, it was a tiny thing that died more times than not; you had three contactsâAlyona, Nikto, and your mom.
Youâd been assigned a driver by AMA for the trip, and thus, the all-black vehicle had arrived in the small hours of the morning as you had finished a hurried call to your matriarch.Â
âIâll be back soon, Mom,â youâd explained. âBusiness. Iâll keep me busy.â
She had said it was a good idea like everyone else. Aly and you were the only ones to know the truth. Dread was a fishhook in your throat, but the fear of staying here was just as prominent. Those pictures haunted your mind.
âNikto,â you ask, grabbing one of your suitcases on the street with a grunt. âCan youâŠ?â The item is taken and easily lifted into the trunk. âThank you,â your voice breathes out a sigh into the early morning air.
You hadnât been to Chelyabinsk in a long time. Your brain knew that it would be most of the sameâyou needed to be careful of who you spoke to and how you did it. While regular crime was only moderate, corruption and bribery was your main problem when entering the place. You were on Allurementâs payroll, would your CEOâs influence be enough to stop anyone from trying anything with you?Â
If you stuck to where you were told to go, you should be fine.Â
Along with yourself and Nikto, photographers and media know-hows would be tagging along; makeup artists and stylists. A team of people who mostly refuse to look at you at all, only a few familiar faces among them.Â
But, thankfully, only you and your guard would be in this car.Â
âYou can get in,â Nikto comments, blinking at you in the dark street, the lights of the car and the penthouse behind you all you have to differentiate between shades of black and gray. Your eyes had been constantly narrowed so you could try and see better. âI will load the rest.â
âIf itâs all the same to you,â you smile sheepishly, âIâd like to stay out until we leave. I get fidgety when Iâm in the car for too long.â
His shoulders shrug, taking another of your bags from the ground. âVery well. You will eat on the way there, then.â
Your eyes blink, attention pulled back from the shadow of a man walking across the street, raising hair on your arms.Â
âWhat was that?â You tilt your head.
Nikto huffs. âEat. On the way there.â He raises a brow. âYou need breakfast.â
âOh,â you at your neck slightly. âSure, yeah. But what about you? Do you want me to turn around or something so I wonât see your face?â
âNo need. We ate as you dressed. Packed the remaining for you.â Youâre brushed past, the purse around your shoulder connecting with Niktoâs thigh as his boots clop over the concrete.Â
Your lips twitch, expression still worried but the tease sneaking out instinctually. âI need to start calling you Mother Bear, Nikto.âÂ
âIt will be the last thing you do, Whelp,â he grumbles, eyes looking over his shoulder as he packs the last suitcase away. Amusement is like liquid stone inside of them.Â
So the trip ensued.Â
You entertained yourself by staring out of the window as the cityscape rolled back, already missing the sanctity of your penthouse as you fiddled with a small stuffed bird in your grip.Â
âI spyâŠâ you mumble twenty minutes in, trying to be normal again. âSomething tall and grayââ
âTree,â Nikto grunts, trying to read one of the books he packed.Â
âNo,â you say, defensively. âIt was,â your mouth opens and closes, scouring the passing scene but finding nothing. âFine, yes, it was a tree.â
âI spy something blue.â
âThatâs not even funny.â
âI believe it was funny. Perhaps you do not have a good sense of humor, Woman.â
You glare, throwing your stuffed bird directly at his forehead and watching it bounce off. Nikto doesnât even look away from the words on his page, flipping to the next with a deep chuckle in his neck.Â
Rolling your eyes, you groan and slouch into your seat.
You had to say, though, that as the city disappeared, so did your anxieties. It felt good to be near dense croppings of trees againâonly an open and uncrowded highway and Nikto beside you. His pale eyes would watch you every so often, and you would do the same, studying each other as time passed and a gradual silence fell.
âCan I use you as a pillow?â You ask with only an hour left on the trip.Â
Niktoâs halfway through his book, and up until now, youâd kept to yourself, lost in thought.Â
âI am not comfortable,â he utters, leg shifting. He glances, but his numb eyes donât do much until they move back to where they were prior. âAnd my Kevlar is hard. It will aggravate your head.âÂ
You had to wonder how fast he caught onto that fact about you. A smile grows on your face, and you shift to grab your jacket, folding it and tossing the item onto Niktoâs thigh. His head darts down right as you move to rest there, body sideways and legs folded against the door.Â
âI like it when you worryâitâs cute,â you stifle a yawn, ignoring his digging eyes. âWake me before we get there?âÂ
Your ears donât wait for an answer, your fatigue from missing an entire night of sleep catching up where Niktoâs never would. He watched you rest for the remainder of the ride, hand hovering over your shoulder until it slowly slipped down to rest on it with a grumble of exasperated Russian under his breath. But the man had noticed the bags under your eyesâunable to be hidden by makeup. He found it in himself to let you sleep, even if the infection of your warmth made his head go loose; how your slackened face looked peaceful.Â
The knowledge of what youâd just experienced was still with him, even as he linked his feelings together as pointless. This was a waiting game, and everyone else seemed to have time except for you.Â
He didnât like it. There was a nagging in the back of his gutâinstinctual understanding as a hired gun whoâd gone through many deployments. This was bigger; something was going to happen soon. A tipping point.
Nikto had a feeling you felt it too, as your head nuzzled his thigh in your sleep, shoving yourself into your jacket as tiny grunts moved from your lips; eyebrows furrowing.Â
Bad dream, the Russian clocked immediately, his book long placed at his side and his one elbow against the window frame.Â
Pale blue eyes watched for a moment, looking at your deep red blouse and the long back skirt that lightly cascaded over the side of the seats. His hand at your shoulderâhard and immobile, twitches as it tries to keep you steady, feeling the muscle under your flesh writhe.Â
Only when you canât seem to calm down does he do anything at all.Â
Nikto can easily stamp an expression of annoyance on his face, of bored numbness, but instead, a sliver of something that could be considered softness bleeds from behind his eyes; something that even if he were to look into a mirror, he couldnât name himself.Â
A finger brushes up your neck, scarred and broken, most of a finger missing and the nearest ones fuzzy with nerve damage. It hovers, steady, before his hand moves to massage along the base of your scar. Itâs an awkward angle, no mistake. After all, he was practically grabbing the side of your neck to reach, but it was all he could offer short of waking you.Â
When he couldnât sleep, heâd do the same to himself; it helped, he thought, feeling skin on skinâa caress that eases aches. Call it pathetic, but the sensations he was feeling doing the same to you were nothing short of trance-inducing. To understand the pulse of your heartâyour breath returns to a slow puff; brows settling back down at only his circling thumb.Â
A bit of that infectious pride trickles into his eyes; smug.Â
Nikto grunts, and leans back into his chair, continuing his work to settle you, and smirks softly under his mask.Â
Only roughly half an hour to go, and then it was back to guard duty. But perhaps he could close his eyes and rest as well.Â
These are the moments I live for, soft but kinda resilient little character seeping into the cracks of her protector like water into a block of ice. Most of it remains untouched, but then a almost invisible crack starts to show and you hear the structure beginning to crumble on itself... AAAAAAAA, soft!Nikto might be the favourite version of him so far, even though we still have to see him in actual action. LOVE the way you protest his dissociation episodes and now I'm even more intrigued with reader's incident... I AM ADORING ALL OF THIS... And I'm also extremely creeped out because I might want to reread the entire thing and trying to find out who the stalker is, I'm a bit clueless but that's even more good work on your part I guess... Thank you as always â€ïžâ€ïžâ€ïžâ€ïž