summary: Leon had planned to propose properly: flowers, dinner, the perfect speech. But after nearly dying in Spain with only your name in his mind, he realizes the perfect moment doesn’t matter anymore. Only coming home to you does.
warnings: re4!Leon x reader, established relationship, proposal, emotional hurt/comfort, Raccoon City trauma, mentions of injury and blood, Leon’s past trauma, references to parental substance abuse, nightmares, RE4 events, Las Plagas/infection mention, near-death thoughts, angst with a happy ending, soft intimacy mentioned but not explicit, marriage talk, children talk, Leon being deeply in love and emotionally wrecked, english is not my first language.
wc: 3.1k
author’s note: This was requested by @xfadesposts in here and I actually CRIED while writing it because I’m so weak for emotionally destroyed for yearner Leon. I hope I make you guys feel as much as I felt with this work. Thank you so much for reading and for being patient with my requests. I’m slowly working through them, I promise. ♡
I reccomend you to listen to Turning page of Sleeping at last for the part when Leon comes home spotify youtube 🖤.
tags: @defvia @causeofmykoophoria 🪽
Leon remembered Raccoon City for many things.
For the rain falling over a city that was dying in plain sight, while no one could do anything to save it, even though he tried with everything he had to stop a tragedy that had been doomed to spiral out of control from the moment it was planned.
But above all of that, he remembered you.
It didn’t make much sense, maybe. Not when that night had been made of death and monsters that seemed pulled straight out of some sick nightmare, monsters that had once been innocent people, victims of a fatal fate. It didn’t make sense either because he had barely been a rookie cop, full of dreams that were ripped away from him in a single night. Leon S. Kennedy had walked into Raccoon City believing he was about to start a life, and in just a matter of hours, that life had been buried beneath broken glass, dark hallways, and corpses rising from the floor.
And then he found you.
You were hiding in one of the back rooms of the police station, your back pressed against the wall, one hand clutching your side, your eyes wide with pure terror. There was blood on your shirt, on your fingers, along the trembling line of your jaw, but you weren’t infected. Leon knew it before you could say anything. He knew it from the way you were breathing, from the human, clean fear on your face, from the way you tried to move away from him when he came in with his gun raised.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he told you then, slowly lowering his weapon.
You didn’t believe him at first. How could you? That night, everything that moved was a threat.
Leon crouched down in front of you carefully, his face stained, his hair wet from the rain, his blue eyes filled with a sincere kind of concern, though not enough to make you stop shaking.
“Were you bitten?” You shook your head quickly.
“No. Someone pushed me against a window, and I-I cut myself.”
He swallowed, looked at the wound, and then looked back at you, unable to understand how you were still conscious after how deep the cuts were and how much blood you had lost. He bandaged you as best as he could — badly, probably — but even so, he did it with gentleness, murmuring for you to breathe, telling you that you were doing so well, that it was okay, that he was going to get you out of there.
And somehow, he did.
Life after Raccoon wasn’t easy for either of you. You carried your own nightmares: the memory of empty streets, the wound burning at your side, Leon’s hand holding you up when your legs almost gave out. He carried something darker.
Leon didn’t talk much about his childhood.
At first, you didn’t ask either. Over the years, you learned to recognize those wounds in the little things: in the way he tensed whenever someone raised their voice too much, in how uncomfortable he looked around any kind of affection he didn’t know how to return, in the way he punished himself for mistakes that hadn’t even been his. He had a complicated childhood, losing his parents to substance abuse.
And then you came along, stepping into his life like a ray of sunlight through a window that had been closed for years.
Not because you were perfect, but because, even after everything you had been through, there was still something warm inside you. You were beautiful in a way that left Leon breathless, yes; with the kind of beauty that made people look twice, the kind that seemed to light you up even on the days you didn’t realize it yourself.
For years, the two of you kept getting to know each other. At first through slightly awkward phone calls, nervous messages, and meetings that seemed casual even though neither of you truly felt them that way. You would meet for coffee, go on walks, talk about small things. Sometimes you laughed, and one thing led to another.
There wasn’t one exact moment when Leon realized he had fallen in love with you, but one of the biggest signs was when he started noticing that he thought of you when something went right, and also when everything went wrong. Or even the simple fact that he wanted to call you after a mission just to hear your voice.
And one night, after having dinner together, he walked you to your door. It was cold, and you had your hands hidden inside your sleeves, while Leon couldn’t stop looking at you, the nerves written all over his face.
“What?” you asked, with a shy smile.
He shook his head, but he smiled too. That small, embarrassed smile of his.
“Leon…” you said, giving him an even warmer smile.
“It’s just…” He ran a hand through his hair, nervous. Leon Kennedy, who had survived Raccoon City, who had faced things no human being should ever have to see, was standing in front of you like a boy who didn’t know what to do with his hands. “It’s just that I like you.”
You went still.
Leon let out a low, humorless laugh, looking down at the ground for a second before lifting his eyes back to yours.
“A lot. And I know everything is complicated, but I don’t want to keep pretending I only meet up with you because we have something in common, or because of Raccoon…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I meet up with you because I’m dying to see you.”
You didn’t know who moved first. You only knew that, all of a sudden, you were kissing him.
It was a clumsy kiss at first, soft. Leon touched your face, and you moved closer, and then he let out a breath against your mouth that sounded like years of restraint finally collapsing on top of him.
After that, Leon asked you out in such a Leon way that it still made you smile whenever you remembered how beautiful it had been.
He showed up with a bouquet of peonies, your favorites, because once, months earlier, you had mentioned almost without thinking that you found them beautiful, that there was something delicate and full of life about them. And Leon had remembered.
He also had a simple ring with him, a delicate, pretty piece. He gave it to you with his ears slightly red and the most vulnerable look you had ever seen on him.
“I don’t know how to say this, but…” he told you. “I just… I want to do this right with you. I want you to know I’m serious.”
You looked at the flowers, then at the ring, then at him.
“C-can I be your boyfriend?”
Leon turned even redder. You laughed, and he smiled in that way he only did when you were the one making him feel safe.
“Of course, Leon,” you said, with a smile that showed all your teeth.
From then on, you became his anchor.
You were the person he came back to when everything fell apart, the one who reminded him that he was still human when his job tried to turn him into a killing machine, the one who touched his hand in the middle of the night when nightmares tore him out of sleep.
Your first time together was just as imperfect and beautiful as everything about the two of you.
Neither of you really knew what you were doing, not truly. There were nerves, soft laughter, hands trembling a little, and tenderness in every single gesture. Leon asked you several times if you were okay, if you wanted to stop, if this was alright, looking at you as if you were something sacred, as if he was terrified of hurting you even when you assured him that you trusted him.
Leon held you carefully, kissed you, and made you feel wanted in every possible way. And when it was over, he didn’t pull away from you as if it had only been desire. That night wasn’t perfect because either of you knew exactly what to do. It was perfect because you loved each other with an enormous kind of honesty.
And for a while, Leon allowed that happiness to exist. After so many years, he let someone into his life through things as simple as your clothes in his laundry basket, the scent your shampoo left in his shower, mornings when he woke up before you and stayed there watching you sleep, wondering what kind of twisted miracle had led someone like him to end up with someone like you.
Sometimes, he thought about marrying you.
He thought about a quiet house far away from the horrors that seemed to chase him no matter the country, a dog sleeping at the foot of the bed, finding you in the kitchen, kissing the back of your neck, listening to you complain about some everyday little thing as if life had never been cruel to either of you, he even thought about having children.
Before leaving for Spain, Leon had already bought the ring.
It was beautiful, with a diamond, tucked inside a velvet box inside a drawer that Leon opened and closed like an idiot every time he was alone.
He had planned to ask you when he came back.
Not before, because he didn’t want to leave you with a promise in your hand and the possibility that he might not be able to keep it. Leon knew far too well what it was like to wait for a phone call that could destroy your life, so he left without saying anything. He kissed your forehead, promised you he would come back, and took the ring with him.
But Spain was worse than he had expected.
The mission began with the search for Ashley Graham and ended up becoming a descent into another kind of hell. Leon moved through mud, blood, and screams in a language he only half understood, his gun always ready and his body running on instinct.
But his mind kept coming back to you.
It came back to you when he washed his hands in freezing water and saw that the blood wouldn’t fully come off. It came back to you when Ashley asked him, during a brief pause between horrors, if he had someone waiting for him back home. Leon didn’t answer at first. He only adjusted the magazine in his gun and looked into the darkness.
“Yeah,” he said at last, his voice quieter. “I do.”
Ashley didn’t push, but she smiled a little, as if that answer was enough to understand something important.
Leon thought about how much you loved it when he brought you peonies and you saw them in a vase in the kitchen first thing in the morning. He thought about the night you had fallen asleep on his couch, your cheek resting against his thigh and one of your hands holding his.
He thought of you when he almost died.
When pain tore through his body and the infection tried to turn his thoughts into something foreign, Leon clung to your name like a rope. Sometimes he repeated it inside his head. Your face appeared to him in the most absurd moments: between gunshots, between running, between being slammed against damp stone walls.
When he passed out before knowing he was going to be cured, you were the only thing in his head. He was angry at the thought of leaving you alone, angry that he hadn’t been strong enough to make it back to you. But when the pain grew so intense that he could barely even feel hatred anymore, he found himself satisfied by the fact that, even if his life had been condemned to tragedy, he had had you. He would die knowing what it meant to love and be loved by someone unconditionally.
Finally, when Leon was cured thanks to Luis’ work, he started to believe in fate, or in any kind of religious entity if one truly existed. Luis’ death had been a tragedy, but maybe it was also a sign that Leon had been given a second chance at life, a second chance to come back to you.
When it was all over, when Ashley was safe, Leon didn’t rest. His body was exhausted, covered in wounds, but he could only think about one thing, getting back to you.
He didn’t remember the drive clearly. He only remembered the steering wheel beneath his hands, the road stretching ahead of him at an almost reckless speed. But after spending days believing he might never see you again, every traffic light, every curve, every second away from you felt like an offense.
The ring was in his pocket, he had stared at it for a moment before he started driving, still carrying the marks of the mission on his skin and his heart beating violently against his ribs.
He had planned something better. In his mind, there had been flowers, probably peonies again, dinner, a speech. But Leon no longer believed in waiting for the perfect moment. The perfect moment was a lie life used to steal the things you wanted to say.
When he knocked on the door of your apartment, it was an impossible hour of the night.
You opened it with messy hair, your face still marked by sleep, fear breaking through your eyes the second you saw him. Because Leon was there, yes, alive, but he was also pale, exhausted, wounded, with such a broken expression on his face that your hand flew to your mouth.
“Leon…”
He didn’t say anything at first. He only stared at you, as if he needed to make sure you were real, as if everything he had endured in Spain had been for this exact point: you standing in the doorway, breathing in front of him, looking at him with tears in your eyes.
You took a step toward him, but before you could touch him, before you could hug him, before you could even ask where it hurt, Leon dropped to his knees in front of you.
“Leon!” Panic shot through you.
You crouched down immediately, thinking he was collapsing, that he was worse than he looked, but he lifted one hand, stopping you with trembling gentleness.
“No. No, I’m okay. I’m…” He swallowed, and his eyes filled with tears before he could pretend otherwise. “Fuck…”
Your breath caught when you saw him pull the small box from his pocket.
The world went still again, like the night you met, like the day he showed up with peonies and a simple ring, nervous and beautiful, asking you for a chance. Only now, Leon was looking at you like a man who had almost lost everything and had decided never to keep quiet again.
“I had a speech,” he said, his voice breaking. “I had it planned before I left. I was going to do it right. Take you to dinner, buy flowers…”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
Leon opened the box, and the diamond shone beneath the warm light of the hallway, so beautiful it almost looked unreal between his fingers, which were still covered in tiny cuts.
“But I almost didn’t come back,” he continued. “And all I could think about there, every time I thought I wasn’t going to make it out, was you. I could only think that I couldn’t die without seeing you again.”
You covered your mouth with one hand, trying to hold back a sob.
Leon took a deep breath, but everything about him was shaking: his voice, his hands, his shoulders. That man, the one who had survived Raccoon City, monsters, and wars no one would ever know about, was kneeling in front of you as if you were the only thing capable of destroying him.
“I’ve wanted a life with you for a long time,” he said. “And I’m scared to admit that, because every time I’ve wanted something real, life has found a way to rip it away from me. But you… you’ve been my home since before I even knew I needed one.”
Your face crumpled completely, he swallowed again.
“When I found you in Raccoon, you were hurt and terrified, and I still remember looking at you and thinking I had to get you out of there. I didn’t know why it mattered so much. I didn’t know anything about you. But there was something in you that was still alive in the middle of all of that. Something good. Something warm. And over the years…” He smiled faintly, his eyes bright. “Over the years, you became the best part of my life.”
Leon glanced down at the ring for a second, as if he needed to gather his courage.
“You’ve seen me at my worst. You’ve seen the parts of me I try to hide: the anger, the fear, the nightmares, everything I don’t know how to say without saying it wrong. And yet you love me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to explain what that did to me.”
You were already crying, unable to stop yourself, so was he.
“I want to marry you,” he said, more firmly, even though his voice was still broken. “I want to wake up with you every day life allows me to. I want a dog that will probably hate me and love you more. I want to argue about stupid things. I want to make you coffee. I want to watch you grow old. I want…” His voice cracked. “I want a life. With you.”
Leon lifted the ring toward you.
“And if someday we can, and if we feel ready, I want children with you too. Not because I think that would fix anything. Not because I think love erases what happened to us. But because when I look at you, for the first time in my life, I think maybe something good could come from me. From us.”
You crouched down in front of him, unable to stay standing any longer.
Leon let out a trembling breath when your hands cupped his face.
“You don’t have to say yes right now,” he rushed to say, as if fear had caught up with him all at once. “I know it’s a lot, and I know I just showed up here in the middle of the night, looking like hell, and this isn’t fair to you. I just needed to say it. I needed you to know because I almost—”
You didn’t let him finish.
You kissed him.
It was a kiss salted by tears, clumsy from urgency. Leon made a small sound against your mouth, something relieved, and let you hold him as if he could finally set down the weight he had been carrying. When you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Leon went still.
“Yes?”
You laughed through your tears.
“Yes, baby. I want to marry you.”
For a second, Leon didn’t react. He only looked at you as if he hadn’t understood, as if his exhausted mind couldn’t process that something this good was actually happening.
Leon slipped the ring onto your finger with trembling hands. It took him a moment, because he was crying, his vision blurred with tears, and because you were shaking too. But when the diamond settled on your finger, beautiful and bright, the two of you stared at it as if it were more than a piece of jewelry.
You hugged him then, tightly, careful not to hurt him, and Leon sank into you as if he had been waiting for that embrace since Spain, since Raccoon, maybe even long before that. He buried his face in your neck and breathed in deeply, once, twice, three times, as if he needed to convince himself that he had really made it back.
And for the first time in a long time, Leon believed that life gave second chances because you existed.
hope you enjoyed it! i'm open to any requests! follow me on ao3 too here
summary: requested by this anon ♡ Leon comes home from a mission quieter than usual, and you try to give him the kind of peace he never knows how to ask for. But when a nightmare pulls him somewhere far away from you, he wakes up to something he can barely forgive himself for: hurting you.
warnings: re4!leon x reader, heavy angst with fluff, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, PTSD/nightmares, trauma response, accidental violence during sleep, choking/strangulation, panic, guilt, crying, emotional breakdown, mentions/allusions to Leon’s childhood trauma, mentions of past abuse/neglect, Raccoon City trauma, self-hatred, fear of hurting a loved one, intense emotional distress, comfort after a traumatic incident, english is not the authors first language.
wc : 6k.
author's note: sorry this took me so long to post. This one needed more time than I expected, mostly because I really wanted to handle Leon’s trauma and vulnerability with the weight they deserved instead of rushing it. Thank you for being patient with me and for sending requests in general — I promise I’m still working through them. Some take me longer than others, especially when they get this emotionally heavy, but I haven’t forgotten about them. This fic deals with PTSD, nightmares and accidental harm during sleep, so please read with care — nothing here is meant to romanticize trauma or violence♡.
Leon and you had been together for a few years.
You knew he was a special agent and, unfortunately, one of the very few survivors of Raccoon City, something that had left a deep scar on his mental health and marked the rest of his life. It was part of the reason he did what he did now.
You met one night at a bar because you had a few mutual friends. When Leon saw you for the first time, he was stunned by your beauty. No exaggeration, it was like everything around you disappeared. He only had eyes for you and that warm, loving light you seemed to carry with you.
Leon hadn’t had an easy childhood. His parents had struggled with substance abuse, so he had been raised by his grandparents, and when they passed away, the emotional emptiness he already carried only grew heavier. When he first started talking to you, everything was a little awkward and cliché: the cold, guarded boy and the sunshine girl.
The first day he saw you, he was far too embarrassed to approach you. Even though Leon was objectively handsome, he was deeply insecure about himself. It was at another gathering with your mutual friends that he finally worked up the courage to come closer. He started with dumb jokes, the kind that didn’t usually make many people laugh, but they always managed to pull a smile from you, and every time that happened, Leon melted a little more inside.
You began texting, then started meeting up more often, and he always offered to drive you home. Until one of those nights, outside the entrance of your building, you shared your first kiss: innocent, genuine, nervous. Not long after, you officially started dating, and since then, your relationship had been good. Really good.
Of course, it was hard not being able to see Leon much whenever he was away on missions, but you knew he was out there protecting thousands of people.
For Leon, however, the beginning of your relationship was a little harder. Not because of you. Never because of you. He considered you, even if he rarely said it out loud, the best thing that had ever happened to him. His life had always felt like a stormy sea, dark and violent, full of whirlpools of pain since he was old enough to remember, and then you had arrived like a warm breeze, pulling him out of his own mind. That was exactly why he felt so terribly guilty sometimes. He thought he wasn’t good enough for you, that you deserved something better than him, even if there were moments when you managed to make him believe, just a little, that he was worthy of being loved.
It was supposed to be a quiet night in the apartment you had shared for years.
Outside, it was cold. The city was wet from the thin rain that had been falling since late afternoon, and the headlights of passing cars reflected against the asphalt like blurry stains of color. Inside, though, everything was warm. The heating was on, a blanket lay abandoned on the couch, two mugs had been left on the coffee table, and a movie was playing softly in the background.
Leon had come home only a few hours earlier.
He hadn’t told you much about the mission, like he usually did whenever something had gone worse than expected. Over time, you had learned to read him without needing to ask. You knew the difference between when he was truly tired and when he was simply pretending to be tired so he wouldn’t worry you.
That night, it was the second one.
He had showered as soon as he got home, changed into clean clothes, and left his jacket hanging over the back of a chair. He was wearing a dark shirt and comfortable pants, his hair still slightly damp, his jaw tight with that tension that always settled there when his mind was still somewhere else, even if his body had already made it back home.
Still, he was trying to be there with you.
That was what hurt the most about Leon sometimes. Even when he was destroyed, he still found a way to sit beside you, ask about your day, listen to you talk about any domestic nonsense as if that alone was enough to convince him the world could still be a livable place. He had asked if you had eaten, if you had gotten home from work safely, if the bathroom light had started flickering again — the one he had been promising to fix for weeks, though there was always another mission before he could.
“You’re very quiet,” you said from the kitchen as you put away the glass you had just washed.
Leon was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you in a way that wasn’t exactly sad, but not peaceful either. He looked like he was trying to memorize you. The shape of your face under the yellow kitchen light, your comfortable clothes, the way you moved around your home like everything there was safe.
Like he was safe too.
“I’m fine,” he answered.
He was terrible at lying when it came to you.
You turned around slowly, drying your hands with a towel, and looked at him with that expression of yours that always managed to make him lower his guard, even when he didn’t want to. Leon held your gaze for a few seconds, then looked away with a small exhale through his nose, almost a laugh, but without any humor in it.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Leon said, something close to pleading hidden in his voice.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re reading my mind.”
You approached him calmly, without crowding him too much at first, because you had also learned there were nights when Leon needed to be held tightly, and others when he first needed to remember he was allowed to be touched. You placed a hand against his chest and felt the uneven rhythm of his breathing beneath your palm.
“I don’t need to know everything,” you murmured. “I just want you to rest.”
The way his eyes softened was almost unbearable.
Leon lowered his gaze to your hand on his chest and, for a moment, he looked much younger. Like a boy. Not the trained agent, not the survivor, not the man the government called whenever the world started falling apart. Just Leon. The same Leon who had approached you years ago with a terrible joke, pretending to have a confidence he didn’t really possess, and who had stared at you as if he couldn’t understand what you could possibly see in someone like him. The same boy who had only ever wanted love from his family.
“Sometimes it’s hard to come back,” he confessed suddenly.
He didn’t say it dramatically. He didn’t even look at you when he said it. He said it quietly, like he was ashamed of admitting it. Like speaking about it in the middle of such a normal life would somehow stain it.
You didn’t answer right away. You only lifted your hand to his neck, gently stroking his skin with your thumb. Leon closed his eyes for a second.
“But you do come back, Leon,” you told him, caressing his cheek. “That’s so much more incredible than you think.”
You led him to the couch, and Leon let you.
He let you sit him down, let you cover him with the blanket, let his head fall back as you settled beside him. The movie kept playing on the screen, but neither of you paid attention to it. You talked for a while, more to fill the silence than because you had anything important to say. You told him about a woman who had cut in line at the supermarket, about a package that had been delayed, about something silly on your phone that had made you laugh, and Leon listened carefully.
Every now and then, his fingers found yours beneath the blanket. He didn’t say anything, but he squeezed your hand a little tighter whenever you laughed.
Later, when the weight of the night started settling over the apartment, you noticed his eyes were far too tired.
He almost never slept well after coming home from a mission. Some nights, he stayed awake until dawn, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, trying not to make a sound. Other nights, he fell asleep from pure exhaustion and woke up startled an hour later, chest rising and falling too fast, his hand instinctively searching for something that wasn’t there anymore.
You knew about his nightmares. You knew the names he sometimes muttered without meaning to, the places he returned to whenever he closed his eyes.
But that night, he seemed too exhausted even to fight sleep.
“Let’s go to bed, baby,” you whispered sweetly, running your fingers through his hair.
Leon opened his eyes slowly, like he had been seconds away from falling asleep sitting up.
The bedroom was dim when you got into bed. From there, the rain sounded softer, barely a murmur against the window, and the streetlight slipped through the curtains, drawing pale lines over the sheets. Leon lay on his back at first, stiff, one arm resting over his stomach, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. You turned toward him without saying anything. A few seconds passed before he lifted his arm.
You moved closer slowly, resting your head on his chest, and he wrapped his arm around you carefully. Your hand stayed against his side, feeling his breathing slowly begin to match yours.
You fell asleep before he did.
The last thing you remembered was his hand stroking your back in slow, repetitive movements, almost unconscious.
For a while, everything was quiet.
Then something changed.
It wasn’t a loud noise or a sudden movement at first. It was a small tension in Leon’s body. A nearly imperceptible hardening beneath your cheek. His breathing, which had been heavy and deep until then, began to break into strange intervals, as if something inside him was dragging his sleep toward a darker place. You didn’t fully wake up. You only frowned, still trapped in that confused space between sleep and consciousness.
Leon moved, barely at first, then with more force.
His arm, which had been resting over your waist, tightened around you. His fingers closed around the fabric of your shirt, and his breathing grew faster, more agitated. He muttered something you couldn’t understand.
“Leon…” you whispered, your voice thick with sleep.
You lifted your head, propping yourself up on one elbow, trying to see his face through the shadows. His brows were furrowed, his eyes squeezed shut too tightly, his jaw clenched. He didn’t look like he was simply asleep.
He looked trapped.
Like something invisible was pressing down on him from the inside, forcing him to relive a scene you couldn’t see.
“Baby,” you murmured, touching his shoulder gently. “Leon, wake up.”
One second, you were sitting up on the mattress.
The next, he had moved with a violence that knocked the air out of you from sheer shock. You didn’t understand what was happening at first. You only felt the weight of his body turning toward you, one hand pushing you down against the bed and the other closing around your throat.
For the first few seconds, your mind refused to accept what was happening.
It was Leon. Your Leon. The same man who brushed your hair away from your face when you fell asleep on the couch, the same one who held your hand in the street without realizing it, the same one who apologized if he brushed against you too roughly while passing through a narrow doorway.
That was why it took you a moment to feel fear.
Because before fear, there was confusion.
“Leon…” you tried to say.
Your voice barely came out.
He was still asleep. Or somewhere worse than sleep. His face was distorted, washed in the weak light from the window, but there was nothing conscious in his expression. He wasn’t looking at you. He wasn’t seeing you. His breathing came out harsh, furious, desperate, like he was fighting someone who wasn’t you.
You tried to pull his hand away gently at first. Still with that absurd part of your mind trying not to scare him, trying to wake him without hurting him.
“Leon… it’s me…”
But the pressure increased.
Your fingers closed around his wrist with more force. You tried to move your head, to pull away, but you were trapped against the mattress and he was too heavy. Your legs shifted under the sheets, kicking clumsily against the bed. The sound of your breathing turned horrible, weak and broken, trying to find oxygen where there wasn’t any.
Your nails dug into his skin. You pulled at his hands, tried to say his name again, but only a strangled sound came out, almost unrecognizable. Tears filled your eyes before you could stop them.
And the worst part was that it was still Leon.
His hair fell over his forehead the way it always did. His shirt smelled like detergent and him. The hand stealing the air from your lungs was the same hand that had been stroking your back to help you fall asleep less than an hour earlier.
The contradiction was so cruel that a part of you couldn’t process it.
Then, somehow, you managed to touch his face.
It wasn’t a strong hit. Barely a clumsy, desperate tap against his cheek. But it was enough for Leon to suck in a sharp breath, as if something had violently dragged him up from underwater.
Then he looked at you.
And that second was almost worse than everything before it, because you saw consciousness return to him little by little. His eyes dropped to his own hand, still closed around your throat.
Leon let go of you as if you had burned him.
He backed away so quickly he almost fell off the bed, hitting the nightstand without even noticing. You half sat up, bringing both hands to your throat as you coughed violently, trying to drag air back into your lungs. Every breath scraped. Your throat burned. The sound that came out of you didn’t seem like your own.
Leon was standing on the other side of the bed.
The pale light from the window carved across his face, and you had never seen him like that. Not even after a mission. Not even when he had come home covered in wounds, his gaze lost.
This was different.
This was naked, absolute horror.
“No…” he murmured.
It was barely air.
You were still coughing. You tried to look at him, tried to say something, but you couldn’t. Your throat wouldn’t obey.
Leon took a step toward you by instinct, then stopped.
His eyes fell back to your neck, to the marks already beginning to turn red against your skin. The color drained from his face.
“No, no, no…” he repeated, this time with his voice breaking as he brought both hands to his head. “Oh my God. Oh my God, what did I do?”
The room filled with an unbearable silence.
Leon looked like he didn’t even dare to blink. His eyes were fixed on you, but not like before. Not with the quiet tenderness he had when he watched you in the kitchen or on the couch. He looked at you like you were living proof of everything he feared most about himself.
“Leon…” you finally managed to say.
Your voice came out hoarse, damaged, almost unrecognizable.
He brought a hand to his mouth, like he was going to be sick. His shoulders collapsed forward and he shook his head over and over again, unable to accept your broken voice, your marked throat, your wet eyes still trying to understand him even then.
You tried to move toward the edge of the bed. You didn’t know if you wanted to hug him, calm him down, or simply make sure he was there too, that both of you had made it back from that nightmare.
But the second he saw you trying to get closer, Leon stepped back.
“No,” he said, with a desperate urgency. “Don’t come near me.”
“Leon, you were asleep…” you said, your voice slowly clearing.
You stayed seated on the bed, struggling to breathe, while he began to fall apart in front of you in a silent, horrible way. Leon didn’t cry like other people. He didn’t allow himself to collapse completely. He only went very still. Too still. His jaw barely trembling, his eyes shining with a guilt that looked like it was eating him alive from the inside.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
He couldn’t.
“Leon.”
It took him several seconds to obey. When he finally lifted his gaze, there was so much fear in his eyes that for a moment, you forgot the pain in your throat. Leon Kennedy, the man who had survived monsters, dying cities, missions that would have destroyed anyone else, was looking at you like a terrified child who had just discovered his nightmares could crawl out of his head and touch the only good thing he had.
“I thought…” he started, but the sentence broke before it could go anywhere. “I was there again. I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell the difference. Someone was on top of me, or I was… I don’t know. I don’t know what I saw. I just know that when I opened my eyes, it was you and I…”
Leon tore his eyes away from your neck and pushed both hands into his hair, tugging at it with such raw desperation that it hurt to watch. His breathing began to break, first in short, dry bursts, then into a sob he tried to swallow but that came out anyway, ugly and devastating.
He bent forward, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and head lowered, as if the weight of everything he had spent years burying had fallen on him all at once.
“No,” he repeated, but it no longer sounded like an order meant for you. It sounded like a plea against himself. “No, no, no… God, no.”
Leon broke with a choked, almost childlike sound, bringing one hand to his mouth as if he was ashamed you could hear him. His chest tightened, his shoulders began to shake, and suddenly there was no agent, no survivor, no man capable of walking into hell and coming out alive even if it tore him apart.
There was only Leon, barefoot in the dark bedroom, crying like he had become the boy who learned too early that no one was coming to save him.
“I can’t do this to you,” he said between sobs, almost breathless. “Not to you. Not you.”
You moved slowly, with all the care in the world, as if any sudden gesture could make him believe he was still inside the nightmare. You got out of bed without coming too close, keeping your hands visible, your voice low and soft, even though you were trembling inside too.
“Leon, look at me for a second.”
He shook his head, pressing his fingers to his eyes.
“No. I can’t look at you after…” The sentence died in his mouth. He sobbed again, harder this time, with a broken anger that seemed to come from somewhere very old. “I saw your face. I saw your face and I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know if it was you, I didn’t know if I was there, I didn’t know if it was…” He ran out of voice, breathing too fast. “And my hands were on your throat.”
“You were asleep.”
Leon’s head snapped up.
His eyes were red, bright, full of a guilt so wild it looked like he was hating himself with everything he had.
“What if I hadn’t woken up?” he asked, his voice destroyed. “What if next time I don’t wake up? What if you can’t…” He choked on the sentence, pressed a hand to his chest, and shut his eyes like he was going to be sick. “I can’t. I can’t touch you. I can’t be near you.”
That hurt more than the mark on your throat.
Because you knew him. Leon was scared, trying to tear himself out of your life before, in his mind, he could destroy it. He was the same man who blamed himself for cities he couldn’t save, for partners he couldn’t bring back, for decisions made when he was barely more than a boy in a uniform too big for him, a gun in his hand. He was Leon locking himself back inside that dark room from his childhood, where no one had ever taught him that love could stay even when he was a mess.
“I’m not going to leave you just because you’re scared,” you murmured.
“Please,” he said then, and that word completely disarmed you. “Please don’t make this harder.”
You stayed still. Not because you wanted to obey him, but because you understood that coming closer without permission, right then, could sink him even further. Leon was trembling all over. His breathing was out of control, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white, and still, he couldn’t stop staring at your neck.
“Okay,” you whispered. “I’m not going to touch you if you don’t want me to. But stay here with me. Breathe with me.”
He didn’t answer.
“Look at my hand,” you said, lifting it slowly between the two of you. “Just that. Don’t look at my neck. Don’t look at anything else. Look at my hand.”
Leon swallowed. It took him an awful effort, but eventually he obeyed. His eyes dropped to your fingers as you opened and closed them slowly, giving him a simple, almost silly rhythm, as if you were calling back a part of him that had been trapped somewhere else.
“Breathe in with me,” you asked. “One… two… three…”
His chest rose shakily.
“That’s it. Now let it out.”
The air left him broken.
The second breath was worse than the first. The third too. But by the fourth, his shoulders lowered just a little, enough for you to see he was trying to come back.
“You’re not there,” you told him softly. “You’re home, with me. Your boots are by the door because you never put them away properly, even though you swear you do.”
Leon made a sound that almost became a laugh, but turned into another sob instead.
“And I’m here,” you continued. “I’m alive.”
He covered his face with both hands.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and then again, lower, more broken. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to open your eyes and see that the only person who…” His mouth trembled, unable to say it without falling apart. “The only person who has ever made me feel safe was scared of me.”
That was when you couldn’t stop your own eyes from filling with tears.
Because Leon never said things like that. Never so clearly. He loved you in small, quiet, almost clumsy acts sometimes. Checking your car before a trip. Leaving you the warm side of the bed when he got up earlier. Making coffee even when his hands were shaking after a bad night. Staying awake watching the door while you slept.
Hearing him admit you were his safe place while he hated himself for making you afraid was too much.
“Leon,” you said, taking one tiny step closer. “I was scared of what was happening. Not of you.”
The sentence came out so small that for a moment, you stopped seeing the grown man in front of you. You saw the boy who had probably learned to hide in silence, not to ask for help, not to cry too loudly because no one would comfort him, or because crying only made things worse. You saw the teenager who probably grew up believing affection always came with conditions, that tenderness could disappear at any second, that if someone touched him, it was safer to prepare for the blow. You saw that twenty-one-year-old boy who arrived in Raccoon City with his whole life ahead of him and left with eyes that looked older forever.
And you understood Leon wasn’t only crying because of that night.
He was crying for all the nights of his life.
“Come to the bathroom with me,” you whispered.
He looked up, confused, still soaked in tears.
“What?”
“Not for anything weird. Just… come. Let’s wash our faces. Both of us.”
You walked toward the door slowly, without touching him. At first, you thought he wouldn’t follow. You heard him breathing behind you, too still, too lost. But a few seconds later, the mattress creaked, and his footsteps appeared behind you, uncertain.
In the bathroom, the light was too white.
You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror: messy hair, wet eyes, your throat marked. Leon saw it too. He froze in the doorway, jaw clenched, and for a second you thought he was going to leave.
“Don’t look at that right now,” you asked him.
“How can I not look at it?”
“Because right now I need you to look at me.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t. He just stood there, broken and obedient, his eyes lowering to your face as if he expected to find hatred there.
He didn’t.
He only found exhaustion, fear still, yes, but also love.
So much love.
You turned on the faucet and waited until the water ran warm. You soaked a small towel, wrung it out, and moved closer to him, stopping before touching his face.
“Can I?”
Leon swallowed. His eyes filled again. He nodded once, barely, and you lifted the towel to his cheek.
You cleaned him with a tenderness that almost hurt. You passed the damp fabric beneath his eyes, along his jaw, over his trembling mouth as he tried to hold back more sobs. Leon closed his eyes when you touched his forehead, and suddenly he looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
He was exhausted from waking up every night ready to fight ghosts no one else could see.
“You were little,” you murmured, not really knowing whether you meant the nightmare, Raccoon, his childhood, or all of it at once. “Too little for everything that happened to you. And then the world just kept asking for more.” You wiped away another tear before it could fall. “More strength, more cold blood, more missions…”
Leon lowered his head.
This time, when he cried, he didn’t try to hide it as quickly. The sound came from deep in his chest, raw and aching, and you set the towel down on the sink so you could hold his face between your hands. He tensed at first, but he didn’t pull away.
“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he confessed, his voice barely there. “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to… stop. When I was a kid, I learned not to make noise, not to bother anyone, to hold on until it passed. After Raccoon…” He shut his eyes tightly. “Just more orders, more dead people. And then you came along, and for the first time I thought maybe I could have something clean. Something that wasn’t rotten because of everything I’ve touched.”
It hurt to hear him talk about himself like that.
“You’re not rotten, Leon,” you told him, frowning at his words.
“You don’t know how many things I’ve done.”
“I know how you love me.”
He opened his eyes, ruined.
You stroked his cheekbones with your thumbs. Leon closed his eyes again and rested his forehead against yours with a trembling slowness, like such a simple gesture scared him and soothed him at the same time.
“I want to shower,” he murmured suddenly. “I need to… get this off me.”
You prepared the shower while he sat on the closed toilet lid, staring at a fixed point on the floor, fingers intertwined, shoulders collapsed. You left a clean towel nearby and adjusted the water until it was warm. You didn’t try to make it romantic. There was nothing like that in that moment. Only care. Only real intimacy, the kind that asks for nothing but to hold the other person when they can’t hold themselves.
When he stepped under the water, he left the shower door partly open, maybe because the idea of being completely alone with his head scared him. You sat on the bathroom floor, leaning your back against the sink cabinet, so he could see you if he opened his eyes.
At first, he said nothing.
The water fell over his hair, down his neck and back, and Leon pressed one hand against the wall, lowering his head. His shoulders started shaking again. This time, he didn’t do it silently. He cried with the water falling over him, his breathing broken, one hand covering his mouth and the other gripping the tile, as if that shower were the only place where he could let himself fall apart.
“I’m here,” you reminded him very softly.
Leon nodded without looking at you, but his fingers loosened slightly against the wall.
When he stepped out, wrapped in a towel, wet hair sticking to his forehead, he looked younger. Not calmer yet, but less far away. His eyes were swollen, his face clean, his skin flushed from the hot water, and there was such obvious fragility to him that you wanted to hug him until the whole world went quiet.
You handed him a clean shirt. He took it with clumsy fingers.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Come here.”
This time, he didn’t step back.
You moved closer slowly and dried his hair with another towel, rubbing gently, careful not to make any sudden movements. Leon let you, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his gaze lowered and his hands resting on his knees. Every now and then, a late sob escaped him, one of those that linger after the worst of the crying has passed.
Leon had never received this as a child.
You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head, barely brushing him.
Then, with a slowness that almost undid you, he rested his forehead against your stomach and closed his eyes.
He didn’t hug you at first. He only stayed there. Then you lowered one hand to his damp hair and the other to the back of his neck, holding him carefully.
It was enough.
Leon let out a trembling breath and wrapped his arms around your waist. Not tightly, not like before, but with fear, with reverence, as if he were holding something sacred he never wanted to break again.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your shirt.
You returned to the bedroom without rushing.
You changed the sheets because Leon couldn’t look at the bed without tensing, and you didn’t argue. You let him do something useful: gather the old sheets, open the window for a few seconds, adjust the pillows. You knew he needed to feel like his hands could be used to care, not only destroy.
After everything was clean and the room smelled faintly of cold air and soap, you turned off the main light and left only the bedside lamp on.
Leon stood beside the bed.
“I can sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t want you to sleep on the couch,” you answered quickly. “You can stay on the other side of the bed. We can leave space between us. We can keep the light on. We can do whatever you need, but I don’t want you punishing yourself.”
His eyes filled with tears again, though this time they didn’t fall with the same violence. He looked too exhausted even to hate himself.
“What do you need?” he asked.
The question touched something deep inside you.
“I need you to listen when I tell you I’m still here. And I need you not to push me away.”
Leon nodded.
You got into bed carefully. He lay on his back, rigid, hands on his chest, staring at the ceiling. You turned toward him. For a while, you didn’t touch him. You only watched him breathe, noticing how every muscle in his body still seemed ready to run.
“Leon.”
He barely turned his head.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question seemed to hurt him and comfort him at the same time.
“Yes,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it.
You moved just close enough to kiss his cheek.
Once.
Then again, a little higher.
Then his temple, where his hair was still damp. His forehead, over a crease of tension that refused to disappear. The bridge of his nose. His cheekbone, just beneath his eye, where the salty trace of tears still lingered.
Leon closed his eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured.
You gave him another kiss on the cheek.
“You’re good, Leon.”
His breath caught.
Tears slipped out again, silent this time, sliding toward his temples. You kissed the corner of his mouth with such tenderness it was barely a touch. You only wanted him to know your love hadn’t been extinguished by fear.
“You are not your nightmares,” you whispered. “You are not what they did to you, or Raccoon, or the hands of whoever hurt you when you were little. You’re Leon. My Leon. And you’re here with me.”
He turned his face toward you, completely disarmed.
“I’m scared to sleep.”
“Then don’t sleep yet. Stay with me.”
Leon swallowed and nodded, though every part of him still looked like it wanted to keep apologizing until his voice gave out.
He watched you for a few seconds, as if he were still asking for permission in silence, and then he moved toward you with a broken, almost ashamed slowness. He didn’t hug you all at once. First, he rested his forehead against your chest, right above your heartbeat, and when he heard it still there, alive and steady beneath his ear, something in him finally surrendered.
His arms wrapped carefully around your waist, still trembling, and he clung to you as if you were the only thing capable of keeping him in the present. You ran a hand through his hair slowly, feeling his breathing fall apart against your shirt in small, exhausted sobs, and Leon squeezed his eyes shut, hiding his face in you like a child who had finally found a safe place to break without being left alone.
“When I was little,” he whispered against your chest, “sometimes I imagined someone coming into my room and telling me I could sleep. That I didn’t have to watch the door. That I didn’t have to listen for footsteps.”
You moved a little closer and covered his face in small, slow kisses, placing them wherever the pain seemed to have settled. His forehead. His temple. His cheek. His closed eyelid. The tip of his nose. His tense jaw.
Leon slowly stopped crying.
“You can sleep,” you told him softly. “I’m here. The door is closed. No one is going to hurt you. I’m with you.”
His mouth trembled one last time.
Leon closed his eyes.
For a moment, you thought he was going to cry again, but he only let out a long, tired, almost defeated sigh. The tension in his shoulders began to loosen very slowly, like a rope that had finally stopped being pulled to the point of snapping.
“I love you,” he murmured, his voice so small it seemed to come from some hidden place inside him.
“I love you too.”
Leon kept looking at your face through half-lidded eyes, as if he needed to check one more time that you were still there, that you hadn’t become another loss, that the night hadn’t taken away the only good thing he allowed himself to want.
You stroked his knuckles with your thumb, slowly, over and over again, until his breathing began to match yours.
In the end, Leon fell asleep without letting go of you.
It wasn’t a deep sleep at first. His brow furrowed every now and then, his hand tightened over yours, and every small sound in the apartment seemed to brush against his skin even while he slept. But he wasn’t alone inside his head anymore. Every time his breathing changed, you whispered his name gently, and he came back.
And when his body finally surrendered completely, Leon searched for your warmth, his face calmer than you had seen it all night.
You pressed one last kiss to his forehead.
“That’s it, love,” you whispered, even though he could barely hear you anymore. “Rest. You don’t have to survive tonight anymore.”
hope you enjoyed it! i'm open to any requests! follow me on ao3 too here
Notes: reader is washing her and her clothes! Just a little blurb or whateva of reader cleaning Leon :P No specific timeline tbh, but obvi would be after they get out of everything but not necessarily in order for anything:) I’m working on the next part, so I’m so sorry it’s taken so long, but here’s this in the meantime (as if it hasn’t been 10930292 days) also I have f!reader but no pronouns mentioned I don’t think!!
Warnings: not really anything I can think of, just fluff ( ◠‿◠ )
You couldn't help the string of giggles that left your lips as Leon huffed and puffed, clearly frustrated with the shirt that was now stuck over his head with his arms awkwardly caught in the holes. You doubled over laughing loudly now, Leon annoyingly grumbling but clearly needing the help.
"Im- Im sorry, Leon, j-just, you're so funny," you managed between broken laughs, slowly exhaling to gather yourself and resume removing his shirt. You righted your position, hands finding the hem of the tee to properly work it over his head and limbs, grinning ear to ear.
Once removed and thrown somewhere across your floor, now shirtless before you, Leon groaned, eyes narrowing the slightest bit at you not only finding amusement in his struggles, but at leaving the shirt on him like that to take a laughing break. You bit your lip, hand rising to cup his cheek, thumb automatically brushing back and forth over his soft skin, gleaming at him like he was the prettiest thing you’d ever seen. He was.
"You know I'm teasing, baby," you snickered tilting your head with faux innocence. "Im done now, okay? Had my laugh, now lets get you cleaned up!"
You were eager and determined, clapping your hands together like you had a large and important mission at hand. Well, he was a rather large built man, and he was most definitely more than important, so you weren't quite far off.
Hand grabbing onto his, you led him to your bathroom, flicking on the light to reveal the shower and your tub, eyes narrowing in concentration.
"Alright, Leon, it's clean up time. Come 'ere," and you yanked him closer, muttering a small apology when he stumbled and groaned, head lolling to the side.
"Sorrysorrysorrysorry, okay, im gonna, uh, pull your pants down now alright baby- no wait, actually-" and for a moment you really thought about it. Did Leon remember what a shower was? He hadn't seemed to mind the water in the sewer, but would he freak when it sprayed down at him? You guessed there was only one way to find out, praying that it didn't scare him.
Gently pulling him closer towards the tub, you bent down to turn on the faucet, running a free hand under the flowing stream to test the temperature ensuring it was okay. Or well, was it okay? Leon always ran cold, so did that mean he'd want it colder? Warmer? You mentally cursed to yourself, completely unsure of what you were doing when you only wanted to make him feel comfortable.
Turning your head to stare back up at Leon, you became almost overwhelmed with adoration and tenderness, a soft smile growing on your face as you observed the way his head tilted as he suspiciously eyed the heavy and loud flow of the water. He squinted his eyes, his free hand twitching for just a moment before hesitantly moving towards the water. He paused, then slowly with apprehension and features frozen, ran a finger under the stream, immediately flinching and yanking it back.
You bit back a wider smile, finding his curiosity cute. "it's water, honey, see," and you lightly touched his hand, guiding it back towards the stream. When your attention returned to Leons face, his eyes were already on you. Heat rushed to your face, quickly tugging the tub diverter to redirect the flow of water to the shower head before standing straight and clearing your throat, mentally preparing yourself to undress the rest of his toned body.
His gaze didn't leave you.
"Shower time, Leon."
The words came out as a whisper, scolding yourself for feeling so flustered when the situation should've been purely operational, step by step. But you couldn't help feeling shy and intimidated when you had to undress a very fit and good looking guy who you had undoubtedly wanted to date and kiss at a certain point. This was still the guy you had gone out with, still the zombie who had saved your life so many times in the sewers and lab, still your Leon. Right? The thought made you frown, but you shook it off, attention returning to the quest at hand.
"Okay, now, Im uh, just tell me to stop if you're uncomfy okay? Or well, just hit me, I guess- Um Okay, Im gonna undress you, Okay?" you rambled to yourself more than anything, Leon a solid piece of art who somehow while being a zombie still stood there cooly, nonchalantly and unbashful. Of course he did.
Directing your gaze anywhere but down- and sure as hell not making eye contact either- you undid his trousers, squatting to work them down his legs, hand going to his to steady him when you motioned him to shift his weight to worm it off his feet.
Gnawing on your lip, cheeks burning, and eyes wide, you returned to full height, closed lip smile to try and fake the calm and ease you were certainly not feeling. This is cool, you're cool, it's just a guy, but your internal thoughts did nothing to ease the hammering of your heart or the warmth in your face. Especially when he stared at you so intensely.
You cleared your throat again, suddenly finding interest in the shower tiles as you guided him right towards the tub, silently prompting him to step over and in. He didn't move.
"Okay, Leon, you can step in now," you urged, voice light as you refocused on the mission, dismissing your girlish immature thoughts. He just stared. Furrowing your eyebrows, you put a hand under the flowing water, waving it gently as if he’d know that the gesture meant it was fine for him to go in. “Come on, baby, just step in,” and you nodded your head to the shower, confused at why he wasn’t following.
“Leon, what’s-” but the words immediately died on your tongue, narrowing your eyes at him as he continued to just stare at you with his foggy white eyes. “You think you’re so clever, hm?” You teased, figuring out his little scheme, but the cheeky grin that grew on your face sold you away. “Zombie or not, still a guy huh?”
You sighed looking down at your clothes. A t-shirt and shorts would have to suffice. Playfully rolling your eyes at Leon, you reluctantly stepped over the edge of the tub, clothes sticking tightly to your now wet skin, hair plastering against your neck and back.
You stared at him, trying to play the part of an unamused and unwilling victim. “Now will you come in?” Without a word, hand in yours for balance, he stepped in the shower, water hot and steam already filling the space.
Like second nature to him, which you supposed it was, Leon automatically leaned his weight on your frame. You grunted, hands coming up to grip his small hard waist. God he was lazy and clingy and god did you love it.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, grumbling into your neck as his muscular arms wrapped around your clothed middle, fingers starting to crawl under the damp material of your shirt. He groaned again, hot water pelting his back.
“Leon- oomph, heavy, baby- you’re-“ you grunted feeling him rest even more of his body weight on yours. There was no room to be embarrassed when you were a split second away from the both of you tumbling over and out of the tub. With a huff, he reluctantly supported himself, still keeping his head neatly tucked into its rightful place, his favorite spot.
The two of you stood there for several minutes. Steam filling the bathroom, water running over the both of you, his fingers dancing lightly over your back while your hands rubbed up and down his sides. You smiled. “Such a big baby,” and a small laugh echoed in the small space when he grumbled in response. Possibly in agreement.
You could feel his body melt into yours, tense shoulders finally relaxing, abs slightly jumping from the lightest brushes of your fingers against his obliques and despite it being so hot, you could feel goosebumps form under your touch. You didn’t tease him, warmth blooming in your heart at finally being able to see him so relaxed and at peace, so safe in your arms. Nothing could hurt you two here. Reluctantly, you broke the silence.
“Gonna wash your hair, okay buddy?” You gently tapped his side, signaling for him to stand to full height, to which he protested but slowly obliged. His hands moved from your back to now clutching the sopping wet fabric at the front, and whether it was for balance or just to keep close, you didn’t mind. His eyes followed your movements, tracking you as you squeezed a dollop of shampoo in your hands, watching you contemplate before you added more for yourself.
“Might as well…” you murmured under your breath, quickly working some into your hair before moving towards Leon’s. “Shampoo, Leon, it goes in your hair,” you explained having no clue of what he did and didn’t remember. Reaching your hands up towards his now dark brown hair that stuck all over his forehead, you choked down your giggle, massaging your fingers immediately into his skull, gently kneading.
Your eyes widened just a fraction when his eyes rolled back, eyelids falling and head drooping forward, small rumbling falling from his chest. He leaned into your touch, and it looked like he couldn’t get enough, switching from leaning into your left hand then your right, then your left again and all over again. With a small giggle, you removed a hand to half ass massage the shampoo in your own hair, not missing the small whine that left him at the loss of contact. “I know, I know, just a second.”
When your hand returned, you could’ve sworn he started purring. Eyes zoning out as you softly tugged and worked his hair, you couldn’t help but wonder if anyone had ever done this before for him. A past girlfriend maybe? Parents when he was a baby? Did he have parents? Did they know their son was a zombie? Before you could spiral more, Leon’s hands moved from their grip on your shirt to your bare waist, snapping you out of it. You didn’t want to ruin this tender moment with your sad theories, forcing yourself to remain present.
“Now we use conditioner,” and once again, he lowly muttered when you pulled your hands away.
The same ritual continued moving far slower than anticipated with Leon’s grunts and complaints anytime you moved your hands away from his head. You didn’t mind, still playfully rolling your eyes and calling him a diva whenever he whined. He couldn’t have you wrapped around his thumb too much (he did). Turning your head to face the items on your shelf, you eyed the face wash. Did zombies need face wash? Fuck it.
Another grin formed on your face, the two of you now facing each other with white foamy suds bubbling on your faces as you rubbed small circles on his cheek. You tried to ignore how he looked at you, the weight of his gaze carrying so much more than just a surface level look. If there was something you had truly known about Leon, it was that everything he did, was intentional. Quickly looking away to avoid the squeal you wanted to let out, you washed the suds off with one hand, the other grabbing a wash cloth.
“Body wash,” you noted to him, skin prickling with a heat that was not caused by the shower. Swallowing nervously, you began scrubbing his torso, muttering a small “oops, sorry sorry,” when he stumbled back a few steps. Looking at his face, you found his eyes still piercing yours, white irises rimmed with a slight red from the water. You looked away, chewing on your lip while you resumed cleaning him.
His head was tilted down at yours, following your motions and hands as they scrubbed over his abs, up his arms and biceps, around his neck and bite mark. He still stared at you when you shut your eyes and looked at the wall, washing him everywhere. You wanted to scream. He was still a guy after all and when was the last time you saw a hot guy naked in your shower, if ever??
Unintentionally, you loudly exhaled when finished, regaining your composure and finally feeling like you could meet his eyes, which of course, had not left yours. You huffed in amusement, reaching behind him to shut the water off. “Okay, Leon stay here, let me grab a towel.”
Yanking open the shower curtain and carefully stepping out of the tub, you grabbed two towels from the cabinets under your sink, taking note of how fogged over the mirror was. You had no idea how long the two of you were in there for, what was supposed to be a quick objective turning into Leon’s massage time, not that you were complaining, more than happy to rub his head and touch his abs.
Turning back to face Leon, you quickly wrapped a towel around your drenched clothes, lightly scoffing to yourself at how easily persuaded you were to get in the shower. Like a puppy who just had his first bath, you threw the fluffy towel over Leon, slightly pouting and muffling an ‘aww’ as you rubbed it back and forth over his hair, strands poking out every which way. You dried his arms, torso, legs, before wrapping the towel around his waist, tucking in the side to ensure it would hold. “Okay, now step over baby,” and his hands reached for your forearms for support, stumbling over and naturally, right into your arms.
“Very smooth, Leon, veryyy smooth,” you mused, hand coming up to stroke the back of his head as he tucked it into your neck. He sighed, once again wrapping his arms around your waist over the towel, huffing in annoyance when he couldn’t worm them underneath. Chucking, you pecked the side of his head. “Someone’s sleepy,” and his grip tightened, tucking you into him further. You hummed, thinking for just a moment, “I guess I could go for a nap, too.”
Wordlessly, Leon straightened, hand clasping yours to lead you back towards your bedroom.
Author's Note: thanks for all the love on the first two installments of this series guys! i hope you're ready for some re4 shenanigans :)) buckle in this is a long one (so much so i had to split it into two parts, whoops)
Summary: A lot can change in six years. Sometimes, things don't get better, just different.
Word Count: 15.1k (31.4k Total)
Content: 18+, smut, re4!leon, doctor!reader, angst, gore, mentions of past child abuse, medical inaccuracies, parasites, mind control, death & grief, everyone flirts with reader, jealous!leon, yearning yearning and more yearning but they're also deeply traumatized individuals, undefined situationship hell, oral (f!receiving), p in v sex (unprotected), little bit of butt stuff as a treat
To Read on AO3
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Tag List: @aspinny @rjreins @kaitieskidmore97 @animegamerfox @rubixgsworld @celesteelysia @sharkalina666 @tilliebilly @kikistarz17 @0kauy @liveresident @lunitas09 @meowieees (let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list for this series!)
The trek across the battlements is a nightmare, to put it mildly, especially with another one of those gigantic, mutated creatures hurling boulders at you and Leon. When you encounter one of these 'plaga' for the first time outside of a host, it skitters around and attaches itself to a monk to puppet around.
"Hey, remember that movie you rea—"
"Yup," you answer as you back up, shooting at the advancing creature.
"Isn't it just like—"
"Yup!"
By some miracle (read as: a cannon), you make it back to the courtyard, ending up in a sitting room overlooking it, where you find a familiar blonde. You realize with a frown that she's crying as she sits on a couch facing away from you and Leon.
Slowly, the two of you make your way over, trying not to startle her. When she sees you, she shuffles to the further side of the couch. "Stay back," she cries. "I might hurt you again." She glances down at her hands, clutched into fists, before looking up between you two. "I'm so scared. When that happened… I wasn't myself anymore. I was something else."
"That must have been terrifying, I know—" Leon inches forward, and she flinches back, before staring down at his arms, where the blackened veins are more pronounced as the infection progresses.
"You too?" she asks, voice small. He purses his lips and nods, and she stares over at you with wide eyes, as if questioning whether you're infected as well, but you only shake your head.
"It's okay to be afraid, y'know," Leon says as he carefully sits down next to her. "But you can't run. You gotta keep moving forward."
You're quiet. At what point does moving forward become running, you ask yourself. It's a line that's been so blurred for you the past six years, you're not even sure of the answer.
"We will beat this," he assures her. "Together."
She frowns. "I don't know if I can."
"You can," he says. "Just give me a heads-up before you stab me next time, okay?"
She laughs weakly, and when you outstretch the knife toward her, she seems startled, glancing between you and Leon. "I—"
"You heard him," you say. "Just give him a heads-up."
Tentatively, she takes the knife, regarding it with care. "How do you do it?" she asks, focused on you this time. "How are you so brave?"
The question claws at something deep inside you, trying to rip it from your chest. You're hesitant to let it, but looking into her eyes, so full of fear, you allow it to latch on. "Can I tell you a secret?" you ask as you squat down in front of her.
She nods quickly and leans forward. "Of course."
"Six years ago, I was in Raccoon City during the outbreak."
She gasps.
"I thought I was going to die. I was alone and so scared—" You pause, remembering the hospital—how hopeless you felt. "—and I was so angry. Angry that I was going to die alone and scared. Angry that my own good intentions landed me in that mess."
Leon watches you carefully—listening to what you're saying so closely. You've never really talked about it—the things you endured before you found each other at the R.P.D. He's never asked because he always thought those memories were ones you'd want to keep buried.
"I was so angry that I decided I wasn't going to let that happen. I wasn't just going to sit there and let myself succumb to whatever horrible fate I deserved. Then I met someone—" A small smile tugs at your face as you remember rookie cop Leon Kennedy—hands held high in the air as you held him at gun point, squinting as you shone your flashlight in his face. "—and suddenly it was a bit easier, knowing that we were surviving together. Having someone to lean on, someone to fight for."
There's a wistful expression on your face that makes Ashley smile, too.
"Even still, I was so scared—I am so scared—but being brave means doing the hard thing even when you're afraid, especially when you're afraid." You grasp her hand, firm and present. "And you don't have to do it alone."
Tears gather in her eyes. "Yeah," she says softly. "Okay."
"Ready to get a move on?" Leon asks.
You pull her up with you, squeezing her hand tightly, a reminder to let her know that you're here with her.
As you're making your way to the door, Leon stops, pressing a hand to his ear. "Luis, where are you?" He stops, annoyance twisting his face. "I'll show you charming, pal!" After another pause, he sighs, his hand dropping to his side. "I can't believe that guy."
"What happened?" Ashley asks.
"He got caught up in some trouble," Leon answers.
"Of course he did," you mutter.
"Well, we can't just leave him, right?" she says.
You and Leon exchange a look—unfortunately, no, you can't; you wouldn't.
The maze is annoying but manageable; the puzzle, once you get into the Grand Hall, however, makes you question whether you're doomed to a life of solving these inane challenges to do something as simple as… open a door.
As your luck would have it, as soon as you complete it, you and Leon are trapped in a cage by the zealots, leaving Ashley on her own as she runs through the door you've unlocked. You watch Leon pace back and forth like a confined tiger.
After several minutes of this, you comment, "If your plan is to wear a hole in the floor, it just might work."
"We can't just stand here and do nothing," he says.
You're not sure what else you can do short of prying the bars apart, but given how thick they are, that seems unlikely. "She's going to be fine—"
"You don't know that," he cuts you off. "This entire mission has just been one thing after another. With this freaky cult and their freaky priest who infected me, I almost got swallowed whole by an overgrown fish—" "—Wait, what?—" "—and when I finally find Ashley, you show up—"
You recoil as if he's slapped you. "What's that supposed to mean?" you ask.
"You're a distraction," he replies, as if it's as simple as that. He's talking to you like you're an inconvenience—more dead weight he's got to juggle on top of everything else. It's not a tone you've ever heard him use with you before. Your mouth goes dry, and suddenly your ears are filled with the sound of your rapid heartbeat. "You shouldn't even be here—they should have let you complete your own mission and not interfered with mine."
It's automatic—the way your mind starts cataloging everything you've tucked away in your pouches, a mental inventory you've unknowingly kept with meticulous precision. Your brain's defense mechanism, a barrier slamming down between you and the ache building in your chest. "I'll make sure to note that request in my report," you say, your tone even, detached.
You're not going to cry, you tell yourself. You're made of tougher stuff—God knows you've been beaten and berated enough to prove it—and you're not going to cry because a man is mean to you, even if that man is Leon.
"Never worked on me, did it?" the voice whispers in your ear—it's deceptively soft, yet cruel—mocking. "Just a load of crocodile tears."
Leon rolls his eyes at your words, turning away from you and muttering, "Yeah, you do that."
Crinkling your nose, you force back the sting in your sinuses. Lockpick, you have a lockpick, your mind reminds you. You reach into the pocket you know it's in, kneeling in front of the door. You've never been any good at it, and when the pin slips for the first time, you let out a sharp breath through your nose.
The sixth time occurs when Leon breaks the tense silence between you by asking, "What are you doing?" His tone is sharp yet curious.
"What does it look like?"
"Where did you learn to lockpick?" he asks.
"Jill," you tersely respond.
Albeit it was seven years ago, you were both incredibly drunk, having locked yourselves in a supply closet at some dive bar you'd never been to before, mistaking it for the bathroom. She thought it was the perfect teaching moment. It wasn't, and you two were fumbling around in the dark for far too long before the bartender found you. Jill swears you were close to getting the door open.
The sound of your and Leon's names being called makes your grip falter, and the lockpick falls to the floor. "Ashley!" he yells. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, give me a sec, I'll get you guys out," she says from the balcony above, and you watch as she takes the key from the dead zealot slumped over the lever that trapped you both in here. "Try this!"
Leon snatches it from the air as she throws it down. "Can you make it down? I'll catch you," he says.
"Yeah, I think so."
You've barely turned your back for a second when Ashley's screams echo through the air. As you whirl around, you see an enormous figure in a red cloak has grabbed her. "Ashley!" You draw your gun and fire two shots into the creature's back. It doesn't even flinch, only glancing down at you and Leon before turning and disappearing into the darkened archway with her. "Fuck."
As Leon gets the door open, he pauses, holding a hand to his ear. "Ada?" You perk up, brows furrowing in confusion as to why she would be contacting him. "Hey! Ada? Ada!" He sighs. "…Perfect."
"What did she want?" you quietly ask.
"She said something big is about to go down in the throne room," he answers. "C'mon."
The ballroom, where you were supposed to find Luis, is empty except for the terrifying, overgrown bugs that buzz about. The entire area seems to be in disrepair, with large sections of the floor dug out and nothing but darkness below. Ramón, meanwhile, taunts Leon over the speakers throughout the castle, sneering "Mr. Kennedy" like it's an insult. He manages to find a few ways to slight you as well, though you're far less affected than Leon, who grows increasingly annoyed by the prodding.
As you run through the doors to the throne room, you stop short at the scene before you. "Stop! No! Don't come any closer!" Ashley yells as she's forced to her knees in front of a giant hole in the ground by two of the cultists, blood smeared across her face in some sort of symbol.
"Are you hurt?" Leon asks.
"Watch out!"
You're hit by something from above, your body being forced to the ground by a tremendous weight, and you can feel the rough stone of the floor scrape against your cheek as you're held down by the back of your neck. There's a ringing in your ears from the blow, and your vision crosses. "Fuck," you grunt.
When Ramón says your name, you squint over at him, eyes having trouble focusing. "I don't know how you've managed to make it so far without bearing the gift of my master—"
"Guess I'm just lucky," you wheeze. You hope you're imagining the crack you hear as the creature on top of you bears down with its full weight.
"—Nevertheless, it matters not. Please. Do continue," Ramón orders, perched on the throne at the far side of the room, giving his minions a flourish of his hand.
"No! No! Please! Let me go!" Ashley yells as one of the zealots approaches with a chalice full of God knows what, carrying it as if it's the blood of Christ himself.
"Do not resist, my dear," Ramón coos sardonically. "It serves only to make your suffering all the worse."
You struggle against the creature's grip despite the pain shooting up your ribs. Leon is next to you, trying with all of his might to break free, but it's too strong. You're only able to watch as the cultists hold Ashley's mouth open and begin to chant. She's screaming, trying to thrash to no avail, tears streaming down her face.
"Don't drink it!" you yell before your face is ground into the stone once more, hearing her choke as they pour it down her throat.
"You sick—" Just as Leon finds some purchase, he's thrust back down as Ashley cries, and you watch deep red marks spread across her body. You gasp as you're suddenly hauled off the floor, you and Leon dangling uselessly in the creature's impossibly strong grip.
You faintly hear Ramón bid you and Leon goodbye, and then you're tossed into the hole in front of you, Ashley's scream reverberating overhead. You reach out blindly, latching onto something—a chain. You're sure your palms would be torn to shreds without your leather gloves as you slide nearly the entire way down before coming to a slow, grinding halt. You're in a cave, you realize, before peering down to see a head of sandy blonde hair clinging to the chain a few feet beneath you in the darkness.
Your heart is still in your throat. "Leon?" you croak out.
When he glances up and sees you, he says your name like it's a relief. "Are you okay?" he asks.
You're not. "Yeah," you lie.
Below, sharp stalagmites jut up from the cave floor. He looks around, spotting a clearing to one side. "If we can swing over there, we can jump down."
It's a coordinated effort on both your parts to time the swing over, and once Leon jumps off, you slide further down and hop off as well. You land firmly on your feet, though the impact sends a sharp zap of pain up your side. You let out a gasp, clutching your ribs.
Leon's crowding you in the next moment, taking you by the shoulders to inspect you. "What is it?" he asks.
"It's nothing—" You grit your teeth. "—Just aggravated my ribs a bit, I'm fine."
His brows crinkle together, concern pooling in his eyes. "You're not fine—"
"I am," you insist, shrugging off his hands.
"Listen, I didn't—"
You wave your hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Don't worry about it," you say dismissively, then add pettily, "Wouldn't want you to have any distractions." You don't give him time to respond, taking the lead as you move through the cave, intent on finding a way out and back to Ashley.
Leon stares at your retreating form, regret bubbling up in his throat.
Movie nights are a tradition between you and Leon, one you unknowingly started six years ago. Weekly lamentations over drinks turned into weekly lamentations over drinks while watching whatever shitty made-for-TV movie happened to be on Lifetime. One week, he showed up with a few movies from the rental place down the street from his apartment, grumbling that he was sick of watching the same awful rom-coms week after week. The owner of the Dollar Video gave him some recommendations—Leon kept how the older woman suggested a horror movie with a waggle of her brows at him when he mentioned you to himself.
Sometimes, if you liked a movie enough, Leon would rent it multiple times before finally biting the bullet and buying it for you. Needless to say, you've grown quite a collection over the years despite your insistence that he didn't need to buy you anything.
"Shut up," he said to you, cheeks reddened like he was trying not to make a big deal of it.
The first one he ended up getting for you was Alien after you requested that he rent it for the seventh time. You called it a "comfort movie"—Leon couldn't understand how a film in which nearly everyone dies violently could be considered comforting, but he usually had a hard time denying you, so he endured rewatching it as many times as you asked.
So maybe he finds it a little ironic that you two are running for your lives from a creature far too similar to the titular monster in one of your favorite movies.
As a spiny tail juts up from the grated floor, slashing around, he says, "You know this is kind of like—"
"I know!" you shout as you dive to the floor, narrowly avoiding being swiped at. You're seeing stars as the pain in your ribs intensifies, but you grit your teeth through it.
And when you lure the creature into the nitrogen shower, with equal parts fear and determination in your eyes, Leon thinks maybe you find comfort in that movie because it's a reminder to keep going—to survive—not because you have to, but because you can, because you're capable.
By the time it falls, half-frozen and riddled with bullet holes, blood drips from a wound above your brow, and you're holding your injured side protectively after the monster landed a hit that sent you sprawling to the ground.
He's reaching out to you before he can stop himself, stuck in your gravity well, and even though he knows he deserves it, he can't help but feel spurned when you wave him off. "Let's get to the elevator," you say coldly.
The facade of indifference you've erected doesn't last long when he collapses to his knees in the lift. Confusing visions fill his mind, and he comes to with his face being cradled by your steady hands. "Leon." There's worry in your tone, a tremor of desperation he hates to hear in your voice, especially for him.
He takes a deep, shaky breath; his hands resting on top of yours. "I'm okay," he assures as he stands, accepting your help.
"It's getting worse," you say, staring at the darkened veins on his arm. They've spread.
He says nothing, lips sealed, but his eyes stray from you as the elevator reaches the top and creaks open. When you see the vein at his temple throb, you follow his gaze, peering over your shoulder to see Luis leaning against the steel beam.
There's a smirk on his face as he shakes the container in his hand. "I'll make it cheap for you." Your shoulders drop, and you move first, stalking up to the man and reaching for it, only for him to hold it just out of your grasp at the last second. His brows lift, and he lowers his head to meet your stare. "For the low, low price of a single kiss."
An arm darts out from over your shoulder, yanking the container from Luis's hand. "You're lucky I don't kiss your face with my fist, pal," Leon sneers, and you can feel the rumble in his chest that's pressed up against your back.
Luis gives a shrug of his shoulders, holding his hands up innocently. "You cannot blame a man for trying," he says.
You roll your eyes, clearly not taking the man's flirtations seriously, as Leon hands you the container. "Sit down," you instruct with a nod of your head as you open it up, plucking one of the two syringes from inside, and holding it to your eye as you inspect the purple liquid within. "This is the suppressant?"
"It is, indeed," Luis confirms.
"What's it made out of?" you ask, curious and maybe a bit skeptical.
He doesn't seem the least bit offended by your hesitance. "Some hard-to-find ingredients," he answers. "Only enough for three doses."
"And where's the third?"
He gives you a knowing smile and taps the side of his nose. Pursing your lips, you turn away from him and kneel down in front of Leon, pulling out an alcohol swab from one of your pockets. "Anything you don't got in there?" Leon asks.
You snort as you clean a small patch of skin on the inside of his elbow. "A million dollars," you mutter. "Just a pinch here." It's a habit from a life no longer yours as you push the tip of the needle into his skin. He doesn't even flinch, his attention remaining on you, tracing down the slope of your nose and concentrated line of your lips. "And done." You move away, wiping the droplet of blood that pools at the injection site, before standing up.
It's strange to see the suppressant work in real-time—the branching blackened veins retreating like a receding tide—and you and Leon watch with fascination.
"Feeling better?" Luis asks as he flips his lighter between his fingers.
"Yeah," Leon confirms as he flexes his fist a few times. "Seems like it worked."
"Bad news?" Luis says. "All we've done is buy you some time." Leon takes the other dose, inspects it, then hands it over to you. "The suppressant's effects will wear off all too soon."
"We should hurry, then," you say as you tuck it into a reinforced pocket—the last thing you need is for it to break before you're able to reach Ashley.
With a click, Luis flicks his lighter closed and pockets it. "In that case, we know what we have to do," he says before grabbing a broken pipe, brandishing it like a spear. "Then come, Sancho Panza! Let us rescue the Princess Dulcinea!"
"You're gonna hurt yourself," Leon mutters as he snatches the pipe from his hands and tosses it aside, where it clanks against the floor.
"Hey, that was my lance!" Luis complains. He shoots you a look as if you could help, and when you only smirk at him, he clutches his chest with one hand over the other. "I thought our bond ran deeper than that, corazón. For you not to come to my aid… I am heartbroken."
Falling in step with him, you give him an unsympathetic pat on the back. "I'm sorry to have led you on in such a way."
He lets out a bark of laughter, and ahead of you, Leon rolls his eyes with a frown.
Making your way through the mines, you're sure that Leon will pick up at some point that Luis is only flirting with you to get under his skin. However—
"You handle yourself pretty well…" Leon says after you all clear an area full of villagers in the mine. "You sure you're just a researcher?"
"I'm just an average guy who happens to be quite the ladies' man," Luis answers. "Isn't that right, corazón?" He tosses you a non-subtle wink.
Leon's jaw clenches together, and his nostrils flare as he lets out a slow exhale, like he's mentally counting to ten in his head.
After you fight two more of the gigantic creatures, Luis offers to lift you through the opening to unlock the door from the other side with a sly smirk, and right as he's about to squat down to let you climb onto his shoulders, Leon pushes him to the side, lifting you himself.
"Hands to yourself, buddy," Leon mutters to him as you disappear to the other side, landing with a soft thud.
"Touchy," Luis groans as he rubs at his sore backside.
When you take point during your minecart ride, with Luis and Leon focused on keeping the minecart from flipping, the first shot you take, which sails straight through the forehead of one of the villagers wielding a flaming crossbow, draws a low whistle from Luis. "A sharpshooter, eh?" he comments. "Can't say I'm surprised, given the way you've struck me straight through the heart."
Leon debates whether to throw him from the minecart, and it is only through great restraint that he does not.
After nearly falling to your deaths and navigating a section of the mine infested with more of those bugs, you finally reach another lift that will hopefully bring you closer to the surface. The ride up offers a brief reprieve, and you rest against the elevator wall, catching your breath.
"I don't get you," Leon says to Luis. "Why risk your life like this? You don't know us."
"I told you," he answers. "It makes me feel better."
Leon narrows his eyes, no longer buying the concerned-citizen bit. "Be straight with me for once."
"Los Iluminados… I was working for them," Luis admits.
"See? There you go," Leon says.
Luis flicks his lighter on, staring down at the flame with a frown. "Helping you doesn't make up for it, I know that. But still, I don't want anyone else to get hurt."
"In that case, you'd better get serious," he says firmly.
Luis chuckles. "Harsh words for a squire." He looks over at you. "What do you think, Teresa Panza?"
As the lift comes to a stop, you push off from the wall. "I think you'd better not get complacent, we're not out of the woods yet."
"Ah, wise words from a wise woman," he replies, sending a devious grin to Leon. "Sancho is quite the lucky man."
Leon glances between the two of you, and your eyes catch his the moment realization dawns on him. Quickly, he averts his gaze, red darkening his cheeks as the elevator doors open.
Luis marches out first. "We're out of that hellhole," he announces with a bit more jaunt to his gait. "The fresh air is calling our names!" He turns, arms splayed as he talks to the two of you. "Because if we made it all this way, you know that means we're almost—"
His words get caught in his throat as he gasps.
"Almost what?" Leon asks.
"Luis?" You take a hesitant step forward.
His body jerks as he chokes out a wet, rattling cough. Blood spews from his mouth, staining his lips red. The moment before he collapses, he appears confused. Your feet move instinctively, and you don't get more than a few strides when someone jumps down just behind Luis. Leon's arms wrap around your waist, hauling you back and keeping you from going any further.
It's a man—blonde, dressed in military fatigues and a red beret, with a large scar running down the left side of his face. You think you recognize him, and when he addresses Leon, you know you do.
"Long time no see, rookie," he chuckles.
Leon steps in front of you, shielding your body with his. "Major Krauser? What the hell? Why?"
Krauser squats and takes something from Luis—it's a cylindrical tube with a yellow crystal inside. "Recovering stolen goods—" He taps it, tucks it away, then grasps the knife embedded in Luis's back and wrenches it free, making you wince at the sound. "—And killing a few rats along the way." As he stands, he moves with quick, precise steps, circling like a predator stalking its prey. "Easy work."
Leon keeps you behind him the entire time, realization dawning on him. "Ashley… It was you." He reaches for his gun, but Krauser is incredibly fast. His knife is at Leon's throat before you can even blink, and you feel Leon nudge you away. "You catch on quick—" The edge barely grazes Leon's neck. "Didn't I teach you? Knives are faster."
Your eyes flick to Luis, and you edge back, keeping a wide berth between yourself and them as Leon draws his knife and the two start to go at it. It's a flurry of limbs that would be impressive if it didn't feel so life-and-death, and then Krauser kicks Leon down to the lower level, jumping down to join him.
As you make it to Luis, you bring out your own knife. "I hope you're not fond of this jacket, Luis," you mutter as you slice through it and his shirt to expose the wound on his back.
"I am fond of living more," he wheezes out—still alive, you realize with a sigh of relief. "My chest hurts."
You lean your head down, pressing your ear to his back to listen in lieu of a stethoscope—all the shit you have on you, and you don't have a stethoscope. "Fuck," you mutter as you sit back.
"That—" He coughs. "—is not what I want to hear my doctor say."
"I think your lung is collapsed," you tell him as you clasp his wrist to check his pulse. Strong, you determine.
"Can you make it uncollapse?" he asks. Humor still intact, at least.
"Sure can," you say as you sort through your medical kit. You've dealt with plenty of collapsed lungs—granted, it was in an Emergency Room with state-of-the-art technology at your disposal, but you're, for all intents and purposes, a genius; you can figure it out. "I have to do an occlusive dressing," you explain as you take out some antiseptic. "But first we need to clean the wound—" You pause. "—This is gonna hurt."
There's no countdown, only him hissing in pain as you flush out the wound. It's a good sign when only a bit of blood floods the wound—Krauser didn't hit a major artery or organ. A rookie mistake from someone who seemed all too smug to be "killing rats".
"Good news—" you start.
"Oh, yay," he groans.
"—I think he missed your vital organs."
"Oh, that is good news," he gasps with a small smile, blood coating his teeth as he gives a weak thumbs-up.
You grab what you need to do the bandage—just a piece of plastic and tape; rudimentary, but it'll do. "Okay, so all I need to do is seal down three sides of this, and it'll create a flutter valve that lets air out when you exhale, but seals when you inhale." You double up on tape to be sure the seal will hold, and when you see it working as intended, the worry that was coiling in your stomach unravels only a bit. "How do you feel?"
"A little better, I think," he answers.
"It's going to take a while for your lung to re-expand," you explain. "We need to get you to an actual hospital."
"You need to save Ashley first," he says—his talking is less strained, and you help him slowly sit up.
You take out your penlight, shining it into his eyes, then feel his pulse once more. "Do you feel like you can stand?" you ask, then add, "Be honest."
He takes a moment, drawing another deep breath, before nodding. As you haul him to his feet, mindful of the wound on his back, you guide him down the stairs to the lower level, where Leon and Krauser are still fighting, the sound of metal clashing against metal.
As you reach the bottom of the stairs, Krauser kicks Leon directly in the chest, sending him sailing back and landing with a hard thud on the ground. He flips his knife in a flourish as he approaches Leon. "I got it," Luis confirms as he feebly unholsters his gun, taking aim and pulling the trigger as Krauser raises his blade high, about to strike Leon.
He turns his gaze to you two as the bullet ricochets off his knife. When Luis fires again, he retreats to a higher ledge with inhuman agility. "Enough play, rookie," he says from where he's perched. "You haven't changed a damn bit. What a disappointment."
Then he's gone.
As Luis grunts in pain, Leon whirls around as he staggers to his feet. "Luis, are you okay?" he asks.
"Oh, I'll live," he wheezes. "—Probably."
As he holsters his gun, he digs into his pocket, coming out with a key and shoving it into Leon's hand. "Take this—" He takes a deep breath, wincing slightly. "It's the key to my laboratory. Go there and remove those damn parasites."
"You're coming with us," Leon insists.
Luis shakes his head. "I'll only slow you down," he says. "You two go on without me—"
You're ready to argue—you want to, but your directive hasn't changed. "C'mon, let's at least get you some fresh air, huh?" you offer.
"How about a smoke?" he asks with a cheeky grin.
"If I catch you with a cigarette, I'm putting it out in your eye," you grumble as Leon comes to his other side, alleviating a bit of his weight from you as you haul him toward the elevator.
"Such a cruel woman," he bemoans.
"I could have just as easily let you suffocate to death," you say.
"Ah, no, you couldn't have—" He winks. "—You're too nice, corazón."
As you step into the elevator and Leon pushes the button, he frowns, holding a hand to his ear as a message comes through his radio. "Ah, so you aren't heartless after all. I guess I should be… thankful?"
"Ada?" you ask.
He nods. "She said Ashley is being taken to the clocktower," he answers.
"Better get a move on," Luis says as the elevator reaches the top, the doors sliding open.
The subtle glow of purple flame catches your attention. "Perfect," you mutter. "C'mon."
"Welcome, strangers!" the merchant greets as you walk through the threshold. "Seems you're in a bit of a pickle, hm?" His unnerving stare strays to Luis, who gives the man a little two-finger salute.
Carefully, you and Leon lower Luis down into one of the chairs in the room. "We are," you confirm, turning to him—you can see his eyes looking at you with curiosity. "Was wondering if you could help?"
"I could," he says.
You pause, lips drawing into a line. "Will you?" you ask.
He lets out a chuckle. "Now there's the question," he muses.
"What do you want?" you ask, already digging in your pockets—you've collected quite a few treasures. The merchant holds out a hand, stopping you from spilling jewels across his table. You stare up at him, confused—you were sure you had more than enough to cover whatever price he was going to ask.
"That shadow on your shoulder—"
Your breath catches in your throat.
"—What are you going to do about it?" he asks.
You're acutely aware of eyes on your back—no doubt wondering what the man is talking about. Then you feel a prickle up your neck, an itch that settles at the base of your skull.
"Yeah, girl, what are you going to do about it?" your father hisses in your ear.
"What do you want me to say?" you question—voice soft, but apathetic. "That I'll face my demons or some bullshit?"
His eyes crease like he's grinning behind the bandana covering his face. He's not mocking you—you may have preferred it—instead, he's looking at you with understanding.
"It's not about what I want you to say," he answers, tilting his head as he considers you. "I only want something honest—that's my price."
Your jaw sets as you swallow thickly.
"Tick tock," the voice laughs.
"I'll live with it until I can't," you say. Until it kills me, you think.
"You have yourself a deal," the merchant grins.
"You sure he's going to be okay?" Leon asks as you ride the cable car across to the clock tower. It's almost endearing how worried the man is for Luis, given how standoffish he's been toward him thus far, but it is incredibly like Leon Kennedy.
"He will," you say assuredly. "When I spoke to Hunnigan, she said they'll be able to extract him so long as they don't encounter any resistance."
"Don't worry, love," the merchant said to you. "Any trouble comes our way, nothing a bit of heavy-duty firepower can't take care of." You eyed the rocket launcher he patted with far too much affection and completely believed him.
"He would have died if you weren't here," Leon says.
You blink, gaze meeting his. "He would have," you confirm.
He reaches out, hand clasping around yours. "I'm sorry about what I said before," he murmurs. "I'm glad you're here."
You try to smile, though you're sure it doesn't reach your eyes. "Don't worry about that right now."
"Ain't always forgive and forget, is it?" your father taunts.
When you get to the clock tower, you're forced to fight your way up it. Becoming infinitely more annoyed with the pompous idiot Ramón and the seemingly never-ending supply of cultists at his disposal.
You arrive just in time to see Ashley being carried away by Krauser. You can only go after her once you and Leon have taken care of the mutated Ramón. By the end of the battle, your side aches from being slammed into a stone column, and you're hoping for this day to come to an end soon. As you ride the lift down, you see a boat pulling away. "Where the hell are they going?" you ask.
"No idea," Leon answers. "But we're going to find out."
There's a boathouse at the bottom, and you hop into the backseat of the boat moored inside as Leon searches for the key. Slowly, you ease yourself down into a lying position, ignoring the worried glances Leon keeps shooting you.
The sound of heels clicking against the uneven stone floor reaches your ear. "Looking for something?" Ada asks, holding up a keyring with a smirk.
Leon glances to you like he's begging you to take over this interaction, and when you gesture for Ada to take the driver's seat, he sighs. As she steps in, you can see the moment where he debates being petty and sitting in the back with you, but with how you're stretched out across the seats, it doesn't leave him with much room to sit, so begrudgingly, he takes the passenger's seat.
A tense quiet falls over the three of you as you drive toward an island—or at least, that's where Ada told you they were taking Ashley. You're gazing up at the clouds, enjoying the brief reprieve, when Ada starts, "You look like you've got something to say."
"Doesn't matter," Leon replies. "I won't get a straight answer, anyway."
A pause, a beat where she's cast out the line—the silence goading him to continue. You wish he wouldn't take the bait, but you know he will.
"After Raccoon City," he begins. "The world changed—you try to save one person; a hundred others die…" He frowns. "I guess I changed, too."
She chuckles. "You? Leon S. Kennedy?" she asks. "You haven't changed, you just think you have."
During this exchange, you've sat back up, and he catches your eye. "So here's my question—" He peers over at her. "—Have you changed, Ada? Or are you just trying to use us again?"
She stares at him—if you didn't know any better, you'd think her tone has a bit more bite. "What do you think?" She guides the boat to the island's cliffside. "We're here." As she gets up, pointing her grappling device upward, she looks down at him, then at you, a faux air of indifference around you. "What about you?" she asks. "Do you think you've changed?"
The question catches you off guard, and by the way she smirks, she knows it, too. Then she's gone, whisking away, causing the boat to jostle, and Leon jumps into the driver's seat to snatch the wheel to ensure you don't drive straight into the rocky cliffs. He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he heads toward an area to anchor the boat.
"Have I?" you ask after a moment—your voice smaller than you intended it to be.
Leon peers back at you, seeing the pensive expression on your face, and his own softens. "No, you haven't changed," he says so assuredly.
Your gaze dips low—so why don't you feel that way?
Infiltrating the island proved even more annoying, and you're not exactly sure how Saddler has managed to hide this entire operation, which apparently houses a militia as well as research facilities. When you finally make it inside, looking down through bars onto a lower level, you see Ashley lying unconscious on a bed. Predictably, the door is locked, forcing you and Leon to delve deeper into the facility.
"Why is this never straightforward?" Leon mutters as he reads the instructions for upgrading a keycard, which would give you access to the room she's in—the only problems being finding a keycard and then actually upgrading it.
"If the goal is to do things as inefficiently as possible, they're doing a great job," you reply.
It's a horrific sight when you get to the Dissection Room and see the body on the table—it's human with a plaga on its back, tendrils attaching through its orifices, and stuck in an unnatural pose. You glance over at the X-rays still displayed, the skull barely even recognizable as human anymore. You're not sure how anyone could possibly stomach the types of experiments these people were doing. Regardless, you take pictures, documenting the atrocities for your own reports.
"Look at this," Leon says as he holds up a journal from one of the Los Iluminados scientists.
You frown as you read about this new life form the scientist seems to have created—Regenerador, he calls them. "Let's hope we don't run into one of these," you mumble as you see the section about its regenerative abilities.
Approximately two minutes later, Leon groans as said creature stumbles down the corridor, "Why did you have to jinx it?"
"Sorry, didn't think we had enough to worry about," you mutter as you blast its knees with your shotgun—more concerned with slowing it down than putting it down after what you'd read. "Run."
After playing ring-around-the-bodybag with another one of them, you manage to upgrade the keycard you snagged from the Dissection Room to a Level 2, and you're only feeling a little bit better about the whole situation when you find a Biosensor Scope.
Leon plays bait as you kill the parasites that serve as vital organs, now visible through the scope in the Regenerador, with the wrench you need to access the next terminal inside. Once you've upgraded the keycard to Level 3, you're eager to get out of this place. "They're worse than those fucking plants," you mutter, glaring down at the body, your finger still hovering over the trigger as if you don't believe it's truly dead.
"Yeah, if I never see one of those things again, it'll be too soon," Leon grumbles. "Let's go."
As you and Leon finally unlock the room where Ashley is, you're already preparing to administer the suppressant to her as he cuts the zip tie binding her hands. She's unconscious, and you hope it hasn't progressed too far yet, given how far the blackened veins have spread under her skin.
As you inject it directly into her neck, you and Leon wait with bated breath. You practically fall to your knees with relief as you watch the signs of infection begin to recede, her skin returning to a normal hue.
"You're gonna be okay," Leon says as he brushes hair out of her face.
"Leon—" Your stare drops to his own arm, and he follows your eyes to see that his own symptoms have begun to return.
He winces, blinking as if his vision has gone spotty. You hold out a hand to steady him, and he slowly sits on the ground, leaning against the bed. "How long until she wakes up?" he asks.
"Shouldn't be too long," you answer, then say, "Hard to tell." He nods as he does a press-check of his gun and focuses on the doorway.
It would be smarter to move now—you're not sure how much longer Leon has, and Ashley is still a ticking time bomb, though you might have bought an hour or two. But with her unconscious, Leon would have to carry her, and given how his brows keep crinkling in pain, you're not sure he'd be able to right now. Plus, you're not exactly in tiptop shape. You take a seat next to him, readying your own gun.
After a few minutes of silence, he starts, "Listen, if—"
"Shut up," you say quickly.
You don't look at him—you can't because there are tears in your eyes merely at the thought of what he was about to say. He whispers your name softly—tender even though it feels like goodbye. Mercy in the form of a boot.
It makes you angry. The thought of a world without him—how devastating that loss would be. Maybe it's foolish to think you have any say in how your fates were spun. Sometimes it feels like you're tangled in the threads of what-ifs and what-could-bes, tugging at strands to see where they might lead. Despite everything you've endured—every hard day, every heartbreak, every moment when you thought you couldn't go on—you would do it all a hundred times over to ensure he was waiting for you at the end, even if you had to start from dust.
"There's no reality where you die today, Leon Kennedy," you say as evenly as possible as you tilt your head to look at him. "I would never allow it."
His gaze is gentle as he considers you—you can see how tired he is, the bags that weigh heavily under his eyes. Carefully, he reaches over, lacing your fingers together as he stoops down, pressing his lips to yours. You sink into him readily, and it's over all too soon as he draws back enough to lean his forehead against yours.
"You know we never went on that date," he murmurs.
Your mind stalls.
"So, got any plans Friday?" he questioned, thumb tracing your jawline.
Then slowly, a smile spreads across your lips. "No, we didn't," you confirm with a chuckle.
"Six years isn't too late, is it?" he asks.
"For you?" you murmur. "I'd wait six more."
He squeezes your hand, nudging his forehead against yours once more, and Ashley stirring behind you causes you both to draw away from each other.
"You're here," she whispers.
"Sorry, we're late," Leon says as he hauls himself up onto the foot of the bed while she sits up, rubbing at her wrist.
"No, thank you," she says. "You brought the medicine just in time."
As you get up, you hold a hand out to her. "Can you stand?"
She readily accepts your help as you pull her to her feet. "Where's Luis?" she asks.
Leon frowns, and Ashley catches it, eyes widening as she looks to you. "We ran into some trouble, and he was hurt—"
"But, he's alive, right?" she questions.
"He's fine," you assure her. "I called in an extraction for him, and if all went well, he's on his way to a hospital right now."
She gives a small sigh of relief. "That's good."
"C'mon, let's go get rid of these parasites," Leon says.
"Do you know where Luis's lab is?" you ask.
He frowns. "No, but we know someone who does."
As he radios Ada, you check in with Ashley again. "You sure you're feeling okay?" you ask.
She nods before frowning suddenly. "I lost your knife. I—When that big thing took me, I tried to get away, but…"
As she trails off, you cup her cheek. "Hey—" You catch her attention. "I'm not worried about the knife." When her brows furrow, you add, "I'm proud of you… for fighting."
She sniffles, eyes glistening with tears and gratitude. "Me too."
When Leon finishes his conversation with Ada, he looks back at you both. "Top of the mountain," he says.
After making your way through the Cargo Depot and the Waste Disposal—reminding you far too much of the sewers in Raccoon City—you're incredibly surprised when Ashley hops into the driver's seat of the crawler to break down the wall blocking your way.
"This what they're teaching kids in school these days?" Leon asks as you ride on the outside.
She laughs. "Ever heard of driver's ed?"
You snort. "Yeah, grandpa."
He gives you an incredulous look. "You're older than me."
"Young where it counts, though," you wink, hopping down as the sirens begin to go off and the militia starts crawling out of the woodwork. By the time the wall finally falls, you're standing amongst corpses. Ashley jumps out with a gleeful look on her face.
"Did you see that?" she asks excitedly. "That was awesome."
"I think you found your calling," Leon says with amusement.
You snort. "Yeah, forget about college."
As you stride onto the lift, she leans against the railing. "I think we work pretty well together. Maybe someday I'll become an agent like you guys?" Her attention flicks between you and Leon. "What do you think? We could protect the U.S. from any and all threats!"
"Is that right?" Leon says, sticking to something noncommittal. "Either way, first we have to make it out of here."
She huffs. "You're no fun." She turns to you, eyes wide like she knows the puppy dog expression will work on you. "We'll be partners then, right?"
You wink. "As long as you know someone who can pull some strings."
She grins, hands folded behind her back, as she follows you when you file off the elevator once it comes to a stop. "I think I know a guy." Leon only smirks and shakes his head at that. If he thinks you shouldn't be playing along, he doesn't say anything.
Further inside, you find an enormous chunk of the amber Luis mentioned earlier, complete with tiny parasites frozen within. The sight of them sends a shiver up your spine, and you unconsciously step back.
"Prostrate yourselves," you hear from behind you, and you all whirl around to see a cloaked man descending the stairs. "This is our Holy Body."
The cloaked women who accompany him begin to spread out, circling behind you. Ashley scurries between you and Leon as you draw your weapons.
"Our divine providence! And soon… such a profound blessing for all… las plagas!" One of the women tugs down the hood of his cloak, revealing a grotesque growth protruding from the back of his head. "Welcome, my children. I am Osmund Saddler, the speaker of our Lord." Tendrils writhe on top of the staff he's holding, making your stomach turn.
"Tell someone who gives a shit," Leon says as he takes a shot, hitting Saddler right in the eye.
His head whips to the side, but he doesn't stumble. "Foolish lambs," Saddler says, turning back to you all. "Why do you deny grace?"
With a groan, Leon falls to his knees, gun clattering to the floor. He looks like he's trying to fight it, whatever is controlling him. Your eyes widen, fear licking up your spine, realizing this is exactly what happened with Ashley earlier when she stabbed him.
"Now—" Saddler holds a hand out, and Ashley staggers forward, a puppet on strings—her back straightening with a snap as her veins blacken once more. "Abandon your body!"
"Ashley!" you call out, taking one, two, three steps forward, almost about to wrap your hand around her wrist, when you're snatched from behind. You gasp and struggle against the hold, then realize it's Leon who's restraining you. "Let go!"
You try to wriggle free from his grasp, but it's ironclad. "I'm sorry," he groans, teeth clenched. "I can't control it."
"Obey," Saddler urges. "Obey the voice of our Lord."
Slowly, Ashley reaches down, grabbing Leon's gun from the floor. "No… No!" she gasps. "Stop! No!"
Panic surges in you as you stare down the barrel of the weapon. "Fight me," Leon pleads.
You are, you want to shout as you thrash in his hold. You're trying everything, but he won't budge, and you're only tiring yourself out.
"Oh, now ain't this fitting," the voice croons. "How romantic… dying in each other's arms."
You flinch as the gun fires, and you whip your head around, seeing one of the women behind you fall. You hear Leon's breath stutter in your ear.
"Sweet child, do not resist!" Saddler says.
Bang.
The other one falls.
Slowly, the gun returns to you. Tears pool in your eyes as you look at her. "It's okay, alright?" you manage to whimper out, voice breaking. "It's not your fault."
"No, no, no!" she cries as her finger twitches against the trigger.
"It's not your fau—"
Click.
As she pulls the trigger, the gun clicks again. Empty, you realize with minimal solace, watching as it falls uselessly from her grasp.
"Pray, forgive these wicked sinners," Saddler preaches. "My faithful disciple shall deliver to you your… penance." Ashley turns, but her eyes remain on you and Leon until the last second, when she's forced to walk up the stairs behind them. "Now, child, you need not be afraid," he says to her. "Submit your body and release yourself from fear!"
His retinue begins to leave, following after Ashley and Saddler, and only once the doors have closed behind them do you feel Leon's hold on you release. He spins you around, grasping your face in his hands that are trembling. "Are you okay?" he asks. His eyes are wide and frantic, tears gathering at his waterline.
Your lower lip wobbles, and you don't trust your voice not to shake, so all you do is nod before calmly extracting yourself from his grip. You will your hands to be steady as you pick up the gun that not even a minute ago was pointed directly at your head, and hand it back to him, watching as he quietly reloads it.
"Let's go," you say softly, clearing your throat when your voice breaks.
"You should leave," he whispers. "Before I get you killed."
You peer up at him as if he just spat in your face. "No," you say. "I told you six years ago, we either both get out, or we don't."
His face crumples, your name on his lips like you're something precious he doesn't want to lose, but he knows you even better now than he did back then—you're stubborn, almost to a fault. So he accepts your answer in resolute silence, knowing you won't change your mind.
Tension fills the air as you and Leon move. No idle conversation, only a continuous progression forward until you make it to a tent that seems to be part of some sort of military operation separate from the rest of the militia. Something on a table catches your attention, and it causes you to freeze in your tracks.
"Leon," you murmur, drawing his attention as you pick up the photo, staring at it with a frown before holding it out to him.
He appears confused as he takes it until he sees what it's a photo of. His own face stares back at him. This is from right after you all got picked up outside of Raccoon City. The words 'I'm Waiting' are written on it in threatening red ink. Further in the tent, you find a tape with a message from Krauser to Leon, challenging him.
You can see the gears turning in his head as the audio ends. "Leon—"
"I don't want you involved," he says, turning to look at you. "Try to find another way around. I'll distract him while you find Ashley."
You want to argue—of course you do—but there's a fury in his gaze that makes you hesitate. You wonder if Krauser is Leon's shadow. "Fine, but no hero shit."
He scoffs with a playful roll of his eyes. "You know that's not my style."
You squint at him. "That's exactly your style." You pause just as you're about to turn to leave. "Leon—" The words die on your tongue, reforming into something else—something safer. "—Be careful."
His stare stays intently on yours as he nods, "Yeah."
Admittedly, it's far easier to slip through the hordes of infected on your own than with Leon, who's usually more inclined to open fire than to use stealth. As you scale the cliffs, you're faintly aware of the gunfire from Leon's fight with Krauser. The militia, with their turret guns and spotlights, certainly pose a problem, but you move slowly and steadily—making quick work of those you can with your knife—until you've almost reached the Sanctuary and hear the roar of a helicopter overhead.
It comes in guns blazing, and when you hear a Southern accent being broadcast over its speaker, you're sure it's long-awaited backup. "About time," you mutter. Luckily for you, the commotion they're causing provides you with ample enough cover to sneak through the rest of the ranks. You're further ahead when you see the helicopter start to go haywire, and as you peer through your binoculars, you see it's being attacked by those oversized bugs. "Fuck." You grimace as it goes down in a fiery blaze.
By the time you make it to the Sanctuary, you realize you're following a trail of bodies. Whoever made quick work of them, and when you finally catch up and hear the sound of heels clicking on the cobbled floor, you're quick to narrow down who you're unintentionally trailing.
"Ada."
She turns, not even brandishing her gun at you. "Where's your shadow?" she asks flatly.
You freeze, blinking rapidly. "What?"
"Leon," she clarifies, and your shoulders relax. "He's usually not far from you."
"He should be nearby," you say. "Get what you came for, yet?"
She laughs dryly. "Well, I'm still here, aren't I?"
"Thought you might be hanging around to keep tabs on us," you say. "You know, out of the goodness of your heart."
She smirks and angles her head, gesturing for you to follow her. The two of you walk in silence for a minute or so before she asks, "So, what do you think?" When you frown, she adds, "Do you think I've changed?"
You stop mid-stride as you're walking toward the door ahead. You bite the inside of your cheek, looking down. "I think Raccoon City changed you just as much as it changed us—" You hesitate, sighing. "—and I hope it was for the better."
She chuckles as she falls into step with you, but says nothing in response until you reach the door, and as she's about to push it open, she says, "You and Leon talk about changing, but from where I'm standing, you're exactly the same as you were six years ago—idealistic to a fault."
Your mouth falls open.
Once inside, Saddler's voice booms from the room below, and then pained screams reverberate through the chamber, guttural and raw. You're drawing your gun before you even know what you're doing, shooting down at Saddler, disrupting whatever hold he has on Leon, who collapses against the dais at the center of the room.
More gunfire joins yours as you feel Ada move beside you. "Go," she orders. "I'll cover you."
There's no hesitation as you jump over the railing. You haul Leon to his feet. "Cover your eyes," you say, then toss a flash grenade back toward Saddler, blinding him and giving Leon enough time to pick up Ashley. You're ushering him along, backing up as you step through the passageway. Your briefly meet Ada's gaze before a large statue comes tumbling down, blocking the entrance and keeping Saddler from chasing you.
"Ashley… Ashley?" Leon mutters, jostling her, but she doesn't respond. "Damnit."
"Do you need me to take her?" you ask, not knowing how much better you would fare, but willing to try.
He shakes his head, gritting his teeth. "No, I've got it."
You catch sight of a floor plan hanging on the wall ahead. "It's not much further," you say as you spot where Luis's lab is, tracing the path along the map with your finger. "We're close."
It's a slow crawl as Leon trudges forward, with you watching intently, hovering behind in case he stumbles. "Shut up!" he yells, not at you, but you flinch at the suddenness of it all the same.
"Looks like you ain't the only one hearing voices, girl," laughs your father in your ear.
He keeps walking, mumbling under his breath, and when he staggers, you catch him. Keeping him upright until you get to the door, taking the key from him to open it. "This time, it has to be different," he says under his breath.
"It will be," you murmur.
As he places Ashley in the chair, you're at the terminal, clicking through. "You go first," she weakly pipes up.
"No way," he denies. "Like I told you, I'm gonna get you home safe."
You don't waste any time, hitting 'Diagnose'. The chair begins to move, spinning into place as the devices overhead spin around. On the monitor, you can see the parasite, and when the 'Purge' prompt appears, you click 'Yes'. As the process begins, she lets out a gut-wrenching scream, and Leon holds onto her hand while you keep watch, seeing the parasite disintegrate under the laser.
'Success'
You give a thumbs-up to Leon, and a slow smile forms on his face, before he promptly hits the floor with a definitive thud.
"Fuck." You scramble up, knocking the stool over in your haste. "C'mon, Ashley, up, up." You don't mean to rush her, but the clock is ticking. To her credit, even barely conscious and still reeling from the excruciating pain she just went through, she listens.
"Do you nee—"
"No, I got it," you insist, as you grab onto Leon's arm, hauling him up from the ground with a grunt, your ribs screaming at you. "Told you never to ask me to perform this feat of strength again," you mutter to his unconscious body in between wheezes.
Ashley, now more awake, paces the lab, a bundle of nervous energy she redirects toward investigating what else Luis might have left. As you get him into the chair, you dart back to the console to repeat the process. You're fidgeting, biting your lip until you taste blood. Your attention doesn't stray from the screen, which blurs as tears cloud your vision. You hit the prompts as soon as they pop up, and only when the word 'Success' appears do you finally turn around.
You're on your feet, you and Ashley hovering anxiously next to him, waiting for him to wake up. He comes to as the lasers retract, eyes squinting open as if he's not sure whether he's alive. He calls out your name, then Ashley's.
Her face tightens as she leans down to hug him. "I thought you were gonna die," she murmurs.
He gives her an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Okay," he mutters, as if he doesn't know how to respond to the display of affection.
"Can you stand?" she asks as he slowly sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the chair.
You linger just out of arm's reach of him, wringing your hands together. When your eyes meet, he can see the tears glistening in them. With a slight flick of his fingers, he motions you toward him. You step into him, wrapping your arms around his waist as gingerly as possible, as you bury your nose in the crook of his neck.
"Don't worry," he whispers. "I'm built to last."
Begrudgingly, you pull away, lip quivering as you weakly swat at him. "Not funny," you rasp.
A smirk twitches at the corners of his lips, the hard edges of his face settling into something softer for you. "It's a little funny." Glancing around, he spots a piece of paper in Ashley's hand. "What's that?"
"It's a map," she answers as she holds it out to him. "I found it." She points down to where, presumably, Luis scribbled on it. "I think it says we can get out if we go… this way." Starting to walk, she leads the way before glancing over her shoulder, "We're a team, right?"
Leon stands, tucking the map into his pocket. "Keep this up, and I'll be out of a job."
A grin spreads across her face before she continues on.
"Softie," you murmur as you bump your hip against his.
He rolls his eyes, wraps an arm around your shoulder, and draws you closer, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head. You let the warmth spread through your body, fueling a flutter in your stomach.
The way out leads to the loading docks, and Ada dangles from a chain attached to a steel beam below. "Is she supposed to be bait?" you ask as you peer around, expecting an ambush, but find nothing. No doubt Saddler has something up his sleeve, though.
"He thinks he's going to lure us out." Leon walks over to the lift, making sure his guns are reloaded. "You two stay up here. I won't be long."
Maybe he expects you to argue, but you don't. Instead, you settle into a vantage point as you ready your rifle. "Go ahead, I'll take overwatch." Squinting, you take aim at Ada. A loud bang echoes as you fire, and Ada falls to the floor beneath her in a heap. You glance over your shoulder. "Don't wanna keep him waiting."
He rolls his eyes when you wink at him and hits the button on the elevator. "Don't do anything stupid," he says.
"That's my line," you reply.
Predictably, as soon as he exits the elevator, bugs begin to converge. From above, you're able to pick off a few, and Ashley squats next to you, exclaiming, "Nice shot!"
Like some sort of fucked up magic trick, Saddler appears in the middle of the swarm, tendrils oustretching from his hand, wrapping around Leon at the most inopportune moment when you realize your magazine is empty. Ashley frantically taps your shoulder as you reload, willing you to go faster. "I know, I know," you murmur.
She gasps, and you look up as you slide the magazine in. Ada's timing is impeccable as she swings down, kicking Saddler in the back and freeing Leon from his grasp. She lands next to Leon, and the two open fire on the maniac. That only angers him, and as he yells, you watch wide-eyed as appendages burst from his back, his body twisting and convulsing as he transforms into a huge, monstrous creature.
"Oh god," Ashley breathes as if realizing how close she came to becoming that.
"Bigger they are and all that," you mutter as you peek through your scope, taking shots at the fleshy amalgamations. You're not sure where Ada went, but Saddler focuses on Leon, chasing him across the loading docks. Leon does his best to whittle him down, and you're doing what you can from above. When Saddler finally falls, it isn't for good. He bursts through the floors, his disgusting tendrils spiraling around the entire structure as he grows impossibly larger.
You're running dangerously low on ammo as Leon fires bullet after bullet into the huge eye at the center, though it feels like it has no effect. Footsteps behind you catch your attention, and you whip around, handgun drawn and pointed at the intruder, faltering when you see Ada standing there, a rocket launcher strapped to her back.
"Leon needs help," Ashley urges.
Ada's eyes briefly flicker to yours. "I'm on it," she says.
Your gaze drifts between Ada and Leon, watching as she makes her way down to him while he holds Saddler off. He takes the rocket launcher when she tosses it to him, and as he takes aim, you hold your breath. The impact exposes Saddler at the center of the eye, and Leon hurries to end it, snatching the man's own staff and impaling him. You lose sight of Leon for a moment before the enormous corpse begins to shrivel away, like charcoal in the wind.
Settling back onto your knees, you let out a sigh, though you don't take your eyes off Leon as Ada walks over and nabs something off the floor. You can't make out what they're saying, but you can see the furrow in Leon's brow as he watches Ada walk away toward the helicopter that flies up toward the ledge.
As she boards, she tosses something to Leon that he catches, and you're left watching as the helicopter flies away. "You and Leon seem to know her pretty well," Ashley comments as she stands next to you, observing the exchange.
"I don't know that I'd say that," you mutter. "Maybe it's for the best, though." An explosion off to the other side catches your attention. "Alright, time to move."
Ashley's following behind as you make it to the lower level. She calls out to Leon as you round the corner, and he glances back as another explosion shakes the floor. "Better move. Island's gonna blow," he says.
"Island's gonna what?" Ashley gasps out as he leads you to the lift.
You keep her ahead of you as you move through the underground passage. As you get further in, there are people all writhing on the floor—the infected militia. "They're not attacking," Ashley notes.
"Daddy parasite is dead," you explain as you come upon a jet ski.
Leon holds up the key, attached to a small bear keychain. "Cute," you comment.
As he hops on, you sandwich Ashley between you. "You like thrill rides?" Leon asks her.
She grins. "I love them!"
"You're gonna love this!"
"Let's not love it too much," you gasp out as you hold onto the sides when Leon takes off. The first jump he hits has you burying your face into Ashley's back. "I'm just gonna keep my eyes closed, let me know when we're done!"
"Aw, c'mon!" Ashley shouts back to you. "This is kind of fun!"
Hesitantly, you peek an eye open only to see an enormous chunk of the cave collapse in front of you, Leon swerving right in time to avoid it. "Nope! Not fun!" you determine and squeeze your eyes shut.
"There's the exit!" he yells.
Your stomach flies into your throat as the jet ski hits a jump, lifting you into the air. A scream rips from you as you swear at Leon. Only when the jet ski slows to an idle do you finally open your eyes. "You guys okay?" he asks.
"I'm not sure!" Ashley laughs. "That was insane."
"I think I'm going to be sick," you grumble, leaning just over the side in case you really do have to puke.
Explosions reverberate through the air, and you watch as the facility explodes, water spraying down on you. There's a finality in the scene, watching everything come tumbling down. Ashley looks from the chaos behind to the rising sun ahead, its swirl of pinks and yellows tinting the sky something hopeful. "Mission accomplished, right?"
"Mission accomplished… when you're home safe," Leon says.
"Thank you for saving me," Ashley says, nudging you gently with her elbow. "Both of you."
"Don't mention it," Leon says.
"S'why we get hazard pay," you mutter as the nausea finally subsides.
"You know, I could put in a word to my dad," she says, eyebrows tilted up like she wants you to say yes. "Have you guys assigned to my detail, if you're interested?"
Leon glances over her shoulder at you, and you smirk. "You don't need us," he says. "You proved you could handle yourself… even if you could use a better instructor in knife safety."
The smile drops off your face. "Hey!"
Ashley laughs.
Leon looks ahead. "C'mon, let's go home."
Once you're safely back on U.S. soil and have been formally debriefed, you're standing idly outside the National Center for Medical Intelligence—one of the other STRATCOM locations. It's an hour's drive back, and you left your car at the airstrip in D.C. since you were sent off in a hurry.
Scrubbing a hand up and down your face, you don't even notice the person come up to stand beside you. "You waiting to teleport home or—?"
You glare over at Leon, who appears equally as exhausted as you know you do, but not tired enough to give the bad jokes a rest. "Don't have my car," you mutter. "Weighing the pros and cons of paying for an hour taxi ride."
He holds up his own car keys. "Today's your lucky day," he says. "I'll make it cheap for you."
You raise your brows. "Oh, will you really?"
"Yeah, just a single kiss," he grins. "Surely you have some to spare."
You roll your eyes, seizing him by the collar of his shirt and dragging him toward the parking lot. "I'm going to tell Luis you tried his pick-up line on me."
"You gonna go see him?" Leon asks as he readily follows after you.
You give a hum and nod. "Yeah, probably in a day or two," you say.
During your debriefing, you learned that Luis had indeed been successfully extracted from Valdelobos and taken to a hospital in Bilbao, where his collapsed lung was treated with a little more than a piece of plastic and some tape. You were assured that your treatment of him saved his life, though you already knew that. After a bit of prodding from both you and Leon, you learned that he would be given a plea deal, largely because of the testimony of Ashley, who credited her survival to the combined efforts of you, Leon, and Luis.
You aren't privy to the exact terms of this deal—no doubt they were largely similar to yours and Leon's, especially given how much information Luis knew and how much was lost when the island exploded. But with him now stable—according to Hunnigan—Spain would release him into the custody of the United States, and he would recover here while answering for his involvement with Umbrella and Los Iluminados.
"You wanna come?" you offer.
Leon rolls his eyes. "Yeah, no thanks," he says as he opens the passenger door for you.
You get in with laughter bubbling out of you as he slams the door shut and circles around to the driver's side, sliding in. "Oh come on," you say. "Don't act like you weren't concerned about him."
"I wasn't," he retorts as he starts the car.
"You were," you maintain.
He knows you won't change your mind, so he turns on the radio, a horrible rock band blasting through the speakers. As you wince at the sudden noise, you catch Leon smirking out of the corner of your eye, and you resist the urge to swat him as he backs out of the spot.
The drive is quick when you fall asleep fifteen minutes in, only waking as he gently shakes you. "C'mon, we're home," he whispers.
Your eyes flutter open as he cuts the engine, and only when you're already stepping out of the car do you realize you're in the parking lot of his apartment complex. As he walks around, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and guides you toward the entrance.
"We both need to shower," he says as you enter the elevator.
You have just enough energy to pretend to be offended. "I smell like roses, what do you mean?"
He snorts. "Yeah, if the roses were grown in manure."
You gasp, actually offended this time, as you pinch his side, making him laugh and swat your hand away. When you don't relent, he wraps you in his arms, gently bear-hugging you as he presses his lips to the top of your hair. Your laughter trails off as you sense the shift in mood.
"I'm sorry again," he mutters into your hairline. "For what I said."
You're quiet, ear squished to his chest as you listen to his heart beating frantically against his ribcage. "We can talk about it later," you say as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. "Right now, someone stinks and needs a shower."
You don't know how both of you ended up in Leon's tiny ass shower stall at the same time—maybe it had to do with the way his hands wandered up your sides the moment you crossed the threshold into his apartment, or the way you leaned back into him as his lips found your neck.
Either way, your clothes end up on the floor, and you two are certainly not prioritizing cleanliness with the way you have your tongues shoved into each other's mouths. You're crowded against the cold tile, and you gasp into his mouth. "Leon."
He swallows it down readily before running his tongue over your bottom lip. His hand snakes between your legs, fingers gliding through and finding your clit right away, circling around it in quick, precise motions. "This okay?" he asks, tipping back enough to look at you, taking in your half-lidded gaze and the way your mouth falls open as a tiny whine escapes you.
You nod quickly, hips thrusting against his hand, fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his neck as you drag him back into a voracious kiss—the kind where you don't know whether you want to devour or be devoured.
When he slides a single finger into your pussy you moan at the pressure, your skin heating up like your veins are on fire. "Can't wait to bury my cock in you," he murmurs. As he feels you tighten around his finger at his words, he grins against your lips. "Like the thought of that, huh?"
"Shut up," you whine, embarrassed by your body's reaction.
As he adds a second finger, you find purchase on his shoulders, nails biting into the skin already reddened from the hot water beating against his back. He starts slow—an in-and-out that leaves you aching for more. Impatiently, you jut your hips forward, a high-pitched keening at the back of your throat. He doesn't give in; if anything, he only goes slower.
"Needy today, huh?" he murmurs, arrogance in his voice as if you can't feel the hardened line of his cock against your thigh.
"Leon, please," you whisper.
He peppers kisses down your cheek to your jawline, stopping at your ear. "Yeah, sweetheart?" he breathes. "Tell me what you want."
"Want to cum," you practically beg, and it sends Leon to his knees instantly. You swear you can hear a crack as they hit the tiled floor, but he doesn't even wince as he dives in. "Shit," you gasp as he licks at your clit, fingers pumping with much more vigor, and you nearly struggle to stay standing, one hand blindly reaching out to grab hold of anything.
You find the shower niche and knock over his half-empty bottle of 2-in-1, but he pays it no mind as it clatters to the floor. If anything, he doubles his efforts, his other hand settling on your hip as if that's enough to keep you upright. You're not even sure how he's breathing with his nose pressed into your cunt and the way the water rains down on his head, but he's enthusiastic as the noises become incredibly obscene, your moans that begin to pitch up, bouncing off the tiled walls in the small bathroom.
When he adds a third finger and crooks them just right, you think your legs are about to give out. He brings you to the precipice quickly—he knows exactly how you like it, and even if he teases you with dirty talk, you know he won't leave you hanging.
"Leon," you moan. "Close."
Your entire body tenses as he sucks at your clit in time with a thrust of his fingers, sending you spiraling over the edge. It's a feeling that starts in your face—a red-hot flush that cascades down your body all the way to your toes and leaves you writhing against him.
"Oh shit," you gasp. He keeps going, not stopping until he's sure you're completely worked through, and only then, after you've tapped out—literally—by patting his shoulder to let him know you've had enough. As he stands, he slicks his soaked hair back before turning the shower off and wrenching the curtain open.
"What are you—oh!" You wrap your arms around his neck as he heaves you up in his arms by the back of your thighs, and you can feel his hard cock wedged between you.
"Bedroom," he answers as he steps out of the shower.
"If you slip and we die like this, I'm going to kill you."
He presses a kiss into your shoulder to hide his smirk. It's a short walk to his bedroom, and he places you carefully onto his bed—mindful of your injuries—crawling between your parted thighs, swallowing down your protests that you're going to get the sheets wet. "Don't care," he says as he molds your mouths together—you can taste yourself on his tongue. As he leans away, palming your breasts and running a thumb over your hardened nipples, you can see how blown out his pupils are. "Turn over."
You comply as soon as your brain catches up, rolling onto your stomach, and he grasps you by your hips, lifting your ass in the air, hands grabbing at it appreciatively, a soft groan emitting from the back of his throat at the sight. He teases the tip of his cock at your entrance, smearing it with his pre-cum, but not pushing in yet. You glance over your shoulder, face flushed. "Leon—"
He thrusts in before you can even finish—bottoming out so quickly that your knuckles turn white from how hard you're gripping the sheets beneath you. Your words get caught in your throat, your mouth gaping as no sound comes out. "That's what you wanted, right?" he mutters as he slowly pulls out, only to bully his way back in once more.
The drag of his cock inside of you has you seeing stars whenever your eyelids flutter closed. He doesn't need an answer; the way your pussy clenches around him is enough, as he begins a steady rhythm. Once you've gotten used to the stretch, you start to rock your hips back and forth in time with his, and you can hear the way his breath stutters.
"Shit," he murmurs, enraptured by the sway of your ass each time he buries his cock in you. "Jesus, you look so good like this—"
Your brain is hardly working, far too focused on how full you feel to worry about anything else, so you only manage a soft, "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he groans. "Isn't a better sight than you stuffed full of my cock."
You whimper in reply, burying your face into the pillow, still sensitive from your previous orgasm and feeling another already start to coil at your core. When your movement starts to falter, Leon can tell you're getting close, but so is he. The sounds of your soft moans mixed with the slap of his balls as he fucks you sends a tingle up his spine. As he glances down and catches sight of the way his cock glistens with your slick every time he thrusts in and out of you, he nearly cums, abruptly slowing his pace. With one hand, he reaches around to slowly circle two fingers on your clit, though with the other, he presses a thumb experimentally against your other hole.
"Leon—"
"If you don't want me to, just say stop," he murmurs. He waits a second for you to protest, and when you don't, he continues, pressing only the tip of his thumb into your asshole. The whine you let out is well worth it as you arch your back even more despite the way your ribs ache. It doesn't matter, though; you're so overwhelmed from the way his cock pounds into you, to the fingers swirling around your clit, and now this new teasing that leaves your stomach—and pussy—fluttering. "You like that?"
You nod against his pillow, eyes scrunched closed as the sensations wash over you. The coil in your abdomen is nearly ready to explode open.
"Gonna cum like this?" he questions breathlessly, barely managing to contain his own orgasm.
"Yes," you gasp, and then your vision turns white as you moan his name, every muscle in your body tightening. This one isn't a harsh fall over a cliff; it's a gentle tide that slowly washes over you. Leon fucks you through it until you're boneless beneath him, and only then does he pull out, pumping his cock as he cums across your ass cheeks and lower back, whimpering your name over and over.
He's breathing heavily as he collapses onto the bed next to you, kissing your cheek. "Was that okay?" he asks.
"Mhm," you nod tiredly before adding, "We're gonna have to take another shower." You can already feel the way his cum is cooling on your skin, mixed with the stickiness of sweat.
During the second shower, you're strict about Leon keeping his hands to himself, and he does, albeit begrudgingly. You manage to make it out of there cleaner than you entered. After dressing in a pair of Leon's sweatpants and a t-shirt, you strip the bed and start putting on new sheets since you'd gotten the other ones wet.
He's quiet, and as you're in the middle of putting on the fitted sheet, he finally speaks up, "Do you want to talk about it now?"
To be honest, you're surprised by his insistence. You think it might be because you haven't said you forgive him yet. Each time he's apologized, you've brushed it off, something you've never done before. Whenever you two have had disagreements in the past, you've been quick to accept his apology and move on.
This time is different. "You hurt my feelings," you admit.
He frowns. "I'm sorry. So much was going on and everything kept going wrong—" He pauses and shakes his head as if he realizes he's making excuses. "—Just know I didn't mean it the way it sounded."
"It sounded like you think I'm a burden," you say as you tuck the sheet in.
"I don't—" He sighs and pinches his nose between his fingers. "I'm doing an awful job of explaining this."
You're inclined to agree, but you don't—not aloud, at least.
"You're so important to me, and being on a mission with you when you weren't the priority was incredibly difficult because you're a priority to me." He doesn't look at you as he folds down the sheet. "…That's why I requested that we never be sent on missions together."
You freeze—your brain hitting a hard reset as it fills with static. "I'm—I'm sorry, you requested that?" you ask. Suddenly, everything makes sense—his nonchalance the first and only time you asked him about it, Hunnigan's insistence that you not make contact with him when you first arrived, how upset he seemed when he saw you.
He blinks as if realizing his mistake, already opening his mouth with another excuse at the tip of his tongue. "I thought it would just be better for us if we weren't sent on assignments together."
"Because, what? You think I can't take care of myself?" you retort. Anger builds inside of you, and maybe you stuff the pillow into the pillowcase a little harder than you mean to.
"There it is," the voice leers. "Even a worm will turn."
"No, I—"
You don't let him speak. You're all bared teeth and narrowed eyes. "Because I survived six fucking days in that hellhole before I even met you—I would say I'm pretty fucking capable!" You toss the pillow onto the bed between you with a soft thud.
He seems taken aback by your reaction, but it doesn't leave him stunned for long. A storm cloud settles over his face. "Jesus, that's not what I meant!" he raises his voice.
"Then what did you mean?" you question. "You clearly think I'm some sort of liability. I mean, God, do you even know how that makes me look to everyone else? That even you don't want to go on an assignment with me?"
"I—"
"It makes me look inept!"
"You're not inept!" he argues.
Leaning back onto your heels, you nod as if you remembered something. "Oh, right, I'm a distraction." You tap your head thoughtlessly. "Silly me."
He lets out an exasperated sigh as he rounds the bed, standing in front of you, hesitating to reach out. "You're not listening to me."
"I am, I'm listening to exactly what you're telling me with your words and with what's written on your face. It's loud and clear," you argue.
His brows draw together. "What?"
Your shoulders drop as you humorlessly laugh. "You don't even know, do you?" You wave a hand in front of his face. "When you look at me, you get this… this sad look on your face. It's like you think I'm just going to disappear."
"I don't—"
"You do," you insist with a nod. "Every time I leave for a mission, or hell, even just sitting across from each other on the couch. You look at me like I'm going to walk out that door and never come back."
His face twists up. "Because you might not!"
You draw back, peering up at him and finding he can't meet your eye. "Is that why you've been so withdrawn?" you ask. He opens his mouth and then closes it, like he wants to retort, but he can't, because he knows you're right.
"I just don't want to lose you," he says softly.
"You haven't!" you argue. "Stop looking at me like I'm already gone! I'm not, I'm right here!"
His eyes are downcast, staring at the space between you. "I don't… I don't think I know how to."
You sigh—it's a defeated, tired sound. "Leon, do you even know what it's like to have someone look at you like you're already a ghost?" He doesn't say anything, even when you give him time. So you nod. "Right," you mutter. "I'm just gonna go—"
His brows furrow. "No, please—" He goes to reach for you, but you brush his hands away, and the pain on your face doesn't make him try again.
"—I'm gonna call a taxi and wait in the lobby—" You stop, your voice breaking as you add, "I'll… I'll talk to you later, okay?"
He doesn't leave his room as you head out into the kitchen and use his phone to call a taxi, nor when he hears you gathering your things and your soft sniffling, not even when he hears the front door open and the long pause before it closes.
Leon sits there and stares at the spot you were standing, wondering what the fuck is wrong with him.
Author's Note: thanks for all the love on the first two installments of this series guys! i hope you're ready for some re4 shenanigans :)) buckle in this is a long one (so much so i had to split it into two parts, whoops)
Summary: A lot can change in six years. Sometimes, things don't get better, just different.
Word Count: 16.2k (31.4k Total)
Content: 18+, smut, re4!leon, doctor!reader, angst, gore, mentions of past child abuse, medical inaccuracies, parasites, mind control, death & grief, everyone flirts with reader, jealous!leon, yearning yearning and more yearning but they're also deeply traumatized individuals, undefined situationship hell, oral (f!receiving), p in v sex (unprotected), little bit of butt stuff as a treat
To Read on AO3
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Tag List: @aspinny @rjreins @kaitieskidmore97 @animegamerfox @rubixgsworld @celesteelysia @sharkalina666 @tilliebilly @kikistarz17 @0kauy @liveresident @lunitas09 @meowieees (let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list for this series!)
Trauma is a reaction—not a memory.
It is the dread in the pit of your stomach when the acrid smoke of a Marlboro Red hits your nose. It is the clench of your jaw when you pass a girl on the street who shares the same gleeful cackle as a friend whose face you can no longer remember. It is the cold sweat that gathers on your brow when a shadow in the night looms too large in the corner of your eye.
It is helplessness, and sorrow, and anger wrapped in an incomprehensible package; a myriad of what-ifs you could drown in, and some days you want to give in to the feeling, to sink into its maw and let it devour you until it's left gnawing on your bones.
Most days, though, you're desperately trying to keep yourself afloat. You pretend you're fine—you plaster on a smile and engage in pleasant small talk that makes you want to crawl out of your skin. You go grocery shopping and stop at the dry cleaners and all the other mind-numbingly ordinary errands every other nearly thirty-year-old woman does.
And you've been pretending for so long, sometimes you can even fool yourself.
It's only in moments like this, as you're about to be dropped into the remote mountains of northern Spain, that you're forced to reconcile with the fact that something's fucked up with your wiring. If you were a normal person, you wouldn't feel the lick of exhilaration shooting up your spine as you test the weight of cold gunmetal in your hand; your body wouldn't be buzzing in anticipation of what's to come.
Despite the thrumming just under your skin, your mind is eerily calm. Usually, it's so loud you can't hear yourself over your own thoughts, as if you're trapped in a vacuum of your own brain, screaming at you. Now there is only quiet—it's a deathly still focus that reminds you of what it felt like to work in the E.R., to be surrounded by havoc and remain a steady beacon of repose against it all.
Looking back, maybe it was odd how invigorating it felt to be elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity, manually pumping blood back into their heart, or the sickly-sweet pressure of intubating a patient, knowing a single slip of the hand could cause them to aspirate or rupture their vocal cords. The fast-paced environment of the Emergency Department never left you time to ruminate on much beyond what the next incoming trauma might bring.
Perhaps that's why you preferred the mayhem; it never gave you time to sit alone with your thoughts, drowning them out for the sake of survival.
But was it nature or nurture that made you this? A person who seeks out the familiar teeth of chaos to chew them up instead of the maw dripping with despair that nips at their heels. Is peace merely a notion that will always remain beyond reach for you?
As the spinning blades of the helicopter drone a thwop-thwop-thwop that vibrates straight into your molars, you wonder whether your father scrambled your brains; if he knocked some things loose with each beating that left his knuckles bruised and bloodied.
The smooth voice of Ingrid Hunnigan crackles in your earpiece. "Roost to Vulture Actual, come in."
You reach up, pressing the push-to-talk button on the radio clipped to your shoulder strap. "I read you, Roost," you respond.
"The situation has changed from your previous briefing," she says, and you only roll your eyes to yourself because, of course, it has. "Condor One received confirmation that Baby Eagle is in the village and is currently in the process of locating her. Your goal remains unchanged: investigate and contain; however, the retrieval of Baby Eagle still remains top priority—all other directives are conditional."
"Understood, Roost."
"Given the delicate nature of the mission, you will be dropped off three miles south of the village. Hope you're up for a little hike through the woods, Vulture," she quips, and you can hear the smile in her voice. It isn't often that Hunnigan serves as your support operative, but with the crossover between your and Leon's current mission, your superiors deemed it pertinent to assign her to both of you.
You snort at the joke, fiddling with a loose thread on your pants. "Glad I wore my comfy shoes," you reply. "Anything else?"
There's a pause—a hesitation that immediately causes your jaw to set in place. "Condor One is unaware of your assignment."
You blink. In other words, you are not to make contact with him and to remain under the radar. You're not sure why she's tiptoeing around it when it's blatantly written on the wall, as if your feelings would be hurt if she spoke plainly to you.
You pluck the thread, roll it into a ball, and flick it away as you purse your lips and lean back in your seat. "I'll let you know once I reach the village, Vulture out." You disconnect, not giving her a chance to reply. There's a bad taste on the back of your tongue now. Caustic tar clings to the roof of your mouth, heavy and bitter.
Still, somehow, you're not surprised that Leon doesn't know you're here.
It's been two years since you started going on field missions—the two years before that, you endured what was possibly the most stressful and chaotic period of your life, and you lived through both medical school and a six-day zombie outbreak. The higher-ups at STRATCOM thought it would be a wonderful idea to start your training at the same time as your fellowship, claiming they'd been more than generous to let you finish your residency, but they were owed their due.
Typical government powerplay bullshit.
So you struggled through almost two years of eighteen-hour days, at times barely able to stay on your feet as exhaustion burrowed so deeply into your bones. The threats they'd made against anyone who mattered to you were the only thing that kept you moving forward, knowing that if you stumbled, they would pay the price.
Your days were spent in clinicals and poring over mind-numbing research, while your nights were a relentless onslaught of training that left you feeling as if you went through a meat grinder—you were instructed in combat, weapons, infiltration, and whatever else they saw fit to mold you into the person they needed you to be.
Containment—that had been your mission priority for the last two years. You've been sent on numerous assignments with the sole goal of investigating and controlling potential outbreaks. It's a task you've accomplished time and again—textbook, your superiors called your missions. Objectives were completed in a timely manner, complications were handled quickly and efficiently, disasters were avoided, and, to your chagrin, covered up.
Yet, since you started field missions, they've been adamant in keeping you and Leon separated, as if assigning you to the same job would be a liability, like you hadn't survived Raccoon City together.
You talked to him about it once, or at least tried to—asked him why you two were never sent out on assignment together, and he only shrugged in response. "Never thought to ask," he answered.
Something about the nonchalance in his answer left you with a heavy feeling in your chest.
You didn't bring it up again.
In truth, you're not even supposed to be here right now. The last mission you were on left you with two broken ribs that still twinge when you breathe too deeply—you should be on desk duty for another two weeks—but your medical clearance was pushed through due to intel that came in less than eight hours ago from your good friends at the newly formed Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance about a situation devolving in Spain. Specifically, a location linked to where STRATCOM received intel about the president's missing daughter.
Her kidnapping has largely been kept quiet, even internally, because an ongoing investigation is underway, with fear that her disappearance is the result of an inside job. You hadn't even known about it until you were pulled for this mission. According to the briefing you received before leaving, only a few select agents were sent out to locate her—one of them, you learned, was Leon. The others were sent to remaining points of interest, but fortune—or maybe misfortune—would have it that Leon was sent to Spain.
Not that you were complaining, you'd rather get sent into an unknown B.O.W. situation than write reports all day.
But with the fledgling B.S.A.A. tied up in other endeavors, Jill passed the information they'd gathered to you. They didn't have much—a general location and the name of a former Umbrella researcher. You cross-referenced that name against Umbrella files provided to the U.S. government last year—files that led to the corporation's downfall.
This intel, combined with the growing number of missing persons reports in the area and now the disappearance of the president's daughter, made STRATCOM unwilling to risk coincidence. So here you are, in a helicopter, about to be deposited in a remote region of Spain with instructions to gather information on possible B.O.W.s in the area, neutralize any threats, and locate Luis Serra, the former Umbrella researcher—and do all of this without compromising the rescue of the president's daughter.
"Three minutes until we reach the drop location," one of the pilots, Adam, says over comms, glancing back at you.
With a sigh, you give a thumbs-up before standing. You flick through the many pockets on your vest, taking inventory of what you have on you—a habit you can't shake. Once you've done that twice, you tug on the straps of your vest, ensuring it's snug against you.
"You expecting a lot of resistance?" the other pilot, Connor, asks, curiously eyeing your arsenal—a Blacktail handgun, a Riot Gun, and a Stingray sniper rifle. Several grenades dangle from your belt, and even more knives are hidden on your person, some of which he can't even see.
"Better to be prepared than caught with your ass out," you say, earning a laugh from both of the men—they think you're joking.
"We're descending now," Adam announces. "One minute until drop."
You grab your mask from your belt—it's a simple, sleek black design that covers only the lower half of your face, but the built-in rebreather ensures you won't be exposed to airborne variants—an incident in South America a year ago made you realize its necessity. It's a design of your own making, one that STRATCOM was so gracious as to have made for you.
"It looks like a muzzle," your usual F.O.S. agent, Cassie, said to you when you first got it.
"Woof," you replied.
You slide the helicopter's door open as it descends just above the tree canopy beneath, and you spot a clearing you can jump into to avoid hitting every branch on the way down—a mistake you've made before. The last thing you put on before attaching yourself to the rope to rappel down are your gloves, made of a thick, protective leather.
"You're okay to go," Connor informs. "Good luck, Vulture."
A little salute is your reply as you jump from the helicopter, carefully dropping down into the forest below. Once your boots hit the damp soil, you uncouple yourself from the rope. "Clear," you say into the radio, and you squint, peering up as the rope reels in, and the helicopter gains elevation before flying off.
Around you, the woods are silent—likely the wildlife was scared away by the helicopter's loud thrum. It's still early in the morning; the sun barely peeks over the horizon, and light dapples through the leaves, mimicking the gentle surface of water across the forest floor. Slowly, as you trek further, birdsong starts to ring out above you, and the chittering of other creatures joins in.
Only when you reach the precipice of civilization—if you could even call it that—do you notice a hush has once again fallen over the area. As if you walked through a barrier that other animals were unwilling to cross. It's an eerie quiet, the kind your instincts might urge you to flee from; a primal fear of something unnatural that lingers just at the edge of your vision.
You set aside any inclination to run; instead, you keep moving forward until you're standing on a cliff's edge overlooking the remnants of an old factory. Junk and trash litter the yard around it. It appears abandoned, or at the very least, not properly maintained. "What a shithole," you mutter before clicking on your radio. "Roost, this is Vulture, come in."
"I copy Vulture, what's your status?" you hear Hunnigan through your earpiece.
You snatch the binoculars from your belt and look through them at the area below. There are people milling about, you realize. "I've reached the outskirts of the village. I'm near a factory," you inform. The people are moving oddly—jerky movements that aren't quite right —and some have weapons in their hands—axes and pitchforks. "I see some people—not friendly, I'm assuming."
"You would be correct. I've received confirmation from Condor One regarding strange activity in the village," she says. "Stay alert and stay hidden."
"Got it—" Gunshots from down below draw your attention. "I'll let you know if I find anything." The villagers begin to descend upon the factory, disappearing into it, but you can still hear gunfire from within. You grab your rifle from your back, dropping to your belly as you prop your gun up, peering through the scope right as the doors burst open.
It's strange to see a ghost in the flesh.
Your pulse picks up as your breath hitches at the back of your throat. Beneath the leather of your gloves, your palms are sweating, and your finger hovers over the trigger.
"Gone," is what Leon told you.
Staring at her with disbelief, Ada Wong is decidedly not gone. You would say she seems alive and well, except she certainly does not. Her footsteps are shaky as she staggers out of the factory, a hand on her head as if she's in pain, though you don't see any physical signs of injury. The gates leading into the factory yard slam open just as she collapses, and more villagers amble through.
Your aim is steady as you watch them close in on her—their intent is clear. There is something off about their movement—it's almost reminiscent of how those infected with the t-Virus in Raccoon City moved; human-like, but not quite. These people are puppets on strings.
Bang.
You exhale slowly as one of the villagers drops; the pitchfork they were about to stab Ada with falls to the ground as the empty bullet casing rattles to the rockface you're perched on.
Bang.
Bang.
The other two crumple before they can even figure out where the shots are coming from. They at least have some semblance of awareness, you note. The thought makes your face tighten—a virus that turns people into mindless beings driven only by ravenous hunger is horrible, but one that preserves the function of the frontal lobe could be devastating.
You pause for a beat, holding your fire to see if anyone else will emerge. When no one does, you stand and reload your rifle, focused on Ada, as if waiting to see whether she'll stir on her own. Then you spot something—someone—out of the corner of your eye on the factory roof. It's a man, you realize—dressed as if he's going to a business meeting, not standing in ground zero of another potential B.O.W. outbreak.
You take in his features—tall, blonde, and wearing sunglasses.
You know him.
You've seen the files and listened to Jill recount what she endured at the Spencer Mansion. Albert Wesker stands there, chin tilted up as if looking at you, his expression unreadable. Your mouth goes dry. This is the man who played no small part in the devastation of Raccoon City. How many people died because of him? How many lives were destroyed?
You raise your rifle once more, taking aim as your nostrils flare. He's dead center in your reticle, unmoving as if he's testing you—seeing if you have the gall to take the shot. A storm of righteous indignation swirls inside you, destructive and unrelenting.
You start to squeeze the trigger.
"What good is a dead man?" a voice whispers in your ear, and you freeze. "Don't be stupid now, girl."
Bang.
Wesker doesn't even flinch as the bullet pings off the metal floor beside him, but a slow smirk tugs at his lips as he stares up at you. You're glad he can't see your face—the way it's twisted with anger and the realization that you failed his test. You pry your eyes away from his and give Ada another cursory glance before stalking off, determined not to get mixed up in her games again, least of all if they involve him.
You take the long way around the factory, sticking to the treelines as you make your way to the village along the route Hunnigan provided. The trail of bodies you seem to be following makes you think you're incredibly lucky with your timing and that you can't be too far behind someone else—Leon, if you had to guess.
You adopt a leisurely pace despite the circumstances, but you're here to investigate, and you can't do that if you're in a hurry. The number of bodies strewn about gives you plenty to document. It's clear they're exhibiting symptoms of some kind of infection—bloodshot eyes, blackened veins—similar to the t-Virus. But besides being riddled with bullet holes, there's no clear indicator of an infection site; no bite or scratch or other grievous wound.
Still, you take pictures of the bodies and log your findings in a voice recording. "Clear signs of infection," you note as you walk, mentally keeping a tally of every corpse you pass by. "At this time, I'm unsure whether it's bacterial, viral, fungal, or—" You stop in your tracks as you come across another body further down the path. Human, clearly, but where its head should be is spindles of flesh, almost similar to a tapeworm. "—parasitic."
With a click, you take a picture of it.
You're hesitant to approach—too many instances of being grabbed by bodies you thought dead lingering in the back of your mind, but you have your pistol in one hand and your voice recorder in the other. "Method of transmission is currently unknown, but the entire village seems to be affected—water supply or maybe something more direct."
You squat down, using the muzzle of your gun to prod the tentacle-like protrusion on the corpse, tense as if waiting for it to come to life, and there's only a minor bit of relief when it doesn't. "Infected also seem to retain at least minimal awareness," you note. "Brain damage typical in other B.O.W.s, such as the t-Virus, seems not to be present."
You tuck your recorder away and bring out a knife, grimacing as you carefully cut away a piece of the appendage and insert it into a tiny tube for further analysis once you get the hell out of here.
"Gross," you mutter as you stare at it through the glass before slipping it away into a pocket.
A ghost town greets you as you arrive at the village square. There are even more bodies around the square, a pyre in the middle with a charred corpse strung up—maybe one of the people who's gone missing, you suspect. Slowly, you creep through the houses—a lot are threadbare, a testament to people who did not live far above their means. There's still laundry left to dry, and meals that appear as though they were left mid-preparation—a peek into a pot makes you recoil at the rotted food within.
A picture catches your eye—it's a family portrait, at least a decade or more older now, but the people seem happy as they smile at the camera. You wonder if any of them were among the bodies you've come across.
Once you've gone through the houses, you make your way toward the larger building at the center of the square; however, the sight of what appears to be a dead dog catches your attention. Your mind flashes back to the mutated dobermans in the parking garage of the police station, and your skin pricks with something white hot—fear, you realize.
Not a dog, you surmise as you step closer. A wolf. You grab your recorder, flicking it on as you kneel down. "Virus may be capable of infecting other mammals," you note. "—Or other animals in general. A wolf specimen, native to the area, retains much of its typical physiology except for notable distending of the jaw."
You're not sure how many teeth wolves are supposed to have, but you're certain it's not as many as you're seeing in this creature's mouth.
As you stand, you rub the back of your neck, a frown on your face behind the mask. A virus capable of cross-species transmission is always a concern—containing it is nearly impossible, especially if it reaches the avian population. Surveying the area, you see a few crows hopping around. They don't seem hostile, but that only leaves you with more questions than answers.
When you reach the building, you stare at the symbol hanging on the door—it's a cross between a religious icon and some sort of arthropod. Your thoughts drift to the movie Alien—a favorite of yours. "If these are facehuggers, I'm out," you murmur as you push the door ajar.
It's dimly lit, and on the far wall from the entrance, you see an altar of some kind—candles light the portrait of a hooded man, and on either side of the altar are mounds of skulls. "What the fuck is going on here?" Further in, more murals depict people holding heads, like sacrificial offerings—the missing people. An even larger skull sits on a table, surrounded by others wrapped in gauze and bearing the same symbol as the one on the door, drawn in what looks like blood.
You take pictures—documenting what you find as you come across a book, an illuminated manuscript reminiscent of an old Bible. It's open to a verse. "'Iluminados 4:9.'" Not a Bible verse that you know, and it's in Spanish. "'Sleep and… flourish'?" you whisper, wishing you had more time to brush up on the language before coming here. "Something 'body grows'… 'your mother' something something… Is this a cult?" Glancing around, you frown. "Yeah, this is a fucking cult."
There's another door in the next room that you carefully slip through, and you find yourself in the building's side yard. You jolt when you see a cloaked man standing behind a table—he cuts an intimidating figure, tall and imposing, with nearly his entire face covered by a dark purple bandana bearing some sort of symbol—not the one you'd seen on the door, though. Instinctively, your hand flies to the gun holstered to your thigh, but you falter as he greets you jovially. "Welcome, stranger!" His voice is deep—vaguely Australian, certainly not an accent you expected to hear in these parts. "No need for that—" From beneath his hood, his eyes dips to where your hand hovers. They cast an odd glow, refracting with a predatory luminosity like a cat in the dead of night. "—I've only wares to sell, not looking to tear you to pieces."
You don't move for a second, hesitant to step closer. You're curious, though, so you do, angling your body slightly so you can move away quickly if you need to. When you get only a few paces from him with only a table between you, you tip your head to the side to get a better look at him. The veins around his eyes, which have remained keenly focused on you, are blackened—he's infected like the rest of the village, but—
"You're not like the others," you say. It's phrased as a statement, but your tone suggests a question. You inch forward.
"You're not like the others I've seen, either, stranger," he replies.
You quirk an eyebrow. "In what way?" you ask.
His gaze flicks just past you to the spot right behind your head, like he could see something standing there. It makes you freeze, a coldness washing over you. "You've got a shadow looming over your shoulder," he answers. It takes everything in you not to turn your head to follow his stare—you swallow the urge down, fists clenching at your sides so hard the leather of your gloves squeaks together. He meets your eyes once more. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"
"Can you tell me anything about what's going on here?" you ask, eager to change the subject as an itch begins at the base of your skull.
"Haven't figured it out by now?" he shoots back.
You shift your weight from one leg to another. "Only part of it," you confess. "But I am interested to know what's keeping you from—" You can't find the words, so instead you hold your hand behind your head and wriggle your fingers around, signifying the tendrils you saw earlier.
"Well, a man's got to have his secrets," he answers.
You purse your lips before leaning forward, palms on the top of the wooden table separating you two. "Don't suppose I can have a sample of your blood, then?" you ask with as much charm as you can manage.
When he mirrors you, bending at the waist to catch you at eye level, you think he might acquiesce to your request. "You'll have to buy me dinner first, love," he replies, and you can tell he's smiling behind the mask.
You scoff as you straighten out, arms crossing. "Easier said than done around here," you say before looking around, noting the crates he's got around him and the large pack he's hauling on his back. "You a businessman, then, that it?"
"I am, indeed," he confirms.
"Get a lot of customers this far out?" you ask.
"Been a bit livelier around here the last day or so," he says with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. "Not bad for business."
You sigh softly. Might as well shop if you're not going to be getting any information—or blood—out of him. "Alright, what do you have, then?"
A deep chuckle leaves him as he holds open his jacket, displaying a wide array of goods, and you balk at the arsenal he's got hidden in his coat. You eye the GM 79 grenade launcher hanging there with a bit more greed than you're willing to admit you have.
"You take credit?" you ask cheekily.
He snorts at the question. "Pesetas only," he replies.
A heavier sigh leaves you as you take a step back. "Afraid I'm a little strapped for cash, then," you say. "Maybe next time?"
His demeanor turns pensive as he stares at you before it falls to your Blacktail. "Your gun," he indicates, holding his hand out to you.
There should be more reluctance coursing through you as you unholster your weapon and offer it to him, but you can't deny your interest. Before you let go, you say, "Promise not to shoot me with my own gun."
His eyes crinkle with a smile. "So long as you don't give me a reason."
You let out a huff of laughter before relinquishing your grip, and he turns to the side, where you notice a small workbench set up next to him. You can't quite see around the goods he has strapped to his back to get a look at what he's doing, but he's pivoting back to you before long, handing your gun back to you by the muzzle.
"That should do it," he says. "A bit more firepower now."
When your fingers wrap around the grip, his other hand comes up to envelop yours, and he leans in—pupils reflecting that dangerous yellow glow in the lowlight that should send a primal fear up your spine, but you only find yourself slanting closer.
"First one's free, love," he informs, voice low like he's telling you a secret. "Stay safe out there."
As you holster your gun, you move away. "Thank you," you say, and before you go to leave, you ask, "The others you've seen—one wasn't a man named Luis by any chance?"
"Already off looking for another man, gonna make me jealous," he jokes, and you can't help but roll your eyes at the brazenness. "Gone north, I think."
You nod in thanks, then depart the way you came, imagining it won't be the last time you see the mysterious merchant, though your mind lingers on what he said about the shadow looming behind you. The itch at the base of your skull returns, and you shake your head as if trying to rid yourself of the sensation.
"I've been here the whole time, girl," you hear the rough voice in your ear, and it causes you to halt.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, one that makes your healing ribs ache, but you hope the pain will center you. With a slow exhale, you open your eyes again and take a step forward, the gravel crunching beneath your boot.
"Ignore me all you want," he says, further away now. "I ain't going nowhere."
Following the path north, you reach a farm—cows, pigs, and chickens all wander around, acting perfectly normal despite the corpses lying about. "Livestock in the area does not exhibit any symptoms of the virus," you note into your recorder as you near one of the cows. She sniffs your outstretched hand before pressing her nose into it. You take the opportunity to examine her more closely—her eyes are clear, staring at you with a delightfully blank look as she chews hay. You gently pet her head. "What do you think, girl? Got any ideas?"
She only gives a long, drawn-out moo in response.
The radio crackles to life in your earpiece. "Roost to Vulture." Hunnigan's voice has an edge—a tightness you recognize as thinly veiled panic.
"What's wrong?" you ask automatically, cutting to the chase. There's a break. "Roost, what is it?"
"Condor One has been radio silent for over an hour," she says. Your mouth goes dry as you take a shaky breath. "I need you to get eyes on him—he was heading to the lake at our last check-in, and the G.P.S. is spotty now, so I can't get a read on his location."
Images flash in your mind—Leon torn to shreds by the dreadful maw of those mutated wolves, Leon bloated and blue, dead at the bottom of the lake, Leon, his head separated from his body, just another sacrifice for this fucked up cult.
"Get me a path to the lake," you say quickly after clearing your throat, pinching the bridge of your nose, as if it'll stop the visions from circulating through your head.
"Done."
You snatch the radio off your shoulder and note the route she sent you. "I'll let you know when I find him."
Your feet move without you telling them—the thought of Leon lying dead somewhere, clinging to you like a dreadful nightmare you can't wake up from. Over the last six years, you've tried not to think of it—a world without him, but the fear digs deep into you when you sleep. How many times have you dreamed of him dying? How many nights have you woken up sobbing and crying out for him?
Running—you're running now, heartbeat pounding in your ears as you come to the lakeside settlement Hunnigan directed you to. You rip through the buildings, searching for any sign of him. "Where are you?" you call out, apprehension bubbling in your throat. "Leon, answer me!"
Your skin feels hot and cold all at once—your clothes too tight against your body.
As you step out toward the dock, you pause, seeing a boat floating in the middle of the lake. From here, you can't see anyone in it. But it's an odd sight, and then you're scaling the cliffside to get a higher vantage point. You're breathing heavily as you get to the top, grabbing your binoculars when you see something lying on the floor of the boat. As you peer through them, the figure of Leon Kennedy becomes clear—faintly, you can see the rise and fall of his back.
He's alive.
With a heavy sigh of relief, you plop down onto the ground, clicking on your radio. "Roost, this is Vulture," you say. "I've got my sights on Condor One; he's unconscious in a boat in the middle of the lake."
"What?" You hear the confusion in her voice.
"He's alive, but he's in the middle of the lake in a boat," you confirm. "Do you want me to try to reach him?"
"No," Hunnigan says after a long, stretching silence. "Your mission remains the same—Condor One can take care of himself."
"Copy that," you murmur as you disconnect, but you don't move.
You sit there for another two hours, peering through your binoculars at Leon, keeping careful watch as the sun begins to dip, casting shadows across the landscape.
Things have changed between the two of you.
You used to have such an easy time reading him—sometimes you thought you knew him better than you knew yourself, but now you're not so sure.
Now, you're two ships adrift from one another, and it's been happening for a while now. You don't know how to fix it—if there is anything to fix. You and Leon weren't ever… anything—not something you could name, at least.
It never felt fair to either of you. These past six years, you've both just been trying to keep yourselves afloat, with no time to process what happened to you. For a while, you thought that was for the best—keep moving forward, so you didn't have time to linger on what was behind.
Now you're not so sure.
The last time you saw him was over two months ago—back-to-back assignments for both of you sometimes kept you from seeing each other for weeks at a time. It was a new normal you were still getting used to, even after two years.
You were over at his apartment. It was finally starting to take shape into something livable after all this time. He even had some photos of you two on the walls—ones you took and bought frames for, but he actually hung them. You remember the swell in your chest when you saw them there.
It was a nice night—or at least it started that way. You ordered takeout and were sprawled on his couch, watching some shitty comedy you were both making fun of between bites of lo mein. When he offered you a beer, you declined, saying you had to be up early for a mission.
He got quiet after that.
When the movie ended, and you got ready to leave, he looked at you as if the moment you walked out the door, he would never see you again—like he was already mourning you. He always looked at you like that before you left for a mission.
You wonder whether you looked at him that way, too—if that's why you feel this chasm forming between the two of you, as if you're both holding your breath, waiting for the day when the other walks out the door and never comes back.
Your back straightens when you see Leon sit up abruptly in the boat, like he woke from a bad dream. As you watch him start the boat and head toward the boathouse on the other side of the lake, you linger only for a few minutes longer, waiting until he's out of view before finally moving.
By the time you retrace your steps back to the farm, activity is picking up among the villagers—you're surprised there's still any left, given how many bodies you've stumbled across so far. You're keeping to the cliffs, preferring the literal high ground, when you spot a familiar figure moving through the farm, trying to keep clear of the people moving about. "Glad to see you're still alive," you mutter to yourself as you hunker down at your position and peer through your rifle's scope. She's searching for something, you realize. "What are you looking for, Ada?"
Her sneaking doesn't last for long, and once one villager becomes aware of her presence so do the others. You watch her fight her way through them, and the sound of gunfire and shouting echoes in the air, creating pandemonium. Your finger twitches against the trigger.
You're so focused on what's going on down below that you almost don't hear what's coming. Your ears perk up as loud footsteps reach you, and you turn to see an enormous creature lumbering into the farmland. Your eyes widen at its appearance—human once, perhaps. It's nearly as tall as the buildings in the area, even hunched over, and its face is deformed. You think of the giant skull you found. A rope hangs from its neck like a leash it broke free from, or maybe, more likely, was set loose.
Thankfully, it hasn't noticed you. Its attention is solely on Ada, who takes to the rooftops, zipping back and forth with her grappling device as the creature tries to pummel her—and other infected, it doesn't seem to separate friend from foe. She's quick, though, managing to land a few clips on the creature between all the flying around. When fleshy tendrils emerge from its back, not so dissimilar from whatever sprouted from the heads of the villagers you found earlier, you frown.
Is it some sort of defense mechanism, you wonder.
You're content to be a silent observer of this fight until you see it nearly knock her off a roof. For a moment, you muse whether this is how she felt back in Raccoon City, watching you and Leon struggle your way through, weighing the pros and cons of intervening. She should count herself lucky that you're far kinder than she is.
Bang.
Bang.
You take shots at the wriggling mound of flesh on the creature's back.
Her head snaps up toward you, but only for a split second before she's moving again, using your gunfire as cover to get herself upright and away. It doesn't take much more to bring it to the ground; perhaps it would've been quicker if you'd intervened earlier.
Carefully, you traverse down from your spot to the farm below, walking into the open area just as she's crushing the wormlike appendage under her heeled boot.
It's got teeth, you note with a grimace.
"Well," she starts, out of breath from the fight. "If it isn't the good doctor."
"That's two," you say as you loop the strap of your sniper over your shoulder. "Looks like you owe me."
Her gaze narrows—the look of a woman who doesn't appreciate being in someone's debt. "Two?"
Behind the mask, you grin. "Outside the factory," you start. "Who did you think saved you?" There's a pregnant pause, a moment where your eyes meet hers, the humor leaving them. "Wesker?" His name is poison in your mouth.
She's quiet, sizing you up. "You're a lot meaner than I remember you being," she says with an amused huff.
"You're a lot more alive than I remember you being," you retort. "What are you doing here, Ada?" You don't give her a chance to answer. "Wait, let me guess—" You tilt your head to the sky, tapping your chin like you're deep in thought. "It's confidential?"
"Oh, you are vindictive, aren't you?" she chuckles.
"She's got you pegged," a voice laughs right behind you. "Vindictive just like your daddy."
"I'm being careful," you correct—quieter now, the bite leaving your tone. "You don't exactly have a track record for being forthcoming and trustworthy."
Maybe it's misplaced hope, but you think her expression shifts at your words. It's silly and stupid, but a small part of you wants to believe that this person who survived the same horrible, wretched thing you did—that you still have nightmares about—is, at her core, a good person. She helped you and Leon—she didn't have to, and maybe it was for her own gain in the end, but she still helped.
And maybe that's the only reason you haven't put a bullet in her yet.
"I'm looking for someone," she finally says.
Part of you is shocked by the straightforward answer, brows raising on your forehead. "And who would that be?" you ask, already anticipating the answer but wanting the confirmation.
"A man named Luis," she replies.
You're glad the mask covers half your face, and you hope she can't glean anything from your eyes in this moment as you nod in response to the information. "A man, hm?" you ask. "And what's so special about this Luis?"
When she smirks, you realize you've played right into her trap. "That's two," she says slyly. "Consider us even."
You let out a bark of laughter as you roll your eyes, hands coming to settle on your hips. "Should've expected that."
Sidestepping around you, she glances back over her shoulder nonchalantly, but you have a feeling she's eager to get back to her search after being delayed. "If that's all… I'll see you around."
You snort. "I'm sure you will." You watch her start to walk away, and the words are coming out before you can even stop them. "For what it's worth, Ada," you begin, and you watch her halt mid-step. "I wanted to be wrong about you."
She doesn't turn to look at you, but you see the tightness in her shoulders, the way your words have landed, and then after a second, she's moving again.
You stare at her until she disappears from view before you turn your attention to the creature lying on the ground and the appendage coming from its back—it's connected at the spine. Grabbing your recorder, you begin, circling around, "I suspect the virus is parasitic in nature. It appears to attach to the cervical vertebrae—method of transmission is still unknown at this time." You snap a few pictures. "This particular specimen seems to exhibit extreme growth due to infection, and displayed highly aggressive behavior, including attacking other infected. Increased size and strength are likely to have impacted cognitive abilities such as awareness and judgment."
With a sigh, you switch off the recording, standing there with your arms crossed as you observe your surroundings. A thought crosses your mind as you look at the bodies around, with a frown, you sift through the photos you've taken so far.
There are no children.
That should be some sort of solace, but it isn't.
"Daddy…" The memory taps against your skull, a demand to bring back the dead. It's a slap in the face, a muffled gunshot behind a closed door that still rings out in your head like the tolling of funeral bells.
You flick your recorder back on to say, "No observation of juvenile hosts in the area; given the extreme mutations seen in some of the infected, it is likely their bodies may be too weak to withstand the virus."
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you glance up; there's a storm rolling in—you can smell the scent of rain in the air. Dark storm clouds churn with the hues of the setting sun, painting the sky the color of a fresh bruise.
A single droplet hitting your forehead makes you flinch, and then when another lands, your eye twitches. "Great," you mumble as it begins to trickle down, then becomes a steady onslaught of rain, soaking through your clothes and causing the loose strands of hair to stick to your face. "Goddamnit."
You only make it to the edge of the farmlands before you see torchlights in the distance. You squint, seeing at least a dozen villagers marching south, wielding weapons and moving with a terrifying determination. Ducking off the path, you crouch behind a tree, watching as they pass by, muttering in Spanish.
"What's got them so riled up?" you murmur to yourself as they leave your view.
When you're sure you're in the clear, you continue on into the growing darkness. As you come to a bridge, you think you see a figure moving around the building ahead. Your brows furrow, pausing to grab your binoculars.
It's a man, you realize from the silhouette, not able to discern anything else between the rain and the shadows of night that begin to stretch across the village. "And who are you?" you question, watching as he disappears into the villa.
If you're lucky, that's Luis Serra, and you'll be on a helicopter out of this godforsaken place in the next hour.
"Roost to Vulture," you hear Hunnigan's voice crackle to life in your earpiece.
"I'm here," you respond.
"Condor One has located Baby Eagle," she informs you. "They are moving to the extraction point."
"And?" you say, sensing more.
"Your directive has changed," she says, and you scowl, resisting the urge to huff—guess it'll be a little longer before you're on your way out of here. "Baby Eagle's extraction has been prioritized, and you are to assist Condor One."
"I take it I'm allowed to make contact, then?" you ask.
"Affirmative."
You sigh. "Understood."
"They should be moving through the village toward your location now," she says.
You're crossing the bridge, keen on getting a better vantage point to see them coming in all this rain. "Got it, Vulture out." You disconnect and haul yourself up onto the roof of the building as quietly as possible so as not to alert the person who went inside. Despite the rain, you're steady as you grab your rifle from your back, peering through the scope and switching on the night vision.
You scan around, and luckily, it's not difficult to find Leon and the president's daughter, given the large mob of villagers trailing behind them. The flicker of torches to your left catches your attention, and you see another group of villagers trying to converge on the two.
They're going to be swarmed, you realize as they run over the bridge.
Bang.
The man who was about to nab the girl gets sent sprawling, blood spewing from the bullet hole in his forehead. Leon sharply peers over his shoulder, and there's confusion on his face as his gaze returns forward, peering up, but ultimately unable to locate where the shot came from in the darkness. Below you, the door flies open, and the voice of a man calls out to them.
"This way!" he yells.
Bang.
Just as the pair moves through the gate, another body hits the ground behind them. As the girl hurries into the house, Leon hangs behind to close the gate, though he's met with resistance as one of the villagers shoves their arm through.
"Son of a bitch," Leon grunts as he pushes the gate, sliding in the mud as the horde of villagers tries to force the gate open. He groans as they manage to gain footing despite his putting the entire weight of his body against it.
"Close your eyes," a voice behind him orders, the tone familiar. He instinctively scrunches them shut as a flash grenade goes off—he can still see the bright streak of light even through his eyelids and winces. The infected let out a screech as they're blinded, and several gunshots echo with the rain.
As he opens his eyes, another figure shoulders into the gate, and it closes enough for him to secure the lock on it, though he knows it won't hold them off for long.
"C'mon!" the man from earlier, Luis, yells, gesturing to the two of them from the doorway of the villa.
As they cross the threshold, the man slams the door shut and bars it. Ashley is doubled over, breathing heavily from all the running they just did, and Leon feels a burn in his lungs, though he keeps his face passive as he lays what he hopes is a comforting hand on her shoulder. The knocking of boots against the wooden floor turns his attention away.
He recognizes you the instant you angle your head toward him—your hair is pulled back, though wet with the rain, some strands clinging to your forehead, and your clothes are soaked through—a tactical vest over a three-quarter sleeve burgundy shirt that clings to your form and tight cargo pants that he knows are probably filled with various bits and bobs.
This is the first time he's ever seen you dressed for a mission, and the mask that covers half your face makes you appear menacing. Your eyes meet his briefly as you kick the mud off your boots, and he mutters your name with confusion on his tongue. "What are you doing here?" he asks.
When you take the mask off, he sees the frown on your face as you hook it on your belt, but you ignore his question, walking over to Ashley and gently placing a hand on her shoulder, urging her to stand up. "Don't bend over," you tell her, voice kind and warm, despite the intimidating presence you cut with the numerous weapons on your person. "It'll be harder to breathe like that."
To her credit, Ashley straightens out, taking in a deep breath as she nods at your words, face scrunched with strain. "Who are you?" she asks.
When you tell her your name, she looks at Leon, as if questioning whether you're someone she can trust. Only after he nods do her shoulders relax, though it doesn't last long, as the angry shouts of the villagers outside remind you all that time is of the essence.
"I see you've found your missing señorita," the man says to Leon with a grin, looking to Ashley before falling on you, a curious quirk of his brow. "And another beautiful creature has followed us here."
Leon scowls at this, nostrils flaring as he watches the man rake his eyes up and down your figure. You, however, are a wolf rounding on her prey. "Dr. Luis Serra?" you ask, any warmth in your voice chilling to a cold professionalism.
"Oh," he hums, eyes crinkling at the edges. "And she knows my name, I am honored. We've never met before, have we? I would remember such a lovely face."
"No, we haven't met, but I have been looking for you," you confirm, and when you give him your name, you include the title of doctor. Leon recognizes the bite in your tone; it's the same indignation you speak to the higher-ups at STRATCOM with when they talk down to you, when they think you're merely another run-of-the-mill agent.
"Ah, beauty and brains—"
Leon cuts him off, fist to his chest as he backs the man into the wall, and Luis puts his hands up as if in surrender. "Yeah, yeah, we all have names—"
"Touchy," Luis comments with a quirked brow,
A crash outside catches your attention. "Leon," you call out as you peek through the window; the villagers have managed to wedge the gate open—it wouldn't be long before they break it down.
His gaze turns to Ashley, eyes wide with fear and lip trembling. "Hide," he instructs.
She looks around, gesturing. "Where?" she asks.
Luis goes to an overturned wardrobe. "Here," he indicates, and with Leon's help, they lift it, revealing a crawlspace behind it.
"Seriously?" Ashley murmurs.
"In," Leon orders.
"Here," you say to Ashley, holding out one of your knives, still in its sheath. "Just in case."
She seems hesitant. "I—"
You force it into her hands. "Pointy end out, it's not hard," you reassure her, and she nods with a furrow in her brow as she ducks down, crawling into the dark of the hiding spot before Leon and Luis lower the wardrobe back down to cover it.
Outside, the gate creaks under the force of bodies slamming into it. "We gotta block the windows," Leon says, taking some boards from the table to start covering them.
As you move a shelf in front of another one, you look over at Luis, who's standing uselessly there. "You gonna help or you gonna stand there with your thumb up your ass?" you ask exasperatedly.
Your words make a grin spread across his face as he comes up behind you, caging you between his own body and the shelf. "You're feisty," he says into your ear, his chest pressing against your back.
Leon's jaw clenches so hard he thinks his teeth are going to break as he grips the shelf from the other side, yanking it the rest of the way. "Yeah, and she bites."
Luis leans back, but stays hovering close. "Oh, I don't mind a little biting." He winks at Leon. "You done warming up?"
"Yeah," he grinds out. "Now, if you'd shut up, we'd be good to go."
"Touchy," Luis repeats in a singsong tone, wagging his finger. "Lighten up, cowboy."
With a roll of your eyes, you press-check your Blacktail and grab extra shells for your already-loaded shotgun, making sure they're easily accessible on your belt with your other ammo. "Take the right, I'll take the left," you say to Leon.
"Got it," he says as he draws his own handgun, making sure it's reloaded.
"And what about me?" Luis asks as they finally manage to break down the gate and begin filtering into the yard outside.
"Don't get in the way," you reply pointedly as you prop yourself in front of the window at the stairs, blasting a villager right in the head as they break it open, glass shattering everywhere. You take a brief second to admire your gun, and faintly, you say to yourself, "Does have a bit more kick to it." As more gather outside, you toss a grenade right over their heads, and an explosion sends most of them flying.
That doesn't seem to deter the ones still alive, who start to clamber through the opening while others break through the windows on Leon's side. As he and Luis pick off those steadily filing in, a cacophony of gunfire reverberates through the house, and just barely, Leon can hear noise coming from upstairs.
"They're upstairs," he calls out, unable to pull himself away as two fall through the window and he's forced to reload.
"I got it," you announce. "Cover me." Luis takes over as you move up the stairs, keeping them at bay for you. From downstairs, the two men can hear the sound of a shotgun firing before a body sails over the edge of the balcony, crashing onto the table in the middle of the room.
As he and Leon share an impressed look, Luis smirks and says, "Quite the woman."
"You have no idea," Leon answers before firing at another of the villagers, groaning as the writhing, fleshy appendage juts out from its head, lashing toward him. "God, there's no end to them." Clearly, you're offered no reprieve either, given the seemingly unending stream of gunfire above him.
"Leon!" Ashley yells as she bursts through the door, having found a way out of the house through the crawl space. "This way, hurry!"
Luis is already making a run for it, and Leon shouts for you, unwilling to leave until he knows you're following. "I'm right behind you!" he hears you say, and there's the thud of your boots hitting the ground floor as you jump from the loft.
Ahead of you, Luis, Leon, and Ashley dash across the wooden walkways and pass through the arch of the gate, while behind you, the villagers are hot on your heels. Leon whirls around and catches sight of the winch controlling the heavy wooden gate. "C'mon!" he yells.
Your feet pound against the ground as you speed up, and as he aims his gun, you slide through the threshold as he fires. The gate comes flying down, impaling the villager that was a hair's breadth from catching you. Your chest heaves as you stare at the mutilated corpse only inches from you. "Fuck," you breathe out, startling a bit as Leon snatches you up off the ground. You brush away his worried hands. "I'm fine."
A strangled cough behind you makes you both whip your heads around. "Ashley?!" Leon stalks over as blood splatters into the palm of her hand.
She gasps, mouth gaping and staring down at her shaking hand with widened eyes. "What's happening to me?" she asks fearfully, glancing between you and Leon.
Grasping the sides of her face, you press the tips of your fingers just under her jaw to feel for her lymph nodes, then grab a penlight from one of the many pockets of your vest. She flinches back as you shine it into her eyes. Your face remains painstakingly neutral, and Leon can feel his heart speed up at the memory of watching you examine Marvin—unable to read anything from your expression. Panic bubbles up in him, and he inches forward, hovering right behind you.
With a click, you turn the penlight off and shove it back into your pocket before glancing over your shoulder past Leon to look at Luis, something like condemnation in your stare. Leon watches intently as the man hesitantly approaches. "Is this the first time you've coughed up blood like this?" he asks Ashley.
She nods, using the wet wipe you give her to clean the blood from her hand.
There's a frown on his face. "The cough, the blood—it's caused by something called a 'plaga'," he explains. Your jaw sets as Ashley and Leon exchange a look of confusion. "Okay, you saw those 'people', right? Well, you have the same thing inside you. The same thing that made them like that. This—what you're experiencing, the symptoms. They're only the beginning."
"It's a parasite, correct?" you ask, crossing your arms with an intense look on your face, finally putting together all of the puzzle pieces you've been collecting since you got here.
"Yes," he confirms. Somehow, the revelation doesn't make you feel any better, but you fight the scowl that tugs at your lips.
"I don't want to turn into one of those things," Ashley stammers, tears blurring her vision, as she wrings her hands together.
Laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder, you say, "You're not going to." Before turning to Luis with a sharp look in your eye. "Tell us what you know."
"Well," he starts—quickly, as if sensing your thinning patience. "At this early stage, the parasite—the plaga—it is possible to remove it with a surgical procedure. All you need is the know-how—" Grasping the collar of his shirt, he holds it to the side, showing the scar trailing down his chest. "—and the right equipment."
"Wait, you too?" Leon asks with a furrowed brow.
"No worries," Luis says with a wave of his hand. "See, I have a plan." He treads backward, edging away from you all. "But you're going to have to trust me." You surge forward, seizing him by the lapels of his jacket and halting him in his tracks. He glances down his nose at you, seeing how unwilling you are to let him go. "I'm afraid this is a solo mission, corazón."
You scoff, voice low so Ashley and Leon can't hear. "You're aware I'm not the only one who was looking for you, right?"
His brows raise in a way that tells you he knows exactly who you're talking about. "I am."
You purse your lips, leveling him with your gaze. "Be careful who you trust, Luis."
He reaches up, tapping you on the nose once with a wink. "Your concern is very sweet," he teases. With a roll of your eyes and a scoff, you gently smack his hand away, no real bite to your actions as you step back. His stare finds Leon behind you, and when the blonde man gives him a nod, he claps his hands. "Great! We're partners then!"
He spins, starting to walk away, but Leon calls out after him. "Hey, why are you—"
"No time for questions," Luis says, cutting him off. "The clock is ticking."
"Why are you helping us?" Leon asks anyway.
Luis pauses as he leaves the protection of the gatehouse, rain pelting down on him. "Because it makes me feel better," he replies. "Let's leave it at that. I will contact you later."
As you watch him disappear down the path, you feel the warmth of a body at your back. "What are you doing here?" Leon asks, whispering into your ear.
You peer over at him, not expecting to see his face so close to yours, and as you meet his eyes, you see the way they drop down to your lips before flicking back up. Still, his face tightens, brows pinched together as his jaw clenches, like he's upset about you being here.
Blinking, you inch away, though you can still smell traces of the cheap 2-in-1 he uses. It's usually so strong it makes your nose burn, but now, with the combined scent of rain and gunpowder, it's settled into something milder that only makes you long for home. You're overcome with the urge to wrap your arms around him, but instead you busy your hands with reloading your guns.
"Well, I was here for him," you answer, tilting your head in the direction Luis went, the chick-chick-chick of you sliding another magazine into your Blacktail filling the silence. "My directive was changed."
"Changed to what?"
Your gaze slides to Ashley. "Me?" she asks.
"You're priority one," you say. "Once I get you guys to the extraction point, then I'll be back to it."
Leon squints. "Alone?" he questions.
You give him a confused look. "Yes, alone." You gesture to the empty space around you. "Do you see anyone else here?"
"That's not a good idea," he says, voice low like he's trying not to cause a scene in front of Ashley. "There's some weird shit going on here."
"Yeah, that's kind of why I'm here," you say incredulously. "If something weird is going on, it has to be contained." When he sighs exasperatedly, you frown. "Listen, I'm not here to argue with you—" As you turn away, he grasps your arm as if he's not done with the conversation. When you go wrench yourself free from his grip, your ribs twinge—no doubt aggravated by all the running around—and you wince, sucking in a sharp breath.
It doesn't go unnoticed by Leon. "Are you okay?" he asks, removing his hand immediately, but stepping closer, concern clear on his face.
"It's nothing," you tell him, though he doesn't seem to believe you. "I got pulled early after my last mission—just a strained muscle."
He scowls. "Why would they clear you if you were still injured?" he questions.
You purse your lips. "Because there was no one else to send," you answer. "Only a few agents have been sanctioned for duty with the ongoing investigation. We got a tip from the B.S.A.A. about a former Umbrella researcher active in the area, and with all of the disa—"
"Wait, Umbrella?" he interrupts.
You settle back on your heels and cross your arms, mouth forming into a thin line.
He's quick to put the pieces together—you were here searching for someone. "You mean Luis?"
You don't give any verbal confirmation, only a small raise of your brows, letting an uncomfortable silence fall over you.
"You two know each other, I take it?" Ashley pipes up when the tension gets to be too much, and when you both look at her, you can see her focused on the space in between the two of you—or rather, lack thereof.
"Yup," you and Leon say at the same time, each taking a precise step away from the other.
"Are you two…"
"No!" you deny quickly, and when you don't hear an answer from Leon, you glance over at him, brows furrowing at the hesitation on his face.
"It's—I mean, no—" he corrects. "No, we're not…" The words die on his tongue, and his cheeks darken as he scratches the back of his neck.
"…Okay," she says, suspiciously eyeing you both.
"We should move," you suggest, swiftly changing the subject and hopefully sparing both you and Leon the embarrassment of having to explain the ambiguous will-they-won't-they relationship you've found yourselves in.
Leon's eager to take the out, making his way down the path with you and Ashley trailing behind. When he holds a hand to his ear and says, "I'm here," you figure Hunnigan is doing a check-in. "Yeah, she found us—" There's a drawn-out pause, as if he's holding back something scathing. "—Would have been nice to know."
You exhale slowly through your nose, but ultimately keep your mouth shut.
"Negative, it's too dangerous," he replies to her. There's a slight stutter to your gait as you have the sinking feeling that something has gone wrong. "We're gonna get out of here and find someplace safe."
Another pause.
"Don't worry about it. We'll swim home if we have to. Condor One out." As he disconnects, he looks back at you and Ashley.
"I take it the extraction is delayed?" you ask.
"The helicopter can't make the approach with the weather," he answers.
You sigh. "Great," you mumble, trying not to think about how this means your own mission will be postponed. You should have known the minute you saw Ada that your simple task of containment was going to take a turn. Gnawing on your lip, you debate whether or not you should tell Leon about your run-in with her.
"What's… what's gonna happen to me?" Ashley questions.
"We're gonna figure it out, okay?" you assure.
"First, let's focus on getting out of here," Leon adds. "Stay close."
A fraught quiet blankets you—it feels suffocating and heavy. You can practically hear the gears in Ashley's head whirring. Part of you wants to make conversation to fill the silence, if only to stop whatever mental spiral from taking hold, but you're not sure what to say to make this situation better.
She's so young, younger than you were during Raccoon City—younger than Leon was—and she will be changed by this, already has been. She'll wake from horrific nightmares of fleshy tendrils and gunfire, sweating and crying. There won't be a single moment when she feels safe again, and she'll jump at every sudden noise or shadow in the corner of her eye.
It's Pandora's box—seeing the terrors this world holds, the atrocities people are capable of. No matter how much you wish you could unsee it, it'll always be there, lurking in the back of your mind.
"What's that up ahead?" Leon murmurs, breaking you from your thoughts, and you can see the glow of a purple light coming from the inside of a shack further up the path.
A familiar figure greets you as you cautiously step over the threshold. "Welcome, welcome," the mysterious merchant beckons you in. "Hello again, stranger," he says to Leon, then turns his attention to you. "I hope that upgrade proved useful, love."
"You sure are making friends here, aren't you?" Leon grumbles, and you ignore the remark, instead walking over to the merchant as Ashley cautiously hovers behind you.
"Had quite a bit of kick to it," you say as you take your gun out and slide it on the table over to him. "Got any more tricks up your sleeve?"
You see his eyes crinkle like he's grinning behind the mask. "If you've got the money for it," he replies. "Can't be doing everything out of the kindness of my heart, a man's got to eat."
"Here," Leon says, cutting in front of you and tossing a golden bangle onto the table. "Will that cover it?"
The merchant picks up the bracelet, inspecting the gleaming gems inlayed with a keen eye before nodding his head. "This'll do nicely," he says, before grabbing your gun. "Just a moment, love."
You turn, looking Leon up and down with a scrutinizing eye. "You hiding any more treasure on you?" you ask.
He slaps your hand away as you're about to check his hip pouch—he definitely has more, you think. "A 'thank you' would be nice," he chides.
Scoffing, you say, "Thank you, Leon," with only a bit of sarcasm, though there's a smirk on your face that he mirrors. You glance at Ashley. "Hey, you still have the knife I gave you?" you ask.
She nods quickly, pulling it from the pocket of her jacket.
"C'mon, while we're waiting, I'll show you how to use it," you say, gesturing for her to follow you to an empty open spot in the room.
"I thought I just had to stick the pointy end out," she quips, and the joke makes you bark with laughter.
Still, you have her stand as she thinks she should while holding the knife, before moving around her, and correcting her form with gentle nudges. You show her where to hold it and how to shift her body weight forward when she stabs, so she doesn't lose her balance or leave herself open to a counterattack.
"You're stabbing to kill, okay?" you say when you point out where on the body she should be aiming for. "Torso, neck, head—hard and deep."
There's apprehension on her face, the grip she has on the knife faltering. "But I—"
Leon watches you attentively, aware of the way your brows tip into something sympathetic, how you lower your voice to something kinder. "Hey, listen—Leon and I are going to do everything we can to get you out of here, but if something happens, it's important that you know how to protect yourself. These people want to hurt you, and—" You swallow hard, as if the words are turning to molasses in your mouth. "—you have to fight like hell. You don't go down quietly, okay?"
Tears mist in her eyes, but still, she nods at your words. "Okay," she confirms softly, but there's determination in her voice as her hand tightens around the knife until her knuckles turn white.
"Here you are," the merchant says as he sets your gun on the table. "Should handle a bit better—to account for that 'kick'," he explains with a wink.
You give it a quick check before holstering it. "Much appreciated." When you give a cheeky grin to the merchant, Leon ushers you along with a scowl.
Your movement settles into a routine cadence—scout, clear, move. Despite it being six years since you and Leon have been in dire straits together, you're surprisingly in sync with one another. You pick off the infected from a distance with your rifle while Leon sneaks around taking them out as stealthily as he can—a far cry from the rookie cop who alerted nearly the entire R.P.D. to his location with reckless gunfire.
He moves with much more confidence and surety.
Though—
"I'm flattered, but I'm a one-lady type of guy," he says as the two chainsaw-wielding villagers burst through the wall of the building you're searching through, looking for a crank to open the gate.
You're not sure he'll ever grow out of the stupid one-liners.
"You're so corny," you say as you bring one of them to their knees with a well-aimed shot of your Blacktail—a pleased tilt to your head at the lack of recoil from the merchant's tinkering. With Ashley safely tucked away in a hiding spot, you're a little more fast and loose with your own gunfire, like the ammo is burning a hole in your pocket.
"Straight from the cob," he retorts, and even though you can't see his face, you know he's grinning.
You let out a disgusted noise, furious with yourself for how endearing you still find him and his dumb jokes.
It's only just as you're able to catch your breath that you're forced to run again when a man—a priest, massive and unsettling—appears behind you and tries to snatch Ashley. Leon's quick, whirling around without hesitation and stabbing the man in the shoulder, and giving you the chance to haul her away out of arm's reach. You draw your own gun, firing a shot into his other shoulder right as he swats Leon away like he's nothing more than a pesky fly.
The priest fixes his eerie gaze on you, and you take a cautious step back, nudging Ashley behind you. There's a morbid fascination as you watch him lock the gate, then bend the metal bar back for good measure. You have to resist the urge to pull out your voice recorder and log the impressive feat of strength he displayed, no doubt a result of a plaga infection. As you take aim again, you wonder whether there are different variants or whether a host's physiology determines which biological effects occur during an infection.
"Your soul requires cleansing, come child," he says ominously as he turns back to you all.
"Run!" Leon yells as he scrambles up to his feet, and you shoot again, a bullet straight between the priest's eyes that knocks his hat off.
Your fingers dig into the velvety fabric of Ashley's coat as you spin around and drag her along, not waiting to see if you put him down because you know you didn't. On the path ahead, villagers begin to emerge, torches and pitchforks ready, like it's an old-fashioned witch hunt. You're weaving through them, too many for you to take on, but you and Leon do your best to clear the way. Ahead, the bridge forward blows up, an attempt to cut you off. "The bridge!" Ashley cries out.
"This way," you say as you move toward the rickety scaffolding to the left.
As you cross, Ashley gasps, causing you to freeze. "I'm stuck!" she yells, trying to yank her foot from the hole in the rotting boards.
You squat down and try to pry her foot free as Leon lays down cover fire against the advancing villagers. The sound of wood snapping echoes as one of the men falls through the planks, and the rest of the structure starts to give way. "Fuck," you mutter as you give one more hard pull, finally freeing her. You nudge her to run, shouting to Leon, who rounds quickly, trailing behind you as the scaffolding starts to give way.
Relief floods through you as you stumble onto solid ground once more, and Leon—several paces behind you—jumps just as it all comes tumbling down, crashing into the ground. There's a crunch as his face bashes against the floor. He lets out a grunt as he flops onto his back, clutching his nose, which took the brunt of the fall.
Across the chasm, the priest looms, blood dripping from the bullet hole in the center of his forehead as he stares at you all, then turns and walks away, though you doubt he's given up the chase. Ashley hovers beside Leon as he hauls himself to his feet. "Are you okay?" she asks.
"'m fine," he mumbles, shrugging off her worried hands, but he can't do the same with you. You move in front of him before he can make for the path and clasp the sides of his face, angling his head every which way as you examine his nose. He mutters your name with a mix of reluctance and affection, but he doesn't try to stop you, only wincing when you press your thumbs into the sides of his nose.
As you tip his chin up in the moonlight, you catch it—the darkened veins at the edges of the whites of his eyes. Your breath hitches, and he glances down at you as he feels your grip tighten. "What?" he asks softly.
Blinking, you bite the inside of your lip as you step back sharply. "Nothing," you say quickly, grabbing gauze from your vest and holding it out to him as a droplet of blood pools from his nostril. "It's not broken. There's just going to be some bruising." As you avert your vision, you add, "C'mon, let's go while we can."
If he wants to question your sudden, odd behavior, you don't know because he stays silent until he instructs Ashley to run if the priest shows up again. It's clear he's after her in particular, and with no ransom being demanded, you can only hazard a guess as to why.
It's sooner rather than later that you see the priest again.
"Leon!" Ashley screams as he's tackled off the elevated walkway you're on and down to the floor below, landing with a pained groan as he rolls across the ground. Instinctively, you back up, shielding her with your own body as the priest stares up at her.
It's only when a bullet hits him in the back that his attention returns to Leon, who's half-kneeling on the ground, pointing a gun at him. "Cease your pointless struggling. Abandon your body to the will of our God," he says as he slowly walks toward his hat lying in front of him.
Leon struggles to his feet with a grunt. "You're a shitty missionary, you know that?"
The priest stoops down to pick up his hat. "Oh, Almighty! Grant me the strength to crush your enemies." As he places it back on his head, he begins to stalk toward Leon, who looks up at the two of you.
"Run!" he shouts.
Dread settles at the base of your spine, but even still, you clutch Ashley's hand and drag her along with you despite her protests. "What about Leon?!"
It's not a high drop to the ground outside, and you're ushering her to jump through the wall the priest broke through. Her face twists up with objection. "Go," you order, tone stern, leaving no room for argument. "I'm right behind you."
Right as she hops down, an explosion rings out from behind you, and you can feel the heat of flames at your back. You chance a glance over your shoulder, wincing back as smoldering embers swirl about, and from the flames you see a monstrous form rising.
"What the fuck," you gasp. When Ashley calls your name, you pry your eyes from the scene, jumping down to join her outside, though you can still feel the heat of the fire within. "C'mon." You can hear gunfire begin inside, and it won't be long before flames engulf the entire building.
You need to find Leon an exit.
"Wait, where are you going?" Ashley asks as you stalk forward, searching the building's perimeter for another way out. "We can't just leave him!"
You barely even hear her, your mind going a mile a minute as another blast rocks the building. When she snatches your wrist and yells at you to wait, you whirl around. "I would never leave Leon!" you shout, and she instantly retracts her hand like you've burned her, staring at you wide-eyed, though it softens into something empathetic when she sees the fear on your own face. You give a shaky sigh, remembering yourself, lowering your voice. "I wouldn't leave him—we need to find him another way out."
Giving a firm nod, she says, "Okay." She runs ahead, turning the corner of the building, and shouts to you. "There's a window here!"
You round the corner of the building just in time to see her grab a wooden stool nearby, smashing the window with zero hesitation. You both flinch back as the backdraft erupts from the opening.
The smoke drifting out burns your eyes and stings your lungs, making you cough. "Leon!" you yell, seeing his figure moving through the flames that have started to consume the rest of the warehouse.
"Hurry!" Ashley shouts.
The fire roars as the timber groans, beams cracking and creaking, and he bounds through the window as the supports give way. The building collapses with a dying wail, embers popping and clinging to Leon, who is breathing heavily on the ground as Ashley kneels to put out the smoldering embers.
Once they've been extinguished, she holds a hand out. "You're welcome?" she offers.
He chuckles, accepting her outstretched hand to help him up. "Thanks," he says, then turns back to watch the orange flames still burning bright and the pillars of smoke now billowing skyward. "This fire's bound to catch their attention. Let's keep moving."
As you walk, he falls into stride with you. He's quiet, but you can sense he wants to say something—it's clear in how stiffly he's walking. "What?" you ask.
"I told you to run," he says, quiet enough that Ashley won't hear. Gone is the genial tone he used when speaking to her; instead, it's stern and disapproving. It feels like a reprimand.
Ice water pours over you in a torrent and your veins fill with a creeping frost. You nearly falter in your step.
"Well, would ya look at that," the voice rasps, chuckling. "Even your boy toy is finally realizing you're nothing but a disappointment."
Your gaze stays forward, fists clenched at your sides, while your heart tightens in your chest—caught somewhere between anger and sadness, with no way to know which way the scale will tip until you open your mouth. "Forgive me for not letting you be a martyr."
Anger, it is. Your lips part, vitriol coiling around the tip of your tongue, waiting to be spewed like venom dripping from a snake's fangs.
"C'mon, girl," the voice jeers gleefully. "Show him them teeth."
Your mouth snaps shut as you muzzle yourself instead, swallowing it down. "Never mind, forget it."
He breathes your name in a sigh, eyes on your back as you walk several paces ahead. When he glances over at Ashley, she's looking at him like she's disappointed.
When you make it to the castle—because of course there's a castle—you receive word from Luis to meet him in the courtyard so he can give you a suppressant to slow the parasite's advance. As you cross the outer battlements, you're bombarded with flaming projectiles from catapults—because of course there are catapults.
"I didn't know people still employed siege warfare," you grumble as you reload your rifle while taking cover.
"I guess this is their idea of a warm welcome," Leon replies as he tosses a grenade blindly around the corner, where several figures in long cloaks reminiscent of monks are ambling down the stairs.
You hear the pained gurgles as the grenade goes off, sending them reeling and giving you an opening. "I'm going to stab you," you tell him evenly as you peek, take aim, and fire. The catapult up top, along with the people standing near it, goes up in flames as you strike the explosive container beside them. "Who just stands next to a flammable barrel like that?"
The door into the castle won't budge, leaving you all to work your way around to find another way in. After finding a canon—because of course there's a canon—you manage to take out the remaining catapults and blast through the door. Once inside, you meet the supposed owner of the castle—a person named Ramón—who demands that you hand over Ashley and reveals he's working for someone called Saddler, the apparent leader of this cult, Los Iluminados.
After fighting the minions he sends to kill you, you end up in a dungeon of some kind, complete with medieval torture devices. Below, you hear animalistic noises that set you on edge—God knows what other kind of monsters are lurking about.
When Leon drops through the floor after grabbing the key to get you out of the dungeon, you cringe, softly muttering, "Not again."
"Does this happen often?" Ashley asks worriedly.
"More than I care for," you reply as you try to peer down into the dark to see if he's okay, while memories of Leon falling victim to unstable floors and faulty ladders flood your mind.
"Should we jump down?" The expression on her face tells you that she very much would not like to jump down, and when you hear the sound of metal grinding against stone, followed by gunfire, you lean away.
"I think he's got it," you answer resolutely.
Thankfully, Leon did indeed have it, and a few minutes later, you turn at the sound of a door opening, relieved to see him walking through. "Don't worry, didn't need any help down there," he says, rubbing his shoulder.
He doesn't have so much as a scratch on him from whatever he encountered, so you roll your eyes at how dramatic he's being. "Thought it would be better to keep Ashley safe up here. Right, Ashley?" you ask, glancing over at her with a conspiratorial smirk.
"Right," she nods, the beginnings of a smile starting to tug at her lips.
He squints. "Are you two ganging up on me?"
"No, that would be incredibly childish," you answer.
"Incredibly," Ashley echoes, cheeks straining from how she grins.
He looks between you both and maybe decides that seeing her giddy with camaraderie is better than a constant state of fear, even if it is at his expense, and he lets out a huff of laughter, shaking his head.
The puzzle you come across in the next area has you staring at it, contemplative, with your hands on your hips, while Ashley takes to figuring it out, determined to "be useful".
"What?" Leon asks after noticing the pensive demeanor.
"Reminds me of those stupid puzzles in the police station," you recall almost nostalgically. "They drove me crazy."
"Yeah, because you wanted to brute force your way through them," he snorts.
You scoff and go to swat his shoulder, but he grabs you by the wrist, drawing you closer, his head stooped low as he tries to catch your gaze. "You're not mad, right?" he asks.
As you peer up at him, you see the way his brows pinch together, the tension he's holding in his jaw as he looks down at you. Your earlier exchange has clearly been weighing on him. It isn't like you two haven't had disagreements before, but this feels different. Then again, maybe you're being sensitive.
Regardless, you just want things to be… normal again. "Can't be mad at you, rookie," you murmur, and you feel his grip on you tighten at the familiar words, as if he's being drawn into the memory, too. You tilt your chin up and stare at him, definitely not as coy as you think you are. "You're too cute."
A slow smirk spreads across his lips as he takes the bait. "You think I'm cute?"
"I got it!" Ashley announces as the caged door begins to rise, clapping her hands together.
You slip from his grasp with a sly look, give her a high five, and sing her praises. As you stride through the doorway, Leon hovers behind you, leaning in to whisper, "I think you're cute, too."
Glancing back at him, you feel a lump form in your throat as you realize you're twenty-three again and Leon Kennedy has burrowed deep in your ribcage.
You're near the courtyard when you see Ashley wince, clutching her head. You stop and hover beside her. "Are you all right?" you ask, reaching out to steady her as she sways on her feet. Your question catches Leon's attention, and he halts, watching her carefully.
She nods, eyes scrunching shut. "Yeah, I think so, I—"
As she stumbles, he catches her, keeping her upright. "You okay?" he murmurs.
The air shifts in an instant as something sinister takes hold. "Instead of worrying about her—" She stiffens, an uncharacteristic edge in her voice as she draws away, knife gripped in her hand, the one you'd given her. "—Worry about your own skin!" Flipping it around, she stabs at him, and blood splatters across the floor as he stops it with his hand. "Foolish little lamb."
"Leon," you gasp.
As she pries it away, you go to lunge at her, but she whirls around, the knife pointed at her own throat, which stops you in your tracks. You can now see the darkened veins spreading across her skin. "Temperance, child," she coos.
When Leon takes a step forward, she digs the sharp point into the delicate skin of her neck, her gaze narrowing into a threat. Carefully, she treads backward, one precise footstep at a time, until a gate slams down in the middle of you. You can see the moment she comes back into herself, her eyes widening in fear as a grimace pulls at her lips.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The knife clatters to the floor as she stares down at her trembling hands, her breath coming in unsteady, panicked heaves. Slowly, she looks back up, glancing between you and Leon before scurrying back.
She's going to run, you realize. "Ashley," you call to her gently, hand outstretched toward her, like you're talking to a scared animal. Her eyes dart to the side, searching for an escape. "Ashley, no."
And then she's off. "Wait!" Leon yells, clutching at the bars that separate you from her. "Shit."
Squatting, you reach through the gates and grab the knife. "I'm sorry," you murmur, staring down at Leon's blood staining the metal, meeting the reflection of your own gaze in the red-tinted surface. You sigh dejectedly. "I wouldn't have given it to her if—"
"You couldn't have known," he cuts you off. "It's not your fault."
You peer up at him, tears flooding your waterline, telling him you don't believe him. Blinking, you stand, tucking the knife away as you gesture for him to come closer. "Let me see your hand," you say.
"It's fine, we shou—"
"Leon, please," you urge insistently. He opens his mouth as if to refuse, but he must think better of it and complies. You're tender as you peel off his glove, apologizing as he hisses in pain. There's comfort in the familiarity of dressing a wound. Assess, clean, suture, wrap.
He watches quietly as you patch him up, the task giving you a reprieve from the vicious thoughts he knows are circling in your head now. As you secure the bandage, he hears your breath stutter in your chest.
"We're going to save her," he assures.
You shake your head, nose scrunching as fresh tears blur your vision. "I know we will," you mutter. "I just—" You glance up toward the sky, trying to will the tears away and your thoughts to settle. "That was us, you know? We were just kids, and then something awful happened to us, and now we're—"
"Hey, hey," he whispers, cupping your cheek with his injured hand, forcing you to look at him. His gaze softens as he regards you. "Don't think about that, okay? We're gonna save Ashley, and we're gonna get out of here—" He pauses, eyes searching yours. "And we're gonna be fine."
You feel your lip wobble, and his thumb brushes against it, like he's trying to rub away the dimple that forms there. When you don't answer, he dips his head closer to you.
"Okay?"
You clench your teeth and nod against his grip. "Okay," you murmur.
Your eyes close as he presses his lips to your forehead—the warmth spreading in a way that should be comforting, but it does nothing to settle your roiling stomach. You allow yourself to stand there for ten seconds, breathing in the scent of gunpowder and leather, before you draw away.
"He's wrong, y'know," the voice whispers in your ear. It is vitriolic—dripping with venom meant to poison, to hurt. Showing you how it's done. "You can't save anyone."
The terrible feeling in your stomach doesn't ease as you and Leon venture deeper into the castle. If anything, it intensifies when you encounter more of the cult, their chanting causing Leon to stagger in pain, as if the noise is deafening to him. Another symptom of the infection.
"Were you going to tell me?" you ask as you stand amongst the corpses.
"I didn't want you to worry," he answers briskly.
You frown when you look at him. "I always worry about you," you admit softly.
He doesn't answer—doesn't know how to—instead, he keeps moving forward because it's all he can do. It makes you feel like you said the exact wrong thing. You're lagging behind him, pretending to fiddle with your rifle, if only so you don't have to linger in his orbit right now.
As he walks alone into the room ahead, you hear a familiar voice ring out seconds later. "You can stop right there, Leon," she orders. You slow to a creep as you hover in the doorway, watching Ada hold a gun to Leon's back. "Wouldn't make me use this, would you?"
When he lets his own gun fall to the ground, hands up, you silently scurry behind her, jamming the muzzle of your gun to the base of her skull. "I think I'm having deja vu," you muse.
Her shoulders shake as if she's laughing. "If I remember correctly, our roles were reversed," she replies over her shoulder, seemingly unaffected by the gun to her head, like she knows you wouldn't shoot. "Hello again, doctor."
"Put it away," you say. "We both know you're just peacocking."
Ada chuckles, slowly holstering her gun, and only then do you step away as Leon turns around. "Hell of a greeting after six years," he mutters. "Who are you working for this time?"
"You know I don't work and tell," she slyly answers.
His brows lift in a 'go figure' expression as he stoops to pluck his gun from the floor, catching your eye as he does, but you look away, focusing your attention on her.
"Did you find your missing man?" you question. "What was his name—Luis?" The mention of Luis makes Leon pause, and he glances between you and Ada as she cuts you a sharp look. "Given you're alone, I'm assuming not—" You tilt your head. "—Or, you're searching for something else—" She smirks. "—Which would mean you lied to me." Again.
"'Lied' is such an ugly word," she muses. "I only omitted part of the truth. Gotta keep up my track record of being… what was it? Not 'forthcoming' or 'trustworthy'?"
You give a huff as you holster your weapon and cross your arms. "Yeah, that sounds about right."
As Leon checks his gun, Ada looks between the two of you—it's measured. She's gauging something. "Leave the girl," she finally says. "She's lost no matter what."
"And is that your professional opinion?" you question, watching her like a hawk as she saunters over to the open window.
"It is if you want to make it out of here alive," she answers.
"You think we're just gonna give up that easy?" Leon asks as he comes to stand beside you.
She peers over her shoulder, taking in both of you standing there, and for a moment, it's like you never left Raccoon City. "Right," she says with a knowing smirk. "Well, as much as I'd love to stay and chat, how about we continue this discussion later?"
A sound deeper into the castle causes both you and Leon to turn your heads away, and when you glance back, Ada is gone. "Last person I thought I'd see here," Leon mutters with a frown.
"I was just as surprised," you reply.
"You knew she was here?" he asks. When you look at him, you see the unspoken question of, 'And why didn't you tell me?' in his eyes.
"I saw her earlier," you answer carefully. "Based on what she told me, I assumed she wouldn't interfere with your mission."
"You still should have told me," he maintains.
"I should have," you agree with a nod. "So, I'll tell you who else I saw—" He slants his head, signaling for you to continue. "—Albert Wesker."
"What?" he hisses.
"That's who she's working for," you say. "I thought they were after Luis, but I think there's more to it."
He grits his teeth. "Of course she's working for him."
You sigh. "I don't know, maybe I'm wrong." You settle back on your heels. "Maybe it's just all a… coincidence."
"You and I both know you don't believe in coincidences," he says.
summary : You work in the RPD library. Leon Kennedy keeps finding excuses to come see you. What starts with coffee deliveries, terrible jokes on post-it notes, and walks to your car after work slowly turns into something neither of you can deny. When he finally asks you to dinner, one sweet night at his apartment turns into your first kiss, your first time, and the kind of tenderness you never thought love could feel like.
warnings: re2r!leonx femreader, no use of yn, fluff, smut, mdni!!!, first time, established relationship, loss of virginity, established relationship, soft smut, praise, consent checks, reassurance, gentle Leon, awkward sweetness, oral sex (m receiving), protected sex, aftercare, cuddling, nervous reader, wholesome intimacy, domestic vibes, reader insecurity comforted, romantic tension payoff, english is not the authors first language.
wc : 4.8k
autor's note: this was inspired by an anonymous request sent to me on tumblr 🤍 thank you so much for trusting me with it. i’d love to keep doing more requests like this, so please feel free to send them in whenever you want. i really enjoy writing your ideas.
Leon and you had started dating only a few weeks ago.
You met at work. He was a police officer at the RPD, and you were a librarian there, though it was only a second job while you studied English Literature. Your real dream had always been to become a writer, so working at the library never bothered you at all.
You met Leon when he once needed you to pull some files for him so he could finish a report on a case they were about to archive. You had only just started working there, and he had only been a police officer for a few months himself.
“Excuse me…” Leon said quietly while you had your back turned, shelving books in the library.
He startled you badly. Hardly anyone ever came through the library, and when you noticed someone behind you, you couldn’t help letting out a sharp little scream.
“I’m so sorry,” Leon said, laughing softly at your reaction. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
When he saw you for the first time, he couldn’t help blushing. To him, you were deeply beautiful, like someone pulled straight out of a fairy tale. Your hair was tied up, your glasses perched on your nose as you organized books when he approached you from behind.
“Don’t worry, it’s not your fault. I’m just not used to many people coming in here,” you said, blushing yourself, a shy but sweet smile on your lips.
Sometimes, because there weren’t enough non-police staff at the station, they would ask you to cover the front desk. And Leon just so happened to always pass by there to see you, even when it was terribly out of the way from where he actually needed to be.
Little by little, you became closer. Leon would bring you coffee whenever he could, and if you weren’t in the library at the time, he’d leave you a post-it with some corny joke.
"Can February march? IDK but April may :D"
When you saw it, you couldn’t help laughing to yourself. Leon, watching you from the doorway without you noticing, smiled like a triumphant little boy. Without realizing it, he was falling for you.
Before either of you noticed, you were always looking for each other whenever you could. He would wait by the doors of the RPD, even if he got off earlier, just to walk you to your car after your shift ended.
At first they were short walks. Awkward conversations about anything at all: traffic in Raccoon City, some strange coworker at the station, the books you were reading for class, or the terrible movies Leon insisted on defending.
Then, without either of you knowing exactly when, it became routine.
You started saving part of your break just in case he came by the library. And when he didn’t, you noticed it far too much.
Until one afternoon, while he was walking you to your car like always, Leon stopped in front of the driver’s door, hands in his pockets, wearing an oddly serious expression.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
“Tell me.”
He glanced down for a second and let out a nervous little laugh.
“Would you like to be my girlfriend? I know it’s not the most impressive way to ask, but… I really like you. And I’d rather stop calling you ‘the girl I’m seeing’ whenever I think about you.”
You laughed, touched.
“Is that what you call me?”
“No. Usually I say things that are way more embarrassing.”
You didn’t even let him finish. You stepped forward and hugged him tightly.
“Yes, Leon. Of course.”
You felt him relax in your arms, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for days.
Still, as your relationship moved forward, there was something that kept circling in your mind more than you wanted to admit.
Leon had never pressured you about anything. He hadn’t even tried to kiss you yet, aside from the occasional distracted brush to your forehead or hand that made your heart race. He was patient to ridiculous extremes, as if he knew instinctively that you moved at your own pace.
And that was exactly why you felt worse, because the truth was you had never kissed anyone before. Not because you’d lacked opportunities, but because you’d never wanted to enough. No one had ever made you want to share something like that… until him.
And now that you did want to, you were terrified of not knowing how, terrified of disappointing him.
One day, he came into the library with a sweet smile and a hint of embarrassment.
“Hey…” he said, scratching the back of his neck as he leaned on the counter, pretending to look at some forms. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”
You looked at him over your glasses, convinced you’d heard wrong.
“Dinner… with me?”
Leon smiled nervously.
“Yes. With you. Unless you already have plans. Or don’t want to. Or think I’m weird. Which is also possible.”
You couldn’t help laughing.
“I’d love to.”
The smile that spread across his face was so beautiful it stayed with you the rest of the day.
The date was set for Saturday night.
That Saturday, you took longer than usual getting ready. You chose a pretty strapless dress, simple but flattering. You wore your hair down and put on just enough makeup.
When Leon opened the door, you understood immediately that he had done exactly the same.
He wore dark jeans and a gray t-shirt that showed off his shoulders without seeming like it meant to. His hair was still damp, falling slightly over his forehead, as if he’d stepped out of the shower only minutes earlier, and he smelled so good that your first coherent thought was that it was deeply unfair. Clean, warm, masculine, with a soft cologne that made you want to stand a little too close.
But it was him who froze when he saw you. For one full second he said nothing, only looked you up and down with an expression somewhere between surprised and completely captivated.
“Hi… wow.”
You couldn’t help smiling.
“Sorry, I had something better planned, but then I saw you and forgot all of it.”
He stepped aside to let you in, still slightly dazed, and as you entered you saw a bouquet of flowers carefully arranged in a vase on a small table near the door. Pale, delicate flowers, chosen with care.
“Leon…”
He scratched the back of his neck again, suddenly shy.
“They’re for you. I hope you like them.”
You stepped closer, brushing one of the petals with your fingertips.
“They’re beautiful.”
“I wasn’t sure which ones to get. I spent way too long staring at flowers.”
You turned toward him.
“They’re perfect. Thank you so much.”
Without thinking too much about it, you rose onto your tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Leon stood completely still for a few seconds.
“Okay,” he murmured. “This night just got a lot better.”
His apartment was cozy. Warmer than you expected. There were books stacked unevenly on a shelf, a blanket folded over the couch, and soft music playing quietly from the kitchen. Everything smelled delicious: garlic, tomato, warm bread, herbs.
The kitchen was already set up. Ingredients laid out on the counter, a cutting board, fresh pasta, vegetables, an open bottle of wine.
“I was going to cook to impress you,” he admitted, looking adorably shy. “But then I remembered I don’t actually know how to make that many things. So… I need help.”
You ended up cooking together, standing side by side in a kitchen far too small for two people and, because of that, somehow perfect. You chopped vegetables while he stirred the sauce with almost exaggerated concentration. Every time he needed something behind you, he’d place a hand lightly at your waist and move you just a few inches, always slow, always asking permission with his eyes even when he said nothing.
You talked for hours while you cooked. About your classes, the books you wanted to write someday, how Leon had wanted to be a police officer since he was a kid, terrible movies you both secretly loved, places you’d like to travel to even though neither of you had the time.
Leon tasted the sauce with a spoon and held it out for you to try. When you opened your mouth, his gaze lingered on your lips a little longer than necessary.
You froze when you noticed. He smiled at the expression on your face, so you bumped your hip lightly against his. He just laughed.
Dinner turned out surprisingly well. You ate at the small table in the living room, with two candles placed there that he had very clearly tried to straighten several times. Every time you looked up, he was already looking at you.
“Is something wrong, Leon?” you asked eventually.
“N-no, nothing.” He looked away quickly.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Leon leaned forward on his elbows.
“I’m just thinking that I like you a lot.”
The honesty of it, said so naturally, left you speechless for a moment. Then you smiled at him.
“I like you a lot too.”
The way he smiled then would have been enough to make you remember the whole night forever.
Afterward, you cleaned up together between silly jokes and soft little shoves until the kitchen was more or less decent again. Leon insisted on finishing the last few things while you carried the glasses into the living room, so you ended up sitting on one end of the couch, smoothing the fabric of your dress and trying to make your heart stop racing.
The living room was lit only by the lamp in the corner and the candles still burning on the table. The music was still playing softly in the background. Everything had that strange calm that makes even the smallest detail feel important.
Leon appeared a moment later with two glasses of water in his hands.
“I figured after the wine, this was the responsible choice.”
“How mature of you.”
“I have my moments.”
He handed you one and sat beside you—not too close, though not as far as he might have at the start of the night. The couch dipped slightly under his weight, and the smell of his cologne wrapped around you again immediately. You tried not to think too hard about it.
For a while, you talked about anything. A terrible movie showing at the theater that week, a coworker of his who couldn’t figure out how to use the station copier, a book you were reading for class that he swore he’d try to understand someday, though he promised nothing. But the conversation slowly began to fade—not awkwardly, just because both of you seemed distracted by something else.
Leon traced the rim of his glass with his fingers. You watched him doing it more than necessary. Every time you looked up, he was already watching you.
Finally, he smiled to one side.
“You know you do that a lot?”
“Do what?”
“Look at me and then pretend you weren’t.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks.
“I don’t pretend that badly.”
“Terribly, actually.”
You nudged him with your shoulder and he laughed softly. Then a short, comfortable silence settled between you, and when you looked back at him, he seemed much more serious.
“You’ve been nervous all night,” he said quietly, with no intention of making you uncomfortable.
You shifted in your seat.
“That’s not true,” you lied, unable to meet his eyes. It took you a second to find the words. “It’s just… I don’t know how to do this stuff.”
“What stuff?” he asked gently.
“This. Dates. Being like this with someone.”
You only looked at him for a second before glancing away again.
“I’ve never kissed anyone before, Leon,” you admitted, bracing yourself for the worst reaction possible.
You got the opposite. His whole expression softened instantly.
“That’s it?” he asked, sounding relieved.
You blinked at him.
“You thought it was something worse?”
“I thought you were about to tell me something terrible.”
You couldn’t help laughing a little, still embarrassed.
“It feels terrible to me.”
Leon set his glass down on the coffee table and turned fully toward you.
“Look at me.”
You did.
“There is nothing wrong with that,” he said, voice warm and steady. “You’re not behind on anything. You don’t have to know anything before being with me. You don’t owe me experience, or confidence, or some version of yourself you think would impress me.”
Something in your chest loosened at his words.
“I just like you.”
You stared at him, not knowing what to say. Leon hesitated for a moment, then reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his blue eyes holding yours so softly it almost hurt.
“And I’d really like to kiss you,” he said quietly. “But only if you want that too.”
Your heart was beating so hard you were sure he could hear it. You nodded slowly.
A small smile touched his mouth—the kind that felt reserved for important moments.
Then he moved closer, very slowly, giving you all the time in the world to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t.
When his lips brushed yours, it was gentle. Almost shy. A short kiss at first, soft as a question.
He pulled back only an inch, searching your face. When he saw your smile, he leaned in again.
This one lasted longer. His lips were warm, one hand resting beside your knee without touching you yet, as if even now he wanted to be careful.
You found yourself leaning toward him on instinct, closing the distance until you were nearer to him than you had been all night.
The next kiss wasn’t as timid. Still soft, still slow, but something between you had changed the second you moved closer.
The space between you disappeared completely when he placed a careful hand at your waist and drew you onto his lap.
Your hands, which hadn’t known where to go all evening, finally settled on his shoulders. You felt them tense beneath the fabric of his shirt when you touched him, and the way he smiled against your mouth nearly undid you.
The kisses began to blur together after that. Brief at first, then slower, deeper, learning each other as you went. Every time you parted, it was only to breathe or to look at one another for a second with that same stunned, eager expression before starting again.
“You’re doing really well,” he whispered at one point, brushing his nose lightly against yours with a teasing smile.
“Shut up,” you muttered, flushed.
He laughed softly.
“I’m just telling the truth.”
You kissed him again just to silence him, much more confident this time, and felt his hand at your waist tighten slightly. His other hand slid slowly up your arm until it reached your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as he tilted his head to kiss you better.
Everything was still slow—but no longer shy. The music kept playing in the background, forgotten. The candles burned lower on the table.
At some point, you ended up pressed closer to his side, nearly against his chest, and Leon slipped an arm around you as he kissed you again. You could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, not quite as calm as it had been earlier.
When his lips left yours, they only traveled to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, lingering for a moment at your jaw as if checking you were still comfortable.
You turned your face to find him again. The smile that crossed his face was so beautiful it almost felt unfair to look at for too long.
He kissed you before you could say anything, and this time you fisted your hand lightly in his shirt just to pull him closer.
His thumbs absentmindedly caressed your sides over the fabric of your dress as you adjusted yourself, seated on top of his thighs. Leon let out a small groan at the movement, but his hands quickly settled on your hips, holding you with firmness and care at the same time. Heat rushed to your cheeks.
“Sorry…” you murmured automatically.
His lips moved down to your jaw, then to the side of your neck, leaving slow kisses that seemed designed to undo you piece by piece. Your fingers found their way into his still slightly damp hair, and when he felt you tug at it just a little, Leon closed his eyes for a second.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured against your skin.
A nervous laugh slipped out of you. Then he looked at you again, this time with something more serious in his eyes.
“Hey,” Leon said, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “If at any point you want to stop, we stop. If you want to go slow, we go slow. If you’d rather I just keep kissing you tonight until we can’t breathe… that sounds like an incredible plan too.”
Your chest tightened with pure affection. You looked down for a second before meeting his eyes again.
“I’m nervous,” you confessed, breaking eye contact for a moment. “But I don’t want to stop.”
Something in his expression softened even more.
“Then come here.”
He pulled you toward him with a calmness that contrasted with the way he was breathing. Then he laid you back against the couch, hovering above you. First he kissed you with the same passion as before—slowly, but with a little more urgency now—one hand resting at your waist.
Then he moved to your neck, pressing small pecks along your jaw first. Your skin was warm, flushed beneath every kiss Leon gave you. Soon, his kisses deepened against your neck, his tongue joining in, the taste of him mixing with your perfume and your skin.
You felt yourself growing wetter between your thighs at the excitement of it all. Then his hands slowly began to travel up your legs, beneath the fabric of your dress, silently asking permission to continue. You gave it without thinking twice.
Without ever stopping his kisses, Leon’s hands explored your thighs, reaching your ass and squeezing it, drawing a moan from both of you—you from pleasure, and Leon because…
Leon was a gentleman through and through. He had always respected you and had never crossed a single line since the day you met. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have his… fantasies. Quietly, from time to time, he’d look at your ass, at the way your pants hugged the peachy shape of it. Or at your chest, imagining what was hidden beneath all those layers. Still, he would always feel guilty afterward, because he truly valued you and never saw you as some one-night stand.
Leon traced the seam of your panties until he reached your pussy, but he didn’t touch it until you gave him verbal permission.
“D-do it…” you whispered, flustered.
It didn’t take long for his hand to glide over your folds, already slick with arousal, until he reached your clit, swollen and sensitive.
He began making slow circles over it, searching for the rhythm you liked most. It didn’t take him long to find it, drawing soft moans from you at his touch. Leon couldn’t help letting out a low grunt of his own.
Then he moved to your entrance, circling it again while waiting for your approval. You nodded eagerly. Slowly, he slipped one finger inside you. At first it hurt quite a bit—you had never done anything like this before, after all. At your little sounds of discomfort, Leon kissed you tenderly, making you feel safe.
After some time, once you adjusted to the feeling of his finger inside you, he added a second. His pace quickened, reaching deeper, finding that spongy spot inside you that made you writhe with pleasure.
Leon couldn’t keep his mouth off yours, kissing you with hunger and tenderness every chance he got.
You decided to take the initiative then and motioned for him to pull his fingers out. Confused, he obeyed immediately, sitting back on the couch. Then you dropped to your knees in front of him and began undoing his belt.
“Hey… you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he said, though inside he was desperately hoping you would.
You shot him a playful look and a smile full of mischief before continuing, tugging his pants down. Beneath them were black boxers, his cock straining visibly against the fabric, hard as stone.
You didn’t hesitate long before pulling them down too, freeing his dick—big, and above all, thick. The moment it sprang free, a groan slipped from Leon’s lips.
You had never done this before, but you decided not to overthink it and got right to work. First, you licked the tip, collecting the bead of precum there and drawing a choked sound from him.
Slowly, you began taking his cock into your mouth, little by little, licking along the length of it and making sure to go deeper each time, picking up the pace more and more.
Leon felt like he was dreaming: the girl he had fallen for was sucking his cock, and despite you being a virgin, he had never had a blowjob like this in his life.
And the sight was just as satisfying for you: Leon spread out on the couch, his shirt half-ridden up to reveal his V-line and the hint of his abs, moaning from the pleasure you were giving him.
You kept going for a while, saliva everywhere—your lips, his cock, his balls. Then Leon started to feel the tension tightening in his stomach, heat building inside his cock, telling him he was close. So he asked you to stop; he didn’t want to finish so quickly during your first time together—your first time.
That was when he asked you again.
“Are you sure you want this? I don’t want you doing anything just to please me,” Leon said, helping you back up onto the couch beside him.
“Leon…” you said, looking into his eyes with a mix of innocence and desire. “There’s nothing I want more than this.”
Leon kissed you again, but this time with more tenderness, lifting your dress as he did so and revealing your matching white lingerie patterned with little strawberries. You felt shy when he saw it, but if anything, it only turned him on more.
He pulled your panties down, then quickly ran to his bedroom to grab condoms. When he came back, he opened one and rolled it on. Then he positioned himself above you, pressing his cock to your entrance and drawing a soft moan from both of you.
He searched your face for approval once more, and you nodded.
Then, with one slow thrust, he pushed part of himself inside until he was fully seated within you. At first you couldn’t help moaning in pain—sharper and stronger than when he’d used his fingers. Seeing the discomfort on your face, he covered your cheeks and forehead in little kisses, waiting patiently for it to pass.
After a while, the pain turned into pleasure, and Leon began to move, slowly at first, then gradually faster, drawing moans from both of you.
“God, it’s hot in here…” Leon muttered before pulling his shirt off, never slipping out of you, revealing his toned torso in the dim light of the living room, his broad shoulders and defined pecs and abs only made more unfair by the shadows.
As a gift in return, you sat up slightly and removed your bra too, baring your breasts. The sight only made Leon harder.
Immediately, he laid you back down again, thrusting into you while his mouth sucked and bit at one of your breasts, leaving a small mark, while his hand kneaded the other.
After a while like that, both of you were close, so Leon increased his pace—faster, harder—pulling broken moans from each of you.
At the same time, his hand slid down to your clit, rubbing circles over it and pushing you right to the edge.
Soon after, both of you came, completely exhausted.
When he pulled out, Leon kissed your forehead and lifted you into his arms like a princess, carrying you to his bedroom and setting you gently on the bed.
“I’ll be right back, princess,” he said as he left the room. He returned with a glass of water and one of his RPD shirts from the closet for you to wear.
Leon settled beside you carefully. The room smelled like cologne, clean sheets, and that soft warmth happiness leaves behind when it’s still lingering in the air.
You wore his oversized RPD shirt, and he couldn’t stop glancing at you now and then with a silly, tired, completely lovestruck smile.
Without a word, he held the glass to your lips.
“Take a sip” Leon said.
You took a couple of sips and handed it back. He set it on the nightstand, then immediately came back to you, slipping one arm beneath your neck to pull you against his chest. His free hand began stroking your back slowly, up and down. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was your breathing trying to fall into the same rhythm. You played nervously with the hem of his shirt, not quite daring to look at him.
“Leon…” you asked softly.
“Hmm?”
“Did… did you like it?” One of your biggest insecurities had been not doing your first time right.
He looked down at you at once, genuinely surprised, as though the question itself were impossible. Then he let out a low, tender laugh and shook his head.
“Did I like it?” He tilted your chin up with two fingers so you would look at him. “It was the best time of my life.”
You felt your cheeks heat instantly.
“I mean it,” he added, leaning in to kiss the tip of your nose. “Not because of… you know, though that too. Because it was you. Because of the way you looked at me.”
You hid in the crook of his neck, embarrassed, and he smiled against your hair.
“I was nervous…” you admitted, curling closer into his chest.
“Me too,” the blond confessed, stroking your back.
You looked up at him, incredulous.
“You?”
“I nearly lost it when you showed up at my door in that dress,” he murmured.
A soft laugh escaped you. Leon took the chance to kiss you again, slow this time. Then he tucked the blanket around you better and slipped your legs between his for warmth.
“If anything hurt, you tell me. If you’re uncomfortable, you tell me. If you want water, food, another blanket, or for me to shut up, you tell me too.”
“And what if I want cuddles?” you asked in a sweet little voice that made Leon’s heart melt.
Leon held you tighter against him.
“You already have those without asking, princess.”
You stayed quiet for a moment, listening to the calm beat of his heart beneath your cheek.
“I was scared of doing it wrong,” you confessed again.
His hand paused at your back only to move up and stroke the nape of your neck.
“There was no right or wrong way to do anything.” He kissed your forehead with a tenderness so beautiful it almost hurt. “And it was perfect.”
You felt something inside you loosen completely. All the nerves, all the shame.
“Perfect?”
Leon nodded with certainty.
A tired laugh left you, and he smiled as if it were the best sound he had ever heard. After a while, when you were already starting to drift off, Leon spoke softly, almost whispering.
“Thank you for trusting me.”
Then he kissed you once more, slow and gentle.
“I’ll take care of you always, if you let me.”
And like that, tangled in his arms, with his fingers drawing lazy circles over your back until they grew slower and slower, you fell asleep listening to him keep whispering sweet nonsense between kisses and sleep.
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Pairing: Leon Kennedy x afab!reader
Synopsis: After surviving the horrors of Raccoon City, Leon S. Kennedy is recruited by the U.S. government to begin training as a special agent. The program is brutal, relentless, built to break even the toughest. You're one of the elite agents assigned to oversee his development. He reports to you, follows your orders but he can’t seem to stop his interest towards you.
Words: 15.6k yikes
Tags: SMUT! Enemies to Lovers (*), Post-RE2/RE4 Leon Kennedy, Flirty Banter, Mutual Pining Power Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, Leon is cocky, Boss/Rookie
TW: MDNI! // Smut //Violence // PTSD // Explicit Language // Mention of Past Sexual Harassment // Power Imbalance
A/N: Leon my shayla!! *I don’t know if this is enemies to lovers as I don’t think its long enough to be considered enemies to lovers.
Your alarm screamed through the silence of your dorm room. Same sound. Same time. Three years running. You groaned into your pillow, not out of exhaustion, but out of habit. Discipline was second nature now, groaning was a luxury you allowed yourself for three seconds every morning. No more.
You slammed the snooze button, sat up, and swung your legs over the edge of the bed. The cold floor bit at your feet, grounding you instantly. You stood and moved through your routine like clockwork: a cold shower, a strong coffee, a perfectly ironed uniform buttoned up to regulation.
As you adjusted your collar in the mirror, your mind was already sprinting through the day’s agenda: training schedules, equipment checks, psychological evaluations, field simulations. Another day sharpening steel into something sharper.
After the Raccoon City incident, nothing was the same. Not for the world and definitely not for you.
The memory of that day burned clear: the president himself showing up at your old apartment, flanked by security and gravity. You'd been a sharp FBI agent then, too sharp for your own good, some had said. Your performance record was flawless, your instincts lethal, your conscience still intact.
You remembered your hands shaking slightly as he spoke. He called it an honour. Called you necessary. You didn’t say yes for the honour. You said yes because you knew what it meant if you didn’t. That was nearly three years ago but feels like thirty. The person in the mirror now barely resembled the one who’d answered the door that day. That woman was curious, eager. You were measured. Hardened. Purpose-built.
You didn’t smile anymore unless the outcome required it. You followed the manual like it was scripture. Emotions were distractions. Attachments were liabilities. You didn’t have time for either.
You’d been entrusted with leading the training and development of America’s elite special agents, people chosen to face horrors most couldn’t imagine. Your directives were simple: create agents who wouldn’t crack under pressure. Who wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Who wouldn’t fail.
You had made a promise, to the president, to the country, and to yourself. You would do everything in your power to end the virus. No matter the cost.
You let out a quiet sigh, taking a final look at your reflection in the mirror before stepping out of your private dorm. Life at the training facility never allowed for a true switch-off. The constant hum of responsibility, the weight of every task, was always with you.
As you entered the offices of the department heads, you greeted each one with the same polite words, each delivered with a calm professionalism that had become second nature. There was no room for a smile; your face remained neutral, but your tone never wavered in its sincerity. You couldn’t help but remember your first day in these offices—how every pair of eyes, all male, had turned to scrutinize your every move. Their stares had dissected you, sizing up your appearance, your every step, questioning your place among them. It had been intimidating, to say the least. But you didn’t let it break you. You used their sexist remarks, their condescending looks, as fuel to push yourself even further. Every glance, every whisper, only served to sharpen your resolve.
Finally, you made your way to your office, flicking on the computer and preparing to dive into the mountain of administrative work that awaited you. As soon as you settled into your chair, your administrative assistant walked in, a stack of folders in one hand, a steaming cup of coffee in the other.
“Morning, Agent,” he greeted as he placed the stack of paperwork down carefully, ensuring it didn’t topple over. You raised an eyebrow, casting a glance from the papers to him, your gaze silently asking the question.
“New recruits,” he answered with a small shrug.
You nodded, murmuring a quiet thanks as he left. You’d expected them, recruits arriving in droves after the chaos of Raccoon City. The demand for new agents had surged dramatically, and it was your responsibility to assess each one, to determine where they stood in their training. The urgency of the situation left no room for selectivity. The FBI needed bodies, and they needed them fast. Now that the recruits had arrived, it was just a matter of calling their commanders to bring them in.
With a quiet resolve, you cracked open the first folder.
Three hours slipped by in a blur. Your hand ached from the constant writing, each recruit's profile filling with your meticulous notes. Your jacket was long gone, the top button of your shirt undone as the fatigue of the day slowly began to take its toll. Yet, your movements remained as precise as ever, your face impassive, no hint of the exhaustion you felt inside. There was no room for weakness. You pressed on, repeating the mantra in your mind: your duty was to create agents who would protect this country. You couldn’t afford to falter.
After sending the latest recruit on their way, you stamped their folder, marking the interview complete. The stack of folders was finally beginning to dwindle, and you were almost at the end. Reaching for the next one, you immediately noticed the difference, it felt heavier than the others. A sense of curiosity stirred as you opened it to reveal the recruit's file, complete with a photograph. Your stomach tightened as the name registered: Leon S. Kennedy. The same name that had appeared in the Raccoon City report.
Without hesitation, you picked up the office telephone, dialling the number for the recruit’s sergeant.
“Hello, Sergeant,” you said, your voice cool and controlled. “Please send Leon Kennedy to me.”
As you typed an email on your computer, the sound of two knocks at your door broke your concentration. You quickly snapped your eyes away from the screen, closed your tab, and straightened in your chair.
“Come in,” you called, raising your voice slightly so the person on the other side could hear.
The door creaked open, and there he was. You couldn’t help but feel a momentary surprise at his appearance. Leon Kennedy stood taller than you’d anticipated. His face, youthful yet marked by a certain weight, held a boyish charm, and curiosity gleamed in his blue eyes. But there was something different about them in person. A cloudiness, a heaviness you hadn’t seen in his file photo. You could tell he’d seen things, things that had left their mark on him during the nightmare that was Raccoon City.
You didn’t rise from your chair as he entered.
“Special Agent _____?” His voice was calm, yet there was an edge to it, like he was sizing you up.
“Yes,” you confirmed, meeting his gaze. “Mr. Kennedy.”
“Just call me Leon,” he replied with a smile that barely reached his eyes.
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Kennedy,” you said, your voice firm and unwavering.
He sat across from you, now at eye level, glancing down at his file on your desk. You instinctively closed it. You hadn’t done that with the other recruits, but something about his presence made you want to keep a layer of distance.
You spoke with precision. “I called you in today to discuss your experience with special forces and training.”
Just as you were about to continue, Leon interrupted. “Yeah, the guys in my dorm... they said you were pretty scary.” He added the last part with a casual smile, as if it were no big deal. His comment threw you off balance for a split second.
“Is that an insult, Mr. Kennedy?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, your voice suddenly sharper than before.
Leon realized his mistake and immediately scrambled to recover. He waved his hand dismissively. “No, no, not at all. I didn’t mean it like that.”
You studied him, still taken aback. No other recruit had dared speak so casually with you. His words hung in the air, and you found yourself fighting the odd feeling creeping up your chest.
“You don’t seem scary at all,” he said matter-of-factly. His eyes flickered across your face taking in your appearance.
The simple remark stirred something inside you. An unexpected pang. You mentally willed your heart to quiet down. That wasn’t a reaction you could afford. You straightened in your chair, forcing your voice to take on a more serious tone.
“Mr. Kennedy,” you began, your words deliberate, “you should know by now that you were recruited because of your extraordinary actions during Raccoon City. But you’ll soon find out, I run a very tight ship here. I do not make exceptions for those with more experience. You’re here to protect your fellow citizens, and that’s your primary duty.”
Leon’s expression shifted, the playful smirk fading as he became more serious. He nodded at your words, acknowledging the weight of what you said.
“I understand, Agent ____,” he replied, his tone now more respectful, more focused.
“The training will not be easy,” you continued, leaning forward slightly. “The hours will be long, and the expectations relentless. It will push you further than you’ve ever been pushed before.”
Leon leaned back in his chair, that cocky grin of his making an appearance once more, but there was something behind it, something deeper, a hint of vulnerability he was trying hard to cover up. His eyes, still slightly clouded, met yours with a sharpness.
“So, tight ship, huh?” he said with a half-smirk. “Guess I better start brushing up on my manners, then.”
You didn’t return the smile. “This isn’t a game, Kennedy,” you said, your voice cold, steady. “The lives of your team, your country, depend on your ability to be sharp and disciplined. Any distractions, and you’ll be out before you even have a chance to blink.”
Leon’s smirk faltered for just a moment, but it came back quickly, as if he was trying to push his emotions down with humour. “Guess I’ll have to leave the charm at the door, then,” he said, leaning forward slightly as if trying to gauge your reaction. “But, I’ll admit, you do have a strong presence, Agent. Must be tough running the show around here.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressed into a thin line as you locked your gaze with his. You weren’t about to let him throw you off balance.
“Focus on the training, Mr. Kennedy. If you think the work here is hard, just wait until the field operations. You won’t be able to joke your way out of those.”
He chuckled, the sound a little hollow. “Yeah, I’ve been through worse than I can joke about,” he replied, his expression softening just a fraction. “You ever been in a city overrun by zombies? Or maybe watched everything you thought you knew fall apart in front of you?”
The words hung in the air, his usual lightness now replaced with something raw. You could see the shadow of Raccoon City in his eyes, the trauma of that place that he tried so hard to hide behind his confident, almost flirtatious demeanour.
You shifted slightly in your seat, an almost imperceptible shift, as the reality of his words hit you. For a moment, the harshness of the walls you had built cracked open, and you felt the sharp pang of shared experience. It wasn’t the same, but you knew exactly what it felt like to lose control, to watch everything you worked for slip through your fingers.
“I’ve been through my share of hell,” you said, your voice quieter now. “But this isn’t about sharing war stories. This is about making sure you’re ready for the next battle.”
Leon’s gaze softened, and for just a second, he wasn’t the cocky agent standing in front of you. Instead, he looked like a man who had been through something that had scarred him more deeply than any of the physical wounds he might have gotten along the way. His voice was softer now, a little more serious.
“Don’t we all carry scars, Agent?” he said, the words carrying an unspoken weight between you. “Some of us just hide ‘em better than others.”
You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you focused on steadying your breathing, refusing to let his words get to you.
“Well, you’d better make sure your scars don’t get in the way of your training,” you finally said, your tone slipping back into its usual firmness. “I’m not here to coddle you. If anything, this training will break you down and build you back up into someone who can take a bullet, both literally and figuratively.”
Leon sat back in his chair again, that familiar grin creeping back to his lips, though it was less confident now, more resigned, like he didn’t know what to do with the sudden shift in energy between you.
“Break me down, huh?” he said with a half laugh. “Guess I’ll just have to trust you to fix me then.”
You didn’t smile. But your eyes lingered on him a little longer than usual. His words, the layers of defense he was trying to put up, the cocky mask he wore to hide the bruises of Raccoon City - it all felt so familiar.
You’d been where he was, once. A fresh recruit, a little too eager, a little too scared to let anyone in. Maybe, you saw something in him that reminded you of yourself. The drive. The pain. The desire to be more than the trauma that had shaped you.
“Trust is earned, Kennedy,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “And you’ll have to work harder than you think to prove you’re ready for this.”
Leon met your gaze, the smile he wore now a little more genuine, but still carrying that playful edge. “Oh, I’m ready,” he said, his cocky charm making a full return. “But I don’t exactly take orders without asking a few questions.”
You leaned forward, your expression hardening as you matched his gaze. “Keep questioning everything, and you’ll find yourself out of your depth, Kennedy. You don’t get to pick and choose when you follow orders, especially if you want to stay alive.”
He didn’t back down, though. His eyes were locked on you, an almost defiant glint in them. “Survival’s my specialty.”
For a moment, you both just sat there, the air between you thick with tension. Tension that wasn’t just about training, but something else. Something unspoken, yet undeniable.
You cleared your throat, standing up abruptly. As you did, you moved towards the door, holding it open for him with a firm, purposeful gesture. “We’ll see how well you handle your first field simulation. Report here tomorrow at 0600. We’ll start putting that specialty to the test.”
Leon stood up with a fluid grace, raising past your height as he rose, but instead of moving toward the door, he lingered for a moment, standing just a little too close. His eyes met yours once more, his gaze softening but still carrying that faint, playful smirk. For a brief moment, neither of you spoke, the tension thick in the air.
“You’re not gonna make it easy on me, are you?” he said, his voice lower now, a trace of challenge in his tone.
You didn’t step back, standing your ground. “You’ll find out tomorrow, won’t you?”
He chuckled quietly, his smirk still there, though there was something more contemplative behind it now. He finally turned to leave, but as he passed you, he paused just long enough to stand beside you, towering slightly over you. “See you tomorrow, Agent,” he said, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “Don’t be too hard on me.”
With that, he exited, the door clicking softly behind him. You exhaled, the air around you finally seeming to loosen as the weight of the encounter hung in the room long after he was gone. You sighed into your chair before grabbing your phone to call the next recruit in.
A couple of weeks had passed since your first encounter with Leon Kennedy, and in that time, you had been training him and his recruitment group. As expected, Leon was placed into the highest and most intense training unit. You had known that someone with his experience from Raccoon City would need the most advanced level of preparation. What you hadn’t anticipated, however, was how quickly he would excel.
In the field and during drills, he moved with a cool confidence that you couldn’t deny. Time and again, he finished in first place, effortlessly outperforming the others. You would glance down at your clipboard at the end of each session, noting his name at the top of the list once again. It was impressive, there was no denying that. But you never gave him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Every time you raised the bar, every time you added more complications to the training, he sailed through without breaking a sweat.
He never seemed to show stress or falter. While the other recruits grew fatigued and stumbled, Leon maintained an almost unnerving calm. His performance was flawless. It was like he was built for this.
During these sessions, when he finished ahead of the others, you’d often catch him staring at you. You’d be jotting down notes, checking your stopwatch, or watching the recruits carefully when you’d feel the weight of his gaze on you. The others, when they realized you’d caught them staring, would immediately look away, nervous and fidgeting, not meeting your eyes again. But not Leon. No, he just stared back. His intense blue eyes locking onto yours without hesitation, his breath ragged from the exertion.
There was something about the way he looked at you. It wasn’t just the exhaustion of a tough session. It felt deliberate, like he was trying to get under your skin, testing you. You’d hold the gaze for a moment, your heart rate picking up, before you’d break it, pretending to check on the other recruits or jotting something down on your clipboard.
Each time, you’d feel the faintest ripple of something you couldn’t quite place. Leon, of course, would smirk. A quiet laugh often followed, like he had won a small victory. The sound of it was always just enough to send a wave of irritation through you. It was maddening how easy it seemed for him to get a rise out of you without even trying.
It happened more than once that Leon would walk towards you after finishing a drill. You would spot him from the corner of your eye, his movements purposeful. You could feel the pressure building in your chest, your grip on your pen tightening. Every time, you immediately shut him down, avoiding him completely. You’d walk away, your steps deliberate or pretend to be engrossed in something else. Anything to avoid having to engage with him.
Sometimes, before he even reached you, you’d already be walking off, acting busy, and making it clear you had no intention of answering him. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to acknowledge him, it was that you couldn’t afford to. Not with someone like him. Someone who knew exactly what buttons to push to get you to crack.
But Leon didn’t let it go so easily. Each time you’d walk away or pretend not to notice him, he’d step closer, a smirk still playing on his lips. You’d hear his voice just behind you, low and teasing. “You sure you don’t wanna talk? Or are you just too busy pretending I’m not here?” He once said to you.
Leon, of course, didn’t seem bothered by your resistance. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the game more each time, his smirk widening as if he’d already won. The push and pull of it all was starting to get under your skin, and you hated it.
Today’s drill was something a bit more different. You stood in front of the group of recruits, clipboard in hand, the morning sun cutting through the windows and casting a sharp light over the training room. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation, just the way it should be before a tough exercise.
"Listen up," you said, your voice cutting through the low murmurs of the group. "Today’s drill is going to be one of the most critical exercises you'll face. It simulates a real-life scenario: Protect the Client."
You paused, making sure their attention was on you. Every recruit’s gaze was locked on you now, and you could see the curiosity mixed with the faintest hint of unease. Most of them knew you weren’t just a trainer, you had been in the field, had seen the kinds of threats they were training for. You walked down the line of the recruits.
"I’m going to be your ‘protectee’ today," you continued, your tone steady, not allowing any room for doubt. "Your mission is simple: Keep me safe while hostile elements, those trying to harm or assassinate me, try to breach your perimeter. You’ll have to use the full scope of your training to ensure my safety. Follow the protocols, stay close, and be prepared to make decisions in real-time. If you don’t think quickly, I’ll be in danger, and failure in this scenario means my life. No pressure, right?"
A couple of the recruits exchanged nervous glances, but they held their silence. You could see Leon standing off to the side, his usual cocky demeanour softened, but that didn’t stop his eyes from narrowing with concentration.
"Now," you said, meeting each of their gazes. "Your objective is to protect me at all costs. I’ll be moving through the course, and you’ll need to escort me from point A to point B. Along the way, hostile elements, simulated by your fellow recruits, will attempt to ‘assassinate’ or capture me. You’ll need to stay in close formation with me, ensuring that I’m always under your protection. If any of you let me out of your sight for too long or fail to respond to the threat, it’s game over."
You motioned for the recruits to fall in line as you took your position at the centre of the room. The room was dimly lit, designed to simulate an urban safe house environment. Concrete walls, scattered furniture, and concealed corners created a hostile setting. Tactical drones hovered overhead, simulating gunfire and movement in the shadows, making the air thick with tension. This wasn’t just a training ground, it was meant to feel as real as possible. The recruits were about to face something they’d hopefully never have to in the field.
"You'll each take turns protecting me," you continued, your voice crisp. "I’ll be moving through this environment, and your objective is to keep me alive. You’ll have your weapons and equipment, but remember, this is about ensuring my safety. If you lose sight of me, or fail to keep me out of harm’s way, the mission is a failure. Understand?"
The recruits nodded, eager to show what they were capable of. You glanced at Leon briefly. His usual cocky grin was absent today, replaced by the quiet intensity you had come to expect from him. His eyes flicked between you and the surroundings, already assessing the challenge.
You clicked your stopwatch. "Begin with the first recruit."
The first recruit stepped forward, eager but nervous. He moved too quickly, and within seconds, you found yourself exposed to the simulated threat—a drone shot fired from an unseen corner. The recruit hesitated, then took cover, but his lapse in judgment had already put you at risk.
"Watch your corners!" you called out, a hint of frustration in your tone. "You’re supposed to protect the target, not rush headfirst into danger. Keep me in your line of sight at all times!"
The recruit gave a quick nod, but you could see the sweat already forming on his brow. He tried to adjust, but his movements were erratic. His focus wasn’t on you,he was distracted by the environment around him. A few more simulated shots rang out, and soon enough, the exercise was over for him. He had failed to keep you safe.
“Next,” you said sharply.
By the time it was Leon's turn, most of the recruits had faltered, failing to keep up with the speed and intensity of the exercise. They were too focused on themselves, too distracted by the pressure of the drill.
Leon, however, was different. He slid his weapons into his belt with casual ease, his gaze flicking to you as he smirked. "You know, if you wanted to get me alone, you could’ve just asked," he said, his voice low and teasing.
You didn’t even spare him a glance. Your gaze remained steady, focused, unshaken.
“You better pass this, Kennedy,” you whispered, your tone sharp, a hint of challenge underneath the words.
Leon chuckled, his smirk widening but not giving in to the playful tension. "I’m not here to disappoint," he replied, adjusting his stance as he scanned the area, ready to move. His eyes lingered on you, but you felt no shift in your own attitude, just a quiet, insistent distance.
He followed closely behind you as you entered the course, the room eerily quiet except for the sound of your footsteps and the distant hum of the tactical drones overhead. The first wave of simulated threats began almost immediately, shots rang out, and you instinctively moved forward. But Leon was already there, his hand on your arm, gently but firmly guiding you behind him.
"Get behind me," he said, his voice calm but commanding. "Stay close. I won’t let you out of my sight."
You stepped back, positioning yourself directly behind him. There was something about the way he moved, the fluidity in his motions that set him apart. His movements were sharp, deliberate, but there was also a subtle kind of protection that emanated from him.
As you moved further into the simulation, more shots rang out, and you could feel the air grow thick with tension. The recruits’ mistakes were becoming more apparent—some didn’t check their corners, others faltered, losing focus. You were vulnerable, but Leon kept you shielded.
"Stay low," he murmured, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the noise. He adjusted his position, turning slightly to keep you behind him. "We need to move fast, but we can’t rush it. I’ll cover you."
You felt the subtle shift in his demeanour. He wasn’t joking now. He wasn’t the cocky rookie from before. This was Leon; focused, sharp, and completely committed to getting you through this drill unscathed.
The tension in the air was palpable as you continued to move through the course. A simulated sniper shot sounded from above, and without a second thought, Leon dropped to a knee, pulling you into cover with him. He shielded your body with his own, his back pressed against the wall as he checked the surroundings.
"You're fine," he whispered, eyes scanning the area. "I’ve got you."
His proximity, the warmth of his body so close to yours, sent a ripple of something through you, but you focused on the task at hand, ignoring the feelings that stirred just beneath the surface.
You pushed him back slightly, your discomfort palpable, the proximity doing little but adding to your frustration. "I’m fine," you said firmly, pulling away, your gaze hardening.
Leon didn’t push back. Instead, he stayed crouched, his eyes scanning the area, unflustered. "Move when I say," he continued, his hand steadying you as you prepared to go. "You stick close, you hear me? Don’t wander off, not now."
Your body tensed as his words lingered, the subtle shift in his demeanour irritating you more than you cared to admit. The unspoken tension between you both was palpable, his determination clashing with your need for space, your independence.
The course grew increasingly chaotic as you moved deeper into the simulation. The air was thick with tension, every corner hiding a potential threat. The sounds of gunfire and the buzz of tactical drones overhead blurred together in a steady, unnerving hum.
The recruits faltered, their nerves getting the better of them. Some hesitated, some reacted too slowly. One recruit froze when a simulated gunman appeared from the shadows, giving the enemy an easy shot. Another failed to check a corner properly, nearly walking into an ambush. With every failure, the clock on your safety ticked closer to zero, and your frustration grew.
But Leon? He was different. His movements were fluid, precise, he was a shadow in the chaos. Every time the air cracked with simulated gunfire, Leon was there, his presence a shield. His body seemed to sync with yours as if he’d already anticipated your next move, already planned your escape. His eyes were locked on you, unwavering, every step he took in perfect rhythm with yours.
As you rounded a corner, the sound of a sniper shot echoed from above. It was louder and closer this time.
You didn’t even have time to react before Leon was there. He yanked you into cover behind a stack of concrete blocks, his body pressing against yours in a way that was sharp, deliberate. He didn’t wait for you to protest; he just moved. Shielding you. Protecting you.
The world outside the cover was chaos, but in that moment, Leon was the calm in the storm. His voice was low but unshakeable.
"Stay down, stay quiet," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.
You glanced up, meeting his gaze for a brief, fleeting second. There was no hint of cockiness in his eyes now, no playful smirk. Just focus, raw and unrelenting. He wasn’t the same Leon who teased you earlier. This was someone entirely different, someone fully committed to seeing you through the end of this drill, no matter the cost.
A new wave of hostile targets appeared in your path, but Leon was already positioning himself between you and the threat, his hands steady as he assessed the situation. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t second guess. His movements were calculated, precise, as he took out one simulated threat after another. The way he moved, so effortlessly between gunfire, his body shielding yours with unwavering certainty, it was almost like he knew exactly where each danger would come from before it even appeared.
"Ready?" he whispered.
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. His proximity, the way his body seemed to shield you at every turn, it was like you were tethered to him, whether you liked it or not. The frustration was still there, a new rookie pushing your buttons.
With a swift motion, Leon led you forward, pushing through tight spaces, navigating corners that the other recruits had floundered at. He didn’t let you wander; didn’t let you fall behind. Every time you moved, he was right there, a steadying force, guiding you through the maze.
The final stretch of the course was ahead, one last obstacle. A simulated ambush. As you rounded the last corner, a wave of attackers emerged from every angle. The course seemed to explode into chaos, gunfire blaring from all sides. You froze, heart racing as you took in the onslaught.
Without missing a beat, Leon pushed you behind a nearby pillar, his body once again shielding yours. He didn’t even flinch as the simulated bullets whizzed past.
"Now," he said, his voice steady, unwavering, as if he were simply waiting for the right moment. "We push through. Stay behind me, and we’re almost out."
You didn’t argue. You didn’t pull away. You just followed.
Leon moved like lightning. He was a blur of motion, blocking and deflecting attacks as you sprinted through the chaos. Every move was calculated, every shot he fired, every piece of cover he took, it was perfect. He was a machine. And for the first time, you realized just how seamlessly he’d slipped into that role. The protectiveness was there, sure, but so was his skill.
With one final push, Leon led you to the last checkpoint. The exercise ended in a sudden silence, the simulated danger evaporating in an instant. You both stood there for a moment, the tension in the air giving way to a heavy, shared breath.
The stillness in the air hung between you both like a moment of suspended disbelief. The sounds of the simulated danger had faded, replaced by the heavy, labored breaths of both you and Leon. The tension from the exercise still lingered, charging the space around you, but it was different now, more intimate, somehow.
You stood there, eyes locked with his, and for a moment, everything around you seemed to fade away. The adrenaline coursing through your veins began to settle, leaving behind a steady pulse in your chest. You’d made it through the chaos, the danger, and you couldn’t help but notice how seamlessly Leon had led you through it all, how effortlessly he moved, how in tune he seemed with you.
His body, still poised and tense from the drill, slowly relaxed. The rigid focus faded, and the cocky glint returned to his eyes. He didn’t smile at first. No, that came after a beat, a slow, knowing smirk that curved his lips, almost like a reward he’d just granted himself.
And then, just like that, the walls between you two seemed to crack, just a little.
"Well," he drawled, his voice low, smooth, and dripping with that familiar cockiness. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours, holding you captive with a look that was both teasing and triumphant. "I guess you owe me an apology, special agent _____."
You stiffened instinctively, your spine straightening, and the words hit you like a challenge. It was too easy to snap back, to throw the usual retort his way, but something in the way he said it, a playful arrogance, held you back. You almost hated it, but you couldn’t push it away.
You tried your best not to roll your eyes at him, but the instinct was there. Instead, you crossed your arms, your expression hardening in an attempt to hold onto the defiance that you always prided yourself on. "Your performance was acceptable, Mr. Kennedy," you said, your tone icy.
Leon’s lips quirked up into a small laugh, shaking his head slightly as he looked down at the ground, clearly amused by your response.
"Acceptable?" he whispered to himself, chuckling under his breath. The sound was both playful and smug, and you could hear the amusement in his voice.
As you both began removing your protective gear, the atmosphere shifted. The adrenaline from the drill still buzzed in the air, but the quiet between you two felt different now. You were focused on unstrapping your vest, your fingers moving quickly, but your gaze flicked over to Leon without thinking.
As Leon slowly removed his vest, the movement was fluid, effortless. His large arms flexed with each motion, the muscles rippling beneath his skin with a slow power that was impossible to ignore. The sweat that glistened across his skin only made them look even more defined, the gleam of exertion adding a sharp contrast to the sharp lines of his physique.
You could feel your eyes involuntarily drifting toward him. The way his biceps bulged slightly as he unstrapped the vest, the muscles of his forearms flexing with the effort. It wasn’t just the physicality; it was the sheer confidence in his movements, the way his body was so perfectly perfected for this.
For a moment, you couldn’t look away. It wasn’t like you wanted to stare, but your mind couldn’t seem to stop. Your gaze locked onto his arms, the strength, the way his chest rose and fell with his breath as he worked, the flicker of muscle beneath his skin. It was like he was made for moments like this.
And just as you realized what you were doing, the colour flooded your face, and you quickly looked away, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
But of course, he had. Leon always noticed.
He was looking at you now, a small, self-assured smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes were a little more playful than before, something dark behind that victorious look. He caught your gaze for just a moment too long, and you knew exactly what was happening.
He’d seen you. No. He’d known you were staring at him. His boss.
His head tilted slightly, a playful glint in his eyes, and the smirk that tugged at his lips said everything. He didn’t need to speak; his look alone told you he knew exactly what you’d been doing.
Your heart skipped a beat, and you fought the instinct to snap back at him. But you couldn’t think of a good response, not without making things worse. You quickly shook your head, trying to shake the moment off, trying to brush it aside like it was nothing.
Without saying another word, you turned on your heel, eager to escape the intensity of the moment, eager to get away from the still-heavy air between you both. The exit was just a few steps away, and you focused on getting there quickly, putting as much distance between you and Leon as you could.
You didn’t notice the way his eyes followed you as you left, didn’t feel the weight of his gaze on your back, the way his smirk grew wider as he watched you walk away.
He’d caught you. And he knew it. And for some reason, that was enough for him to feel like he had just won another round.
The cafeteria buzzed with low chatter, forks scraping metal trays, and the steady hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The scent of overcooked protein and machine coffee lingered in the air. Agents sat in small clusters, fatigued, bruised, laughing too loudly or staring blankly at nothing. The aftermath of another brutal day of training.
You sat alone near the far end of the room, back to the wall, always facing the door. It was habit now. Your tray sat untouched in front of you, half-full with dull, colorless food, forgotten beneath your tablet as your eyes skimmed through performance reports from that afternoon’s drill.
The words blurred slightly, too many variables, too many mistakes, but you kept reading, your thumb tapping rhythmically against the glass screen. The repetition, the structure, the focus, it kept everything else at bay.
Until the air changed.
A chair scraped across the floor near you, slow, deliberate, too loud to be casual. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.
“Still hard at work, Agent?” the voice drawled, drenched in performative familiarity. Older. Gravelly. Laced with the smirk he never earned.
You didn’t bother looking up. You knew that voice. He was one of the older agents, smug in his seniority, bitter over the authority you’d earned. He’d hit on you months ago, sloppy, transparent, and you’d shut him down without hesitation. He hadn’t taken it well.
Now, he dropped his tray down across from you with a dramatic thud, the food sloshing over the sides. You didn’t acknowledge him.
“Gotta say,” he drawled, “watching you bark orders during drills? There’s something real entertaining about seeing those fresh-faced recruits falling over themselves just to impress you.”
You kept your eyes on the tablet, jaw clenched.
“But hey,” he continued, leaning in slightly, “maybe if I’d kissed a little more ass during training, I could’ve gotten a spot on your special detail. Then again—” his eyes flicked over you with a slow, greasy drag, “I doubt you’d mind having someone closer. Maybe under you.”
You froze. There it was. Not even veiled.
You inhaled slowly, lifting your chin to meet his smug, sleazy grin, and that was when a shadow fell over the table.
Leon.
He stood behind the man, posture rigid, his shirt still clinging from the earlier drills, veins visible in his forearms as his fists tightened at his sides. The easy charm he usually displayed was gone.
His jaw was tight. Eyes like frostbite.
“What did you just say?” he asked, voice a low, deadly whisper that sliced through the cafeteria noise.
The man glanced lazily over his shoulder. “Easy, Kennedy. Just some light talk. Thought the lady could take a joke.”
Leon’s fists clenched tighter. His knuckles went white.
“She’s not your joke,” he said, voice like gravel under tension. “Say that again. I dare you.”
A flicker of unease passed over the man’s face, but he laughed it off, lifting a hand in mock surrender. “Relax, hero. Didn’t know you were her guard dog now.”
The air shifted, sharp, electric. Something dangerous simmered beneath Leon’s stillness.
You stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. A few nearby heads turned, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Eyes drifted toward the growing tension.
You didn’t hesitate.
Your voice snapped through the room like a shot.
“Mr. Kennedy. Follow me. This instant.”
Leon didn’t move at first, his eyes locked on the man across from you like he was deciding whether or not to break protocol. But then your voice hit again, firmer. Sharper. Commanding.
“Now.”
That did it.
He finally stepped back, but not before giving the man one last look, a quiet promise of consequence.
You turned and walked briskly toward the hallway, not looking back. The moment you pushed open the door to the empty corridor just outside the mess hall, you spun on your heel, boots planting hard against the tile.
Leon followed, the door shutting behind him.
You didn’t wait.
“What the hell was that?” you demanded, voice low but laced with fury. “You think stepping in helps me?”
Leon’s brows furrowed, confused, still tense. “He said—”
“I heard what he said,” you snapped, cutting him off. “I’ve had men like him crawl around me my entire career. You think you’re the first person who’s ever tried to defend me? You’re not.”
Leon’s fists were still tight, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. “He crossed a line.”
“And I would’ve handled it,” you shot back, stepping closer, eyes locked on his. “But when you jump in like that, in front of everyone, you make it look like I need someone to fight for me. Like I can’t handle a sleazy agent without backup.”
Leon didn’t speak for a second. The tension between you stretched thin, thick with unsaid things, mutual frustration, something just beginning to smoulder.
Then he took a step toward you.
Slow. Measured. Deliberate.
You didn’t move, not out of fear, but principle. You held your ground, spine straight, jaw tight.
He looked down at you, eyes dark and clear, no trace of sarcasm, no cocky smirk to hide behind. Just quiet heat and something heavier underneath.
“I know you can handle yourself,” he said, voice low but firm. “That’s not why I stepped in.”
You raised a brow, arms crossed, waiting.
Leon’s gaze didn’t waver. “But I’ve seen enough men like him to know where that kind of talk leads.”
He paused. Swallowed once. His voice dropped a shade deeper.
“I don’t care if it makes me look reckless, or like I don’t know my place. I’d rather be the guy who gets scolded than the guy who stood there and did nothing.”
You hated how sincere he sounded.
You hated even more that you couldn’t find a response right away.
He stepped back slightly then, just enough to let the pressure ease, but not enough to take away what he’d said.
His eyes still held yours.
“I’m not trying to be your hero,” he said, softer now. “But I’m not gonna be the guy who pretends he didn’t hear it what that piece of shit said.”
The hallway went quiet again, the hum of distant conversation from the mess hall muffled behind the closed door. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly. Somewhere far off, a door slammed. Neither of you moved.
Your pulse thudded in your throat.
And still, Leon waited not for permission. Just for understanding.
Your jaw tightened.
His words hung in the air like smoke, honest, heavy, far too close to something you didn’t want to name. But sincerity didn’t change the reality.
You straightened, spine rigid, eyes cool and unreadable.
“You’re dismissed, Mr. Kennedy.”
Leon didn’t flinch, but something in his expression shifted, a quiet sting behind the eyes. He gave a small, sharp nod.
“Ma’am.”
He turned without another word.
As he passed, his shoulder brushed yours, subtle, firm, not accidental. Not aggressive either. Just enough contact to remind you he’d been there. That he’d stood there.
Then he was gone.
The door swung shut behind him with a soft click.
And you were left alone in the silence, the tension still clinging to the walls, pulsing quietly in the space he’d just occupied.
Just four walls, a desk, two chairs, and the low hum of the fluorescent light above. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper, sterile, sharp, and impersonal. The way it was supposed to. You sat behind the desk, back straight, tablet in hand, stylus poised like a weapon. Every movement was precise, professional.
Three-month psychological evaluations. Routine. Every recruit, no exceptions. You’d conducted five already today. Blank stares. Nervous chuckles. A few overshares too personal for a clipboard. Textbook assessments.
This one wasn’t going to be textbook.
It had been a couple of weeks since your last real interaction with Leon Kennedy.
No shouting matches in corridors. No friction during drills. Just a few lingering looks across the training yard and the occasional too-casual comment tossed your way like a lit match, always smirking, always just short of inappropriate.
You’d told yourself that was better. Cleaner. Easier to manage.
Then the door clicked open.
You didn’t look up.
“Agent Kennedy,” you said, voice cool, as though saying his name didn’t pull something taut beneath your skin.
“Agent,” came his reply, smooth, low, and maddeningly unbothered. It was the tone of a man who knew exactly how often you thought about him and wasn’t sorry for it.
He stepped inside with the kind of confidence that wasn’t loud, it coiled. His boots made no more noise than necessary, but every movement was deliberate. He was lean and broad-shouldered in the standard tactical shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms, veins visible beneath tanned skin. His hair was still damp from the shower, falling into his eyes slightly, framing the kind of face that made most people forget what they were doing mid-sentence.
Leon sank into the chair across from you like he owned it, like he was the one running this evaluation and you were just passing through.
You tapped the record button.
“This is the standard three-month psychological assessment. Post-phase one field training,” you recited, voice flat and impersonal. “Answers must be honest and complete. Sit up straight.”
He smiled lazily. “Is that an order, or do you just like bossing me around?”
You didn’t respond. Didn’t look up. Just wrote the timestamp on your tablet.
“Sleep patterns?” you asked, ignoring the way your stylus trembled slightly in your grip.
Leon tilted his head like he was considering whether to answer honestly or to entertain himself.
“Four to six hours,” he said finally. “Broken. Same old dreams. No screaming. Just me, zombies, and the occasional yelling from you.”
You glanced up.
He smiled innocently, eyes gleaming. “Motivational yelling, of course.”
You clicked your stylus with more force than necessary. “Appetite?”
“Healthy,” he said, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, long fingers drumming against the sides. “No weird cravings. Unless you count the one I get every time you look at me like I’m a loaded weapon.”
You paused, stylus mid-air.
He grinned. “Too far?”
You stared at him, expression carefully blank. “Are you going to take this seriously?”
Leon’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are you?”
You felt your composure flicker, a flash of heat at your neck you hoped he didn’t notice. You dropped your eyes back to the screen.
“Any emotional instability? Panic attacks? Difficulty with authority?”
His grin widened, slow and deliberate. “Depends. Are we talking about all kinds of authority, or just the ones who make it really hard to follow orders?”
You didn’t flinch. You refused to.
But your cheeks warmed. He noticed.
Of course he did.
His tone softened just slightly, enough to slip under your skin. “You always deflect with silence?”
You looked up, sharper now. “Leon—”
He cut you off, gently, but with intent.
“Why are you nervous?”
“Excuse me?” you said, the words sharp, clipped, a reflex.
Leon didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned in further, elbows resting casually on his knees, the space between you shrinking by degrees.
“You heard me,” he said, voice lower now, softer around the edges, but no less direct. “Why are you nervous?”
You scoffed, shifting slightly in your chair, pulling your professionalism up like armour.
“I’m not nervous,” you replied, your voice as precise as a scalpel. “I’m doing my job. Something you might want to consider trying sometime.”
Leon didn’t smile.
That threw you more than anything.
He didn’t banter back. Didn’t laugh it off. He just studied you, eyes scanning your face like he was dissecting every micro-expression. Not to win. Not to gloat. But to understand.
“That’s not an answer,” he said after a beat. “That’s deflection.”
You stiffened, stylus tapping once, sharply, against the tablet screen.
“We’re done with that line of questioning,” you said, tone flat. “This is a psychological assessment, not a performance critique.”
Leon’s gaze didn’t waver.
“No. It’s an evaluation,” he said slowly, deliberately. Mental readiness. Emotional regulation. You said it yourself.”
“So, if your hand’s been gripping that pen like a weapon since I walked in, if your voice keeps tightening whenever I joke, if your posture hasn’t shifted in twenty minutes...”
He paused, leaned back slightly, letting the tension almost break. “Tell me, how’s your emotional regulation, Agent?”
Your breath caught in your throat, for half a second. Then you met his eyes dead-on, calm, cold, the way you were trained to be.
“I’m not the one being evaluated.”
Leon’s smile returned but it was faint, thoughtful, something quieter than usual.
“Maybe not officially,” he said. “But you put yourself in this chair, in this role. You think I’m not watching? Every drill. Every decision. Every time you walk past like I don’t exist, but your eyes flick back like they can’t help it.”
Your chest tightened, barely. A muscle in your jaw ticked.
“Enough.”
Leon tilted his head.
“Why does it bother you?” he asked, voice gentler now, lacking any trace of mockery. “That I see it? That I see you?”
You stood abruptly, tablet forgotten on the desk, the sharp screech of your chair legs biting into the silence. “We’re done here, Agent Kennedy. I’m marking you psychologically fit for field continuation.”
He stood too, slower, more composed. But he didn’t head to the door.
Not yet.
The air between you crackled, heavy with tension that wasn’t anger. Not anymore. Something more dangerous.
“You can push everyone else away,” Leon said softly, “but you don’t get to lie to me in the same breath you’re evaluating if I’m stable enough to trust in the field.”
You said nothing. Just stared. Chest rising. Spine straight.
“You’re dismissed,” you said finally, quiet but commanding.
Leon didn’t argue.
But as he passed, his shoulder brushed yours, slow, deliberate. Not the kind of accidental contact you could pretend didn’t happen. It lingered.
Then he stopped.
Right behind you.
You didn’t turn, but you could feel him, the solid weight of his presence, the heat of him just inches away, close enough that your breath hitched before you could stop it.
You stood frozen, heart thudding a little too hard against your ribs.
Leon leaned in, slowly, steadily. Not touching but close enough that you felt his breath skim the side of your neck, warm and intimate as it ghosted over your skin.
He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, in your space, in your silence, like he was daring you to move first.
Then, his voice, low, steady, close enough to feel.
“I’m not the only one who’s scared of what this is,” he murmured. “You’re just the only one pretending it’s not there.”
Then he was gone.
The door shut with a quiet click.
And you didn’t sit back down for a long time.
You woke in a violent jolt.
Sheets tangled, shirt soaked, heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to escape your chest. For a second, you didn’t even know where you were. You could still hear the snarls — feel the blood on your hands, the heat, the wet grind of bone.
But it was just the dark now.
The silence of the dorm.
Your throat was dry, like you’d screamed but never made a sound. You reached for the bottle of water by your bed, hands still trembling. The cold plastic grounded you — barely.
You stared at the ceiling, willing your pulse to settle.
It didn’t.
There’d be no sleep tonight. You knew that rhythm too well.
The corridors were empty at this hour, dimly lit and chilled, the fluorescents above flickering faintly every few seconds. You didn’t bother tying your boots fully. Just enough to keep them on. Your steps echoed in the quiet, clipped and sharp, like your body hadn’t figured out you were no longer in combat.
Your feet took you to the range before you could question the decision.
The moment the door opened, you stopped.
You weren’t alone.
The faint scent of gunpowder hung in the air. One of the farthest lanes was lit, the others dark. A figure stood at the booth, feet braced, arms locked, the sharp report of a shot ringing out just as your eyes adjusted.
The sound didn’t startle you.
The sight did.
Leon.
His shoulders were tense beneath a thin, dark long-sleeve. The fabric clung to his frame, damp with sweat, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His stance was tight, not like he was training, but like he was burning it out. Shot after shot, slow and methodical.
You hovered at the doorway, debating whether to leave before he saw you.
He beat you to it.
Without turning his head, he spoke.
“Can’t sleep either?” The words echoed, low and even, sliding into the silence like they belonged there.
You lingered.
Eventually, you stepped in, the door sliding shut behind you. Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.
“Didn’t think anyone else would be here.”
Leon finally looked over his shoulder.
His expression wasn’t smug or flirty. Not this time. Just tired. Open. Eyes rimmed faintly in red, jaw shadowed with stubble, mouth set in something close to neutral.
“Same nightmare?” he asked, watching you carefully.
You didn’t answer immediately.
You walked to the booth beside his, set your pistol down on the tray, and began loading a magazine. Each motion was practiced. Muscle memory. Something to do with your hands.
“Different city. Same story,” you said. “Too close. Too many.”
He nodded once, turning back to his target. He didn’t fire again.
“It always gets too close,” he murmured. His voice wasn’t bitter. Just honest.
You raised your weapon and fired three rounds. Each one hit the center mass. Not perfect. But tight. Focused.
You exhaled and lowered the gun.
Leon leaned an elbow on the divider between your booths. You didn’t look at him, but you felt his attention shift.
“You always shoot like that when you’re trying to forget something?”
You glanced sideways, arching a brow.
“What makes you think I’m trying to forget?”
“Because that’s what I do,” he said simply. “And you don’t miss unless you’re thinking too hard.”
That made you pause.
You hadn’t missed.
But he was right, your aim had been just a little tight. Like you were forcing it. Not flowing with it.
You cleared your throat. “You shouldn’t be analysing me. I outrank you, remember?”
Leon gave a faint smirk. “Then don’t act so obvious.”
You turned fully to him then, leaning back against the divider, arms crossing over your chest.
“What about you? What brings you here? Couldn’t sleep either, or just miss the sound of bullets before sunrise?”
He looked at his gun for a moment, then holstered it. Slowly. With intent.
“Sometimes I shoot until it drowns the rest out.” His voice dropped just a little. “The noise helps. Makes it feel like I’m still in control.”
You didn’t speak. Just watched him.
He looked different in the dark. Softer. Quieter. Still cut from steel, but the shine had dulled into something more human.
Leon leaned back against the divider now too, standing beside you — not facing you, but not avoiding you either. Close enough that your arms could brush if you weren’t careful.
“You ever talk about it?” he asked, voice gentler than it had any right to be at this hour.
You scoffed. “You ever shut up about it?”
He smiled faintly. Not smug. Just... warm. A rare flicker.
“Touché.”
Another moment passed. You were both quiet, the kind of quiet that came only when both people had run out of lies to tell themselves.
Then, without looking at you, he said:
“You’ve got that look again.”
You frowned. “What look?”
Leon turned his head. Just slightly.
“Like you’re afraid of something that already happened.”
That one hit harder than you expected.
You stared at the booth wall ahead of you, eyes unfocused.
“Aren’t we all?” you whispered.
Leon didn’t say anything for a long beat.
Then, gently, like he didn’t want to push but couldn’t help it:
“You don’t have to carry all of it alone.”
You turned your head. Slowly.
He was already watching you. Not like he was trying to read you, like he already had.
Your throat tightened. Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then finally spoke.
“Neither do you.”
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Then Leon shifted, just slightly. Turning toward you. The air between you got heavier, thicker, your bodies close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, even without touching.
He leaned in just a bit, eyes locked on yours.
“Maybe next time,” he said, voice low and sincere, “we stop pretending we don’t see each other.”
You didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
But you didn’t pull away either.
And Leon, he just lingered for one more heartbeat before stepping back. He picked up his pistol again without another word.
You both turned back to the range.
Leon fired again.
The shot hit wide, low and to the left.
You blinked.
The second round followed. Another miss. Not catastrophic, but… not him.
You frowned and tilted your head slightly, watching his stance more carefully now. His feet were steady. Grip was tight. But there was something off, a hesitation, maybe. Tension in the wrong places.
You spoke without thinking.
“You’re pulling.”
Leon lowered the weapon slightly, glancing over at you.
“I’m what?”
“Your trigger pull. You’re jerking it.” You gestured vaguely toward his grip. “And you’re tensing your shoulder before the shot lands. That’s why you’re off-center.”
He raised a brow. “Didn’t realize I was being audited.”
“You’re always being audited.”
Leon smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. There was a flicker of frustration in his expression, quickly masked, but not before you saw it.
You hesitated for only a breath, then stepped closer.
“Here,” you said. “Let me show you.”
Leon turned slightly, surprised. “You offering shooting lessons now?”
“Only because watching you miss is painful.”
He chuckled, just once, but it sounded almost genuine.
You came up behind him, reaching for his arms without hesitation. Your fingers brushed his forearms first, firm, warm, and taut beneath your touch, then guided his elbows inward just slightly. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. He just let you.
Your body hovered close to his back now, your voice low by his ear.
“Relax your grip. You’re holding like it’s going to jump out of your hands.”
“Maybe I like the way you grab my arms,” he murmured, not quite under his breath.
You ignored it. Barely.
Your hands moved to his, adjusting his fingers on the grip, your chest brushing lightly against his back with the motion. The space between you all but disappeared.
He was warm. Solid. Smelled faintly like steel and soap. Your pulse thudded somewhere inconvenient.
“Focus on your breathing,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice clinical — failing slightly. “In on the raise. Out on the shot.”
He nodded once, eyes fixed on the target now, the tension in his shoulders finally easing under your touch.
You didn’t move away.
You couldn’t.
“Try again,” you said.
He fired.
The bullet struck center mass — clean and sharp.
Leon let out a slow breath, lips twitching slightly. “Must be your coaching.”
You stepped back, just a little. Enough to breathe.
“Or maybe you were just being dramatic so I’d come fix you.”
He looked over his shoulder at you, expression unreadable. “Maybe I needed fixing.”
Leon turned back to the booth, loading another round with ease now. His fingers moved with more control — smoother, more fluid. But he wasn’t paying attention to the target anymore.
He was watching you.
“Still gonna need a few more lessons,” he said, tone lighter, like he was giving you a way out.
You crossed your arms, partly to ground yourself, partly to hide the way your pulse had spiked. The skin along your arms still tingled from how close you’d just been.
“We’ll schedule something,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the bullet-ridden paper downrange. “Preferably not at 3 a.m.”
Leon raised his pistol again and fired without looking — a perfect shot.
“I like this hour,” he said. “It’s quiet. No distractions.”
He looked at you again.
“Except you.”
The words landed softly but stuck hard. You turned slowly to meet his gaze.
For a long, pulsing second, neither of you said anything.
The air between you changed, no longer filled with tension, but potential. Something on the verge of happening. Fragile. Taut.
You didn’t move. Neither did he.
Then, almost at the same time, you both leaned in.
It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t desperate.
It was quiet. Careful. Like you were both finally acknowledging the gravity of what had been building all this time.
Your faces were inches apart. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up to yours. His breath was warm against your cheek. You felt the shift in his posture, his shoulders finally — finally — relax.
He exhaled, like he hadn’t breathed right in days.
Your lips brushed.
Not quite a kiss. Not yet. Just the promise of one.
And that’s when you pulled back.
Quickly. Cleanly.
You took a step away, jaw tightening.
“Shit.”
Leon blinked, confused — caught mid-movement as if his body hadn’t registered that you’d left the moment.
You straightened, already retreating behind a wall of protocol and duty. Your voice came out tight, too fast, too defensive.
“That— That was completely unprofessional. I’m your superior officer. That can’t happen. That shouldn’t have happened.”
He opened his mouth, eyes narrowing — but you didn’t give him a chance.
“Forget it,” you said, already turning on your heel, boots moving fast against the concrete. “That’s an order.”
And just like that, you were gone.
The doors hissed shut behind you.
Leon stood there in the silence, gun still in hand, heart still racing for a reason that had nothing to do with bullets.
The target downrange blurred in his vision, but he didn’t lift his weapon again.
He just stood there.
Alone.
And this time, it was the quiet that distracted him.
The door slid shut behind you with a muted hiss, sealing the room like a vault.
You stood there for a moment, hand still on the panel, heart thudding too loud in your ears.
You couldn’t breathe.
Not properly. Not evenly.
The air in the dorm was stale, too still, like it hadn’t moved since you left. You felt the walls closing in, the silence pressing against your skin, and suddenly standing still wasn’t an option.
You started pacing.
Back and forth. Six strides one way. Six strides back.
Your boots whispered against the tile. The sound of your own movement was the only thing keeping you tethered.
Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest. Not because you were cold — but because something was trying to crack open inside you.
You could still feel him.
Leon’s body heat. The way his voice dropped when he got close. That half-laugh. That half-sigh. The way he leaned in like you were a secret he was finally ready to admit out loud.
And God — the way you leaned back.
You ran a hand through your hair, dragging your fingers down your face with a frustrated groan.
“What the hell were you thinking?” you muttered aloud to no one.
You weren’t someone who made mistakes like that. Not emotional ones. Not with recruits. And definitely not with him.
But it wasn’t just a mistake, was it?
It was the culmination of weeks of tension. Stares across briefing rooms. Arguments laced with heat. All those unspoken almosts that had been quietly building behind every clipped command and sharp retort.
And then tonight.
Your lips had touched. Not fully. Not even enough to call it a kiss. But it had been enough to feel something. Enough to know you wanted more.
And that terrified you.
Because he wasn’t just a man. He was a subordinate. He was a complication.
He was Leon.
Your pacing slowed, but your thoughts didn’t.
You should file a report. You should debrief yourself. You should find the damn HR manual and read every clause until your brain stopped trying to remember the way he smelled.
But you didn’t.
Because even now even as guilt twisted low in your stomach, you didn’t want to regret it. Not really.
You stopped in front of your bunk, hands braced on the frame like it might anchor you. You stared at the floor for a long time.
And finally, in the silence, a whisper of truth slipped out before you could stop it.
“I wanted to kiss him.”
There it was. No uniform. No badge. No chain of command.
You paced again, tighter now, like a coil wound to breaking.
The thoughts were no longer just thoughts. They were shouts. Echoes crashing against each other.
His voice. His closeness. His scent.
That almost-kiss.
And then it hit you, sharp and undeniable. You wanted him. Not just in passing. Not just in secret.
The realisation crashed through your chest like a breach, like something you’d held back for too long had finally slammed its way to the surface. It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t safe.
But it was true.
The moment it bloomed inside you, your body moved before your brain could keep up. You spun, crossing the room in three long strides. Your hand reached for the door panel.
You had to find him. Now.
You wrenched the door open—
—and froze.
Leon was standing there.
Fist half-raised, like he’d just been about to knock. His blue eyes wide for a heartbeat, mirroring the same stunned disbelief on your face.
Neither of you spoke.
You didn’t need to.
You were leaving to find him. He had come to find you.
The moment broke like glass under pressure.
You moved at the same time.
There were no words. No caution. No hesitation.
Just a sudden, desperate lunge, bodies colliding like magnets finally allowed to touch. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers sliding through his hair as you pulled him down into you. His hands were already on your face , one cupping your jaw, the other at the back of your head, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
Your mouths met in a kiss that wasn’t careful or composed.
It was hungry. Messy. Real.
All the heat, all the tension that had been building for weeks, months, came crashing down in a single breathless moment. You could feel him breathing against your skin, his mouth devouring yours like he’d wanted this just as long. Like he’d needed it.
You gasped softly as his lips pressed deeper, more insistent, not rough, but reverent. Like he was trying to memorise the shape of your mouth, the rhythm of your breath, the taste of your surrender.
His hand slid down to your waist, gripping you like he didn’t trust reality. Like if he didn’t anchor you now, you’d both float away.
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, breath shallow. His thumb still brushed your cheekbone like you were fragile, even after everything you’d just done.
You swallowed hard.
Your back hit the wall next to the door.
Neither of you noticed. Or rather neither of you cared.
Your hands were tangled in his hair, his mouth fevered against yours, and the space between your bodies no longer existed. You were pressed to him, chest to chest, pulse to pulse, the silence of the hallway shattered by the sound of breathless kissing and the quiet thud of urgency.
Leon groaned softly into your mouth, the kind of sound that curled hot in your spine, and suddenly his hands were on your waist, gripping tight.
With a fluid, almost desperate shift, he turned you both, still kissing, still holding you like you might change your mind if he let go for even a second. One arm around your waist, the other braced behind your neck, he walked you backward into the dorm, step by step, not breaking the kiss once.
You barely registered the room returning around you.
Then, with one solid kick, Leon shoved the door shut with his boot, the heavy sound of it slamming home felt final.
Private.
No going back.
The moment the lock clicked, he pinned you against the back of the door, lips trailing to your jaw, your neck, breath hot and reverent.
“I’ve wanted this,” he murmured between kisses, voice hoarse, as his hand slid up your side beneath your shirt, not rushing, just learning. “I’ve wanted you.”
You exhaled sharply, one hand splayed over his chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath your palm. His skin burned. Everything about him did.
“Leon—”
And then he kissed you again, deeper this time, slower, like he wasn’t just trying to make you feel it.
He wanted you to remember it.
Leon’s hands were everywhere, rough yet reverent, as if he couldn’t decide where to touch first, your hips, your waist, the curve of your back. His fingers dug into your skin just enough to leave the ghost of his desperation behind, his breath hot against your neck as he murmured between fevered kisses.
“You have no idea how much I’ve imagined this.”
His voice was rough, strained with need, each word punctuated by the scrape of his teeth against your pulse. You gasped as his hands slid lower, gripping the back of your thighs before he lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The strength in his arms was intoxicating, the way he held you like you weighed nothing, like he’d die before letting you go.
“Touching you… kissing you…”
His lips crashed into yours again, hungry and deep, his tongue sweeping against yours in a rhythm that left you dizzy. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose more of your throat to his mouth, while the other gripped your ass, grinding you against the hard ridge of his arousal. The friction drew a whimper from your lips, and he growled in response, nipping at your collarbone.
“When I first saw you—so fucking beautiful.”
His words sent a shiver down your spine, his voice dripping with raw desire. His hands were relentless, sliding under your clothes, calloused palms mapping every inch of you as if he was memorising the feel of your skin. The heat between your bodies was unbearable, every shift of his hips stoking the fire lower in your stomach.
You could feel him, all of him, the hard lines of his body pressed against yours, the way his breath hitched when you rolled your hips against his. His grip tightened, fingers digging into your flesh as he carried you toward the nearest surface, his mouth never leaving your skin.
"Tell me you want this," he demanded between kisses, his voice dark and needy. "Tell me you’ve thought about it too."
His words sent a thrill through you, his touch already pushing you toward the edge. And as his lips found yours again, you knew he meant every word.
The moment your back hit the mattress, he pulled away just enough to sit up, his powerful thighs straddling your hips, the heat of him searing even through layers of clothing. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, his muscles taut beneath the fabric of his shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the thick cords of his forearms, arms that had carried you without effort, that could pin you down with terrifying ease.
Leon Kennedy wasn’t just looking at you, he was devouring you with his gaze. His face was a masterpiece of hunger, sharp jaw clenched, lips parted, those piercing blue eyes dark with lust as they raked over your body. A slow, knowing smirk curved his mouth when he saw the way your breath hitched under his scrutiny.
“Come on, Special Agent,” he murmured, his voice rough, dripping with sinful promise. “Do you want this? Do want me?”
His hand, calloused from years of gripping weapons, of fighting, trailed down your cheek with surprising gentleness, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, pressing just enough to make your mouth fall open. You could feel the roughness of his skin, the faint scar along his knuckle, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly, like he was holding back.
Beneath your shirt, his other hand moved with agonising slowness, his fingertips tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your ribs, stopping just beneath the hem. His fingers danced along the sensitive skin there, teasing, taunting, but never pushing further.
He was going to make you say it.
The distance between you was torture. You could feel the hard press of his arousal against your thigh, the way his body tensed with restraint. His smirk deepened at your hesitation, his eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.
"Use your words, Agent," he commanded, voice low, dangerous.
Your face burned, your pulse hammering as his fingers trailed lower, flicking open the top button of your trousers with infuriating precision. His knuckles grazed your stomach, and you shuddered.
Images flashed in your mind. Leon’s mouth on you, his hands gripping your hips, the way he growled when you rolled against him. The ache between your thighs was unbearable.
“Please, Leon,” you finally gasped, arching into his touch. “I want this. So bad.”
His smirk turned feral.
“Good girl.”
The moment the words left your lips, his mouth crashed back onto yours, hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping against yours in a rhythm that left you breathless. His body pressed flush against you, the hard planes of his chest pinning you to the mattress, the heat of him searing through your clothes. You could feel the rapid rise and fall of his ribs, the way his breath came in ragged bursts against your lips, like he’d been holding back for far too long.
His hands, rough and sure, made quick work of your trousers, fingers deftly undoing the remaining buttons before sliding them down your legs with a slow, deliberate drag. His lips followed the path his hands had taken, kissing down your calves, the sensitive hollows of your knees, the soft skin of your inner thighs. Each press of his mouth was deliberate, teasing, his breath fanning over your skin in a way that made you shiver.
When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his fingers tracing the damp fabric of your underwear with agonising lightness. A low, satisfied hum vibrated against your skin as he brushed over your clothed sex, his touch featherlight but maddening.
"Aw, you're so wet for me," he purred, voice thick with dark amusement.
You whimpered, hips lifting instinctively, but he held you down with one broad hand, his grip firm. His gaze flicked up to yours, those blue eyes burning with something predatory, something hungry. The sight of him between your legs, lips parted, pupils blown, his hair slightly mussed from your fingers. It was almost sinful.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down with torturous slowness. The cool air hit your overheated skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his stare as he took you in.
"So pretty," he murmured, voice rough with reverence.
His hands slid back up your thighs, gently urging them apart, spreading you wider for him. The way he looked at you, like he wanted to devour you, sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your stomach.
And then he moved. One hand anchored your hip, the other gripping the inside of your thigh as he leaned in, burying himself between your legs with an open-mouthed kiss to your core.
The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate, dragging through your folds with a filthy sound that made your back arch. His groan vibrated against you, the sensation sending sparks up your spine.
"Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined," he growled, his voice wrecked.
He didn’t tease. Not now.
Leon feasted on you like a man starved, tongue lapping at your entrance before circling your clit with firm, relentless strokes. His free hand slid up your stomach, pushing your shirt higher, fingers skimming the underside of your breast before pinching your nipple through the fabric.
You cried out, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him closer as his mouth worked you over with sinful precision. Every flick of his tongue, every suck at your sensitive flesh, had your thighs trembling around his head.
"That’s it," he muttered against you, his breath hot. "Let me hear you."
His fingers replaced his mouth for just a second, rubbing slow circles over your clit while he kissed up your stomach, his teeth grazing your hip bone.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice rough. "Tell me how bad you want it."
You could barely think, barely breathe, but the words tumbled out anyway, desperate, pleading.
"Leon—please—"
His smirk was wicked as he dipped his head back down.
The moment your plea left your lips, he doubled down, his tongue lashing at your clit in fast, ruthless strokes, his fingers spreading you wider, holding you open for him. His other hand gripped your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh, keeping you pinned beneath his mouth as you writhed.
"Fuck—Leon—!" Your back arched off the bed, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan against you. The vibration sent a shockwave of pleasure straight to your core, and you whimpered, your hips jerking uncontrollably.
He didn’t let up. If anything, he got meaner, sucking your clit between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue before circling it again, relentless, merciless. His moans spilled freely now, deep and ragged, muffled against your skin as if he couldn’t help himself.
"I know, baby," he growled between strokes, his voice wrecked, dripping with filthy praise. "I know. Let me hear you. Come on, give it to me."
You were so close, every nerve alight, your thighs shaking, your breath coming in sharp, broken gasps. His words, his touch, the way he worshipped you. It was too much.
"I—I’m gonna—!"
"Aw, fuck—you’re so good," he snarled, his fingers tightening on your thigh. "You’re so prefect. Come for me."
And just like that you shattered.
A broken cry tore from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you, white-hot and all-consuming. Leon didn’t slow, didn’t stop, he worked you through it, his tongue coaxing out every last shudder, every aftershock, until you were gasping, oversensitive, your hands weakly pushing at his head.
Only then did he pull back, lips glistening, his chest heaving. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his expression nothing short of ravenous as he licked his lips.
"Fuck," he breathed, voice rough. "You taste even better than I imagined."
And before you could even recover, he was crawling up your body, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his arousal grinding against your still-throbbing core.
The moment his lips crashed back into yours, you tasted yourself on his tongue, sweet, intoxicating, and a shudder ripped through you. His kiss was filthy, desperate, his teeth catching your bottom lip, his groan vibrating against your mouth as you arched beneath him.
When he pulled away, his eyes were ruined. Dark blue, almost black with need, his lashes low, his expression raw and pleading.
"Can I fuck you?"
His voice was wrecked, rough with desperation, his hips grinding down against yours in slow, torturous circles. The way he looked at you, like he’d die if you said no, like he was already halfway to losing his mind just from the feel of you, sent another bolt of heat straight to your core.
You swore you almost came again just from the way he begged.
A breathless laugh escaped you, your fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Yes, Mr. Kennedy," you teased, your voice trembling.
His answering smile was devastating. Half smirk, half snarl, before he claimed your mouth again, his tongue sliding against yours in a filthy promise of what was to come.
Then the sound of his belt unbuckling. The metallic clink of it hitting the floor. The rough drag of his zipper.
Your breath hitched as he shoved his trousers down just enough, his cock springing free, thick and heavy against your thigh. The heat of him was almost unbearable, the way his hips jerked forward instinctively, his tip dragging through your slick, making you both groan.
Leon’s hands were everywhere gripping your hips, sliding up your waist, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts as he positioned himself. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged, his entire body trembling with restraint.
"Tell me," he growled, his voice wrecked. "Tell me you’re sure."
You arched up, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I’m sure. Fuck me, Leon."
Leon moaned in relief, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated against your skin as he finally sank into you.
It had been so long for both of you that the stretch was almost overwhelming, the heat and pressure of him drawing twin gasps from your lips. He was thick, filling you in the best way, and for a moment, neither of you moved, just breathing, trembling, savouring the sensation of being connected.
"Fuck," Leon hissed under his breath, his forehead dropping to yours, his muscles taut with restraint. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks as you adjusted around him. "So fucking tight—Christ—"
You nodded, breathless, and he exhaled sharply before pulling back, just slightly, only to push in again, deeper this time. A broken moan tore from your throat, and Leon echoed it, his voice rough with pleasure.
"You feel so good," he groaned, his hips rolling in slow, deliberate thrusts, each one sending sparks of pleasure curling through your veins. His breath was hot against your lips, his body trembling with the effort of keeping his pace controlled. "Fuck—fuck—just like that—"
His hands were everywhere, rough and possessive, yet achingly tender, like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or ruin you. They slid up your waist, fingers splaying over your ribs, thumbs brushing the soft underside of your breasts in a slow, teasing drag that made your breath hitch. His grip tightened, fingers digging into the curve of your hips as he pulled you harder against him, steadying you as he began to move faster, deeper.
Every thrust was deliberate, punishing in its perfection.
The stretch of him inside you was intoxicating, the way his cock filled you so completely, hitting that sweet, aching spot with every snap of his hips. Your back arched off the bed, a desperate moan tearing from your throat as he angled himself just right, the thick ridge of him dragging against your walls in a way that made your vision blur.
"Fuck—Leon—" you gasped, nails raking down his back, feeling the muscles there flex as he drove into you.
His breath was hot against your neck, ragged and uneven, his lips brushing your skin between muttered curses. "So perfect” he growled, his voice wrecked, strained with the effort of holding back.
His rhythm was relentless, hips moving with a precision that betrayed his training, controlled, calculated, yet utterly feral. The slap of skin against skin, the way his thighs pressed against yours, the way his abs tensed with every thrust, it was too much, and yet you never wanted it to stop.
"Leon—!" you moaned out, nails raking down his shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core.
He growled in response, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more possessive. "You gonna come for me, Agent?" he whispered against your ear, his voice dark and wrecked. His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine.
You could barely think, barely breathe, just feel, every nerve alight with the pleasure he was giving you. "I'm so close—" you whined, your legs tightening around his waist, urging him deeper.
Leon tutted above you, his smirk audible in his voice. "I know, baby," he murmured, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that had you seeing stars. "I can feel it—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight—"
Your fingers dug into his biceps, his muscles flexing under your grip as he fucked you with relentless precision. And then his thumb found your clit, rubbing firm, deliberate circles that sent you hurtling toward the edge.
"That’s it," Leon growled, his voice raw with need. "Come on your rookie’s cock—fuck—let me feel it—"
You shattered with a cry, his name spilling from your lips as pleasure exploded through you, white-hot and all-consuming. Leon swore violently above you, his hips stuttering as your walls clenched around him.
"Fuck—fuck—you feel too good—" he groaned, his thrusts growing erratic before he buried himself deep with a final, shuddering groan, his release spilling into you.
You both collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, chests heaving, skin slick with sweat.
Leon’s weight pressed you into the mattress, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his climax. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin as he struggled to steady himself. You could feel his heartbeat, wild, pounding, where his chest met yours, the rhythm slowly easing into something deeper, slower.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. The only sounds were the slowing rhythm of your breaths and the occasional whisper of the sheets shifting as your bodies gradually relaxed. Leon’s weight was still draped over you not oppressive, just solid, grounding. His skin was warm and damp, his forehead resting lightly against your shoulder, breath brushing the curve of your neck. You could feel the faint twitch in his muscles as he came down from the high, his body still echoing the aftershocks of what had passed between you.
The room had gone quiet, but it wasn’t the kind of quiet that felt empty. It was full, filled with the unspoken, with the leftover heat of something that had barely cooled, with the awareness of his body next to yours and everything that meant.
You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer answers. Your hand moved absently across Leon’s back, the ridges of muscle beneath his skin familiar now, comforting in a way that unsettled you more than you wanted to admit. You weren’t someone who let your guard down easily. And yet, with him like this, so close, so exposed, you hadn’t built any walls at all.
Eventually, he shifted beside you, rolling onto his side. His breathing had slowed to something even and controlled, his eyes half-lidded but not asleep. You turned your head, studying him in the dim light, the mess of blonde hair sticking to his temple, the faint sheen of sweat along his jaw, the shadowed contours of someone who had spent his life walking through hell and still came out looking like this.
You opened your mouth, unsure of what you were even going to say, then closed it again. What were the right words for this moment? What would you even call it a mistake? A lapse in judgment? Or something else entirely?
But before you could dwell on it further, a yawn cracked through your chest. A wave of exhaustion pulled at your limbs, heavy and sudden, as if your body had only now been granted permission to rest. You sank back into the pillow, letting your muscles go slack beneath the sheets. Whatever this was, whatever came next, it could wait until morning. That was a problem for a more awake, more armoured version of yourself.
Just as your eyes began to drift shut, you felt it. The weight beside you shifted. Not a subtle stretch or a lazy repositioning, but a purposeful movement. The warmth that had been curled along your side began to fade, replaced by cool air and the quiet rustle of Leon moving away.
Your brow furrowed as your mind tried to catch up. You opened your eyes just in time to see him crouching at the foot of the bed, reaching for his shirt and pants that had been discarded in the tangle of your urgency. His back was to you, shoulders drawn tight, the silence around him suddenly brittle.
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, the sheet slipping just slightly from your chest, not that he was looking. The air between you felt different now, uncertain.
“Leon?”
He paused. The sound of your voice stopped him mid-motion. His hand lingered on his shirt, but he didn’t straighten up immediately. When he finally looked back at you, his expression was unreadable, not cold or distant, just carefully neutral, like he was bracing for something.
“What are you doing?” you asked softly, still groggy, but your voice had an edge you hadn’t meant to put there.
Leon’s eyes flicked from your face to your bare shoulders, then to the sheet you were holding against your chest. His mouth twitched slightly, almost like he was about to smirk, but didn’t quite make it.
“I was gonna let myself out,” he said, his voice low and casual. He stood slowly, shirt still in his hand. “Didn’t think you’d want me to stick around.”
The words hit harder than you’d expected. Not because he was wrong, but because it sounded like he’d already convinced himself this wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Like he thought that’s what you wanted.
You sat up straighter, the tension coiling in your chest now something sharp and uncertain.
“I thought maybe…” you hesitated, then forced yourself to meet his eyes. Your voice came out quieter this time, more hesitant than you liked. “You could stay the night.”
Leon stilled. Completely.
The shift in his posture was subtle, but you saw it, the drop of his shoulders, the way his jaw eased, like he was letting go of a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. His eyes searched your face for a moment, carefully, like he didn’t quite believe you.
“You want me to?” he asked, voice softer now, genuine.
You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You weren’t sure why it felt so vulnerable to say it, to admit you didn’t want him to leave, but it did. Still, you didn’t take it back.
“Yeah,” you said, quieter still. “I do.”
Leon looked at you for another long beat. And then, slowly, deliberately, he let the shirt slip from his fingers and fall back onto the chair. He crossed the room in a few silent steps, the tension in his body fading with every movement.
He didn’t make a joke. Didn’t flash that cocky smirk or deflect with sarcasm. He just slid into bed beside you, slow and careful, his warmth returning with him as the sheets shifted around your bodies.
You turned into him instinctively, and he welcomed the closeness, his arm curling around your waist. Your head found the space between his shoulder and chest, and you felt his hand, large, warm, steady, rest along the curve of your back.
And in that soft, suspended silence, wrapped in the faint scent of sweat and soap, your heart finally settled. This wasn’t the end. Not even close.
summary: You’ve been pining over the man next door for months. On a humid summer afternoon, the devil angel on your shoulder finally wins the argument. Between a batch of cookies and a blue sundress, you’re hoping for more than just a polite "thank you" at his front door.
warnings: age gap (reader mid-20s, leon 50), re9!leon, female reader, smut (vaginal sex, fingering, cowgirl, missionary), praise kink, mild dirty talk
pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader
word count: 7k
A/N: English isn’t my first language, so any constructive criticism is welcome!😭 Likes and reblogs are appreciated
This is stupid. But watching Leon pull his bike into the driveway next door, shoulders heavy with a kind of exhaustion that looked bone-deep, was the final push. He’s back from whatever "work" keeps him gone for months, and opportunities to see him when he isn't guarded or half-dead on his feet don’t come often. After months of pining over the older, quiet man, you finally have the nerve to act.
You stand in your neglected kitchen, squinting at a blog post on your phone. “Set the oven to…” you murmur, fumbling with the dial until it clicks. Flour coats your knuckles as you measure sugar and butter. The ceramic bowl skids across the counter, but you catch it just before it hits the floor. By the time you shaped the first cookies onto the tray, your hands were dusted in white, and the smell of dough filled the air. You slide the tray into the oven, heart racing at the thought of giving these to him.
The whole house smells like a warm bakery by the time you reach the wardrobe.
There it is—the blue sundress, still hanging exactly where you left it in the back. You reach for it before you can talk yourself out of it.
The silk slides easily over your hips, the fabric soft and light against your skin. Your reflection makes you pause. Yeah…he’s definitely going to notice this.
You settle for a lighter makeup look, adding more emphasis to your eyes. An approving hum slips from you as you study your reflection.
You gather your hair, letting it fall loosely before smoothing it down, just enough to make it sit the way you want. A few strands frame your face as you give yourself one last look.
The air in the kitchen is warm. You tuck the last of your things into your purse before stepping toward the oven. When you open it, the smell of fresh cookies rises up –sweet and inviting—and something in your chest loosens.
You take them out carefully, wrapping them into a container, your movements slower now, steadier.
With the cookies secured, you move back to your purse. You unzip it, glancing inside—phone, keys, everything still in place—then close it and sling the strap over your shoulder.
Outside, your skin tingles under the heat of the sun. The neighborhood’s quietness amplifies the sound of your steps, the fabric of the dress swishing against your legs. Your grip on the container tightens, palms slick as you near Leon's house. A stupid idea, you thought, scoffing.
Before you can hesitate further, you’re already on Leon’s front porch. With a deep inhale, your hold on the container loosens. Relax Y/N. Don’t overthink this. Wiping your free hand down your dress, you ring the doorbell and quickly retract it to your side.
Insecurity washes over you as the moment stretches on, and for a second you wonder if you should’ve just stayed home. Just as you start to wallow—
“Hey there.”
You look up—and there he is. Leon. Obnoxiously attractive as ever.
He’s clad in a long-sleeved compression shirt, completely unfitting for the summer heat. It clings to him, outlining his physique a little too well. Is that even his size?
And he smells—god, he smells incredible. Clean and warm, something woodsy underneath, like fresh soap and fabric that’s been sitting in the sun too long.
Your breath hitches as you catch yourself gawking like a creep. Your posture straightens unconsciously. Not trusting your voice yet, you lift a hand in an awkward wave, nearly dropping the plastic container in the process.
The container is pressed closer to your chest now. “Hi…Mr. Kennedy," your voice comes out breathless–way too breathless. God, you felt like a highschooler with a barely masked crush.
“How’s it going Y/n,” Leon’s voice draws you out of your thoughts and you try not to linger on the quiet warmth in it.
You cough. “Um, fine—really fine. How about you?” That last part comes out a little rushed.
“Not too bad,” Leon answers, a warm smile on his face.
Without overthinking, you hold out the cookies to him. “So uh..I think I underestimated the portion and made too much of these,” the deliberate lie slips out from you. “...And I thought, maybe you’d like some?”
Hmm, that was much less frightening than you thought it would be. Surprise flickers across Leon’s face, but he quickly masks it with a faint smile. He certainly hadn’t expected his next-door neighbor to show up at his door, somehow even prettier than he remembered. For a moment, he just takes in the sight of you before speaking.
“I really appreciate it, Y/n.”
A quiet hum leaves his lips as he takes the cookies from you, his expression softening. “These look really good,” he says, glancing back at you, “Thanks, again.”
Nodding, you reply, “It’s nothing.” Now that your hands have lost their anchor, you smooth them down your dress, hoping to hide just how nervous you feel.
Leon scratches the back of his neck, looking toward his apartment. He hesitates, then asks, “Do you… maybe want to come in? If it’s okay.”
You press your lips together, stifling the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Not wanting to make your excitement too obvious, you reply, “I don’t want to be a bother.” You’re secretly hoping he sees right through the bluff and insists on letting you in anyway.
He tilts his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “A bother? Not at all… I wouldn’t mind some company.”
“Okay—of course… I mean, yeah.” You groan internally at the sound of your voice, please stay home next time. Leon, however, doesn’t react to your flustered state, simply stepping aside to let you in.
The first thing you notice is how clean and quiet his place is. Light streams through the tall windows, hitting the pale floors and making the space feel bigger than it is. There’s barely any furniture, but it all feels effortless, like someone who uses what they need and nothing more.
Leon walks over to the kitchen, placing the cookies on the sleek marble countertops. His kitchen is immaculate, almost too neat. He gestures his hands towards the living room, “Please y/n, make yourself at home.”
You shift slightly, then reply, “Thanks,” moving to sit on the couch. You tuck your hands into your lap, hoping you don’t look as out of place as you feel. A half read book lies upside down on the coffee table, its pages slightly bent, like it had been abandoned mid-thought. You linger on it for a moment—then your gaze shifts, catching on the wilting flowers in the vase. The faint scent of their petals drifts to you, and after a pause, you clear your throat and glance at him.
“Mr. Kennedy,” you say, your words a little halting, “what do you usually get up to this time of year?”
He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Leon’s fine,” he says with a small smile. “And…well,” he hums for a moment, “not anything interesting if I'm being honest. Just, maybe picking up some old hobbies.”
You hum. “Makes sense… I should probably be more like you, Mr Kenne—uh, Leon.”
He raises an eyebrow, a small grin forming, “What, you mean boring and bad at cooking?”
You shake your head, a small laugh escaping. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just… I want to have more time for myself. My friends always drag me to every new event.”
Though you liked keeping busy, sometimes you just wanted a little space to do your own thing, and honestly, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be a little “boring” for once.
“Well… it’s good to have a balance of both,” Leon says, walking over to where you’re seated, “just don’t compare yourself to me—or to anyone else.”
You chuckle, looking up at him, “Thanks for the wisdom.”
He huffs out a laugh, “Don’t mention it,” a hint of amusement in his tone.
Leon’s eyes stay on you, calm and steady, and for a moment you can’t look away. Growing shy under his gaze, you look to the side, pretending the abstract painting on his wall is suddenly fascinating. Your stomach twists, a faint warmth creeping up your neck. Woman up Y/n — you didn’t come here to melt under his stare.
The quiet stretches, just enough for you to notice the soft ticking of the clock.
“…You look different today,” he says, breaking the silence.
“Different how?” you ask, looking back at him, trying to sound normal and failing miserably.
He shrugs slightly, but doesn’t look away, “Dressed up,” he says. “For cookies?”
Oh God. Abort mission. “I always dress like this,” you lie.
He steps a little closer, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you notice.
“Right,” he says, uncertainty laced in his tone.
“You don’t look convinced.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Maybe I’m not,” he says.
You let out a small, breathy laugh. “God, you’re making this really embarrassing for me.”
His expression shifts, softer now. “Wasn’t my intention,” he says quietly.
You take a deep breath in. “I just…” you start, then stop. God, say it.
You let out a small, nervous laugh, shaking your head. “Wow, this sounded a lot better in my head.”
Leon doesn’t interrupt this time, he just watches you, patiently, and that almost makes it worse.
“I didn’t come here just to give you cookies,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “I mean—I did, but not just for that.”
Your fingers twist together in your lap.
“I wanted an excuse to see you.”
There. It’s not everything, but it’s something? The silence that follows isn’t awkward, just, heavy.
Leon’s expression has changed again. Not teasing this time. Something more focused, like he’s actually seeing you now.
“…An excuse?” he repeats.
You nod quickly, heat rushing to your face. “Yeah. Because if I didn’t have one, I probably wouldn’t have come over at all.”
“Why not?”
You let out a breath, almost a huff. “Because you make me nervous.”
That earns you a quiet reaction, a small exhale, almost like a surprised laugh under his breath. “Do I?”
“Yes,” you say immediately, then wince at how fast that came out. “I mean—obviously. Look at you.”
The words slip out before you can stop them, and you pause, already regretting it. For a second, nothing happens. Then Leon lets out a quiet laugh, an actual one, not just the polite kind he usually gives.
“‘Look at me,’ huh?” he echoes.
You groan, covering your face for a second. “Can we pretend I didn’t say that?”
“No,” he says easily.
You peek at him through your fingers. He’s smiling, but there’s something else under it now. Something warmer and more interested. “…I’m glad you did,” he adds.
That makes your stomach flip, and you slowly lower your hands. The air between you feels different now, heavier and charged. Leon leans back a little, crossing his arms, but his gaze doesn’t leave you.
“So,” he says, tilting his head just a bit, “you baked too many cookies, dressed up, and came over… just for an excuse to see me.”
Your throat goes dry. “…Yeah.”
Silence settled between you again as Leon studies you for a moment.
He tilts his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Well,” he murmurs, voice cutting through the quiet, “I guess I better make it worth your trouble.”
No fucking way.
You huff out a laugh, trying to hide the deep flush on your cheeks. “How do you plan on doing that?”
His eyes darken slightly, amused, and he steps closer. One hand comes up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, then lingering on your cheek. You turn your face away, cheeks burning.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice low but teasing, “don’t look away from me now.”
“I’m not… I’m just…” You search the living room for a distraction. “Taking in the… architecture. It’s nice.”
Leon lets out a genuine laugh, the sound short and breathy. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”
You manage a small, awkward grin, shaking your head, “Hey… give me some credit, okay? It’s not easy coming up with a lie on the spot.”
Seeing the way your cheeks flush, Leon leans back slightly, just enough to tilt your face up with two fingers beneath your chin. “If it would make you more comfortable, then I’m as nervous as you are,” he murmurs softly.
You feel your eyes soften themselves, something Leon doesn’t miss. You reach out hesitantly, fingers gently wrapping around his hand.
“Is it because…,” you let the sentence trail off, not wanting to make false assumptions.
“I think you know why,” he says, voice quieter than you expected.
You bite your lip, fighting the urge to close the distance between you. His gaze drops to your lips—so quickly you almost miss it. A beat passes. Maybe two. You don’t realize how much closer you’ve gotten until the tip of your nose lightly brushes against his.
Before you can close the gap, Leon pulls back—just slightly. He exhales, unsteady, eyes closing as if he’s trying to think. He shakes his head once. Then he straightens.
“Fuck, I… I’m sorry Y/n, that was really out of line,” he says, a slight crack in his tone, lungs still breathless.
Your face scrunches up in confusion, did you do something wrong?
Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, voice tight and jittery. “You’re… you’re young, and I… I shouldn’t be doing this.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “God, I wasn’t thinking.”
You stay seated a heartbeat longer, cheeks warm, fingers twisting in your lap. Slowly, you push off the couch, letting the cushions sigh behind you. You rise carefully, testing yourself as much as him.
Leon glances up, startled. His eyes flick between your face and your hands, catching the way your fingers brush the edge of your dress. His shoulders tighten, a quiet tension coursing through him.
You take a tiny step closer, almost instinctively letting your fingertips brush against the edge of his arm. “I… um,” you murmur, voice a little shaky. “I’m not a kid. I… I wanted this.”
Your lips twitch into a nervous, fleeting smile. “The cookies, the dress,” you let out a shaky exhale before proceeding, “I thought… maybe you’d like them.” The words are quiet, almost hesitant.
Leon swallows hard, caught in between surprise and disbelief. He’s trying to process you, trying to understand.
Seeing the confused look on his face, you let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I think you know why a girl would go out of her way…to do all this,” you say, glancing up at him.
Feeling entirely too bold for your own good, you take his hand, placing it on your waist. “I know what I want Leon," you say, voice coming out lower than you intended. “But…if I misread this and you want nothing to do with me—then,” a shaky exhale falls from you. “Then I’ll leave.”
You couldn’t believe you just did that, not as someone who was never this direct. Either way, you weren’t going to waste any more of your time on someone who had no interest in you.
Leon blinks rapidly, his mouth falling open for a second before he snaps it shut. “I…” He trails off. “No—I… I do,” he admits, voice unsteady, though there’s a quiet certainty beneath it. He huffs out a breath of laughter, turning his head to the side. “God, I do want you. I want you so bad.”
Your breath hitches, caught off guard by the rawness in his voice.
“How could I not?” Leon’s voice is a low, tired rasp, and the grip on your waist finally firms up, pulling you flush against him. He huffs a short, dry laugh, his gaze dropping to your lips. “I’ve been trying not to want you, Y/N. Believe me. “But you’re… you’re genuine. Ambitious, kind, smart. You’ve got this energy I can’t even describe, and I’ve spent far too much time away thinking about it.” He shakes his head, his thumb grazing the skin just above your hip.
A small, almost shy smile tugs at your lips, and your heart skips a beat. You can feel the warmth of him pressed against you. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet between you heavy but charged. You glance up, catching his gaze, and it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.
Your fingers inch along his arm, tentative, lingering. He leans closer, his forehead almost brushing yours. You can feel your heartbeat in the quiet, each thump louder than the last.
Finally, you murmur, voice barely above a whisper:
“Kiss me.”
Leon’s breath catches. His lips hover near yours for a heartbeat, then slowly, deliberately, he closes the gap. The first brush of his lips against yours was soft, uncertain, almost like neither of you could comprehend that this was actually happening.
His lips are soft, so much softer than you thought they would be. The roughness of his stubble grazes your cheek, sending chills straight down your spine. Leon takes your hands, brushing over them softly before guiding them to rest at his nape.
Your lips curve into a smile against his, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. Leon coaxes your mouth open slowly with his tongue, a low groan slipping from him as he deepens the kiss. You sigh breathlessly, the taste of him intensifying and going straight to your head.
You slowly pull apart from the kiss, both a little breathless. Leon’s face is flushed, pupils blown so wide the blues of his irises are almost black.
“I’m tired of standing,” you murmur, your bottom lip softening into a pout.
“Yeah,” he rasps, voice unsteady, hands tightening as he walks you back toward the couch.
As Leon takes a seat, you decide to be bolder, climbing into his lap. A rush of adrenaline tingles through your body. His eyes widen a fraction, surprised by your sudden boldness—like the kiss has knocked something loose in you.
You shift in his lap, tentative at first, until you find a position that feels right. His hands slide to your waist, warm and certain, and the small reassurance of it steadies your nerves. Your breath catches as your eyes drop to his lips again. This time, you don’t hesitate — you lean in, closing the space between you.
Leon’s grip on your waist is still there, and you feel it begin to grow tighter as the kiss deepens. You adjust your weight in his lap, and the small movement pulls a sharp hiss from him. You quickly bite back the soft moan that nearly escapes you.
His tongue teasingly traces your bottom lip, the action making your grip on his shirt tighten. Of their own accord, your thighs begin to move against Leon’s lap, slow and unsteady. A low groan escapes him as his tongue nudges yours, parting your lips. Every brush of his tongue sends a jolt through you, heat pooling between your legs.
A soft moan slips from you as your heat presses perfectly against his growing bulge. You grind against his thigh, the friction impossibly right. Leon gasps—really gasps—before his hands drift downward to your ass, gripping firmly and urging you on.
Without warning, Leon pulls back from your lips, his face flushed, lips tinged red. He holds your gaze, voice low and rough. “You sure you want to go further?”
“Mhmm,” you murmur, cheeks warming, fingers twisting together. Your voice is quiet, a little shaky—but there’s a teasing edge. “I… I could do all the work… if you think you can keep up at your age.”
Your stomach tightens at your own boldness. You weren’t sure what you were getting yourself into. Leon looked… strong, capable, and completely unflinching, and just imagining what might come next makes your cheeks heat. Could you really keep up with him?
“Riiight,” he smirks, his gaze sharp. “Guess I’ll leave it to you then… ma’am.”
Your chest tightens. No, no! He was actually letting you take the lead? Oh… you were absolutely doomed.
A nervous cough escapes you, trying—and failing—to hide the quiver in your voice. “R-right then… buckle up, Leon” His terrible jokes were already rubbing off on you. Of course, Leon laughs, really laughs, and for a moment, his eyes crinkle at the corners, making him look younger, almost mischievous.
Leon rubs his hands against your upper thighs, eyes lidded. “If it’s fine with you… maybe we could go to my room?”
You bite your lip, heart skipping, and nod. “Yeah… let’s.”
He lifts you with ease, your thighs wrapping around his waist as your arms settle around his shoulders. Without breaking the moment, he turns and starts up the stairs, each step measured as he carries you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
With his foot, he nudges the bedroom door open and carries you inside. Your heart races, excitement bubbling through you. You hadn’t expected things to go this far, even though you’d worn the black lacy set in preparation–but now that they have, you’re not complaining.
Leon places you gently on the bed and takes a step back. His voice lowers, tinged with concern. “Last chance to back out… are you really su—”
Your cheeks heat, heart hammering. You bite your lip, words catching in your throat… then the need bursts out before you can stop it. “Leon… if you don’t—fuck me—right now… I swear I’ll die from frustration,” you whisper, voice trembling, almost pleading.
Leon huffs out a laugh at your boldness, the side of his mouth curving up into a slight smirk, “Demanding, are we?”
Growing increasingly impatient, you toy with the neckline of your dress, just enough to hint at the curve of your chest. Leon gulps, his eyes dropping to the flash of black lace peeking out from beneath the fabric. He steps closer, large hands settling on your waist, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your skin.
“Can I?” he murmurs.
You felt your face getting hot as you nodded and whispered back, “Yeah.”
His thumb drifts to the slit of your dress, tracing the smooth skin of your upper thigh. You bite back a soft mewl as his fingers gather the fabric, inching it slowly higher. Your breath catches as the material slides up, revealing more than it did before.
Finally tugging the dress over your head, his eyes rake over you, blue melting into molten as they take in the lacy black set you chose to wear. He leans in, curling a finger under your chin to tilt your face up. “You really had this planned out, huh?” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Your cheeks heat, and you press your hands to your face. “Stop…”
Leon reaches for your hands, lowering them gently. “Hey, hey… none of that,” he says softly, fingers brushing over yours. “There’s nothing to be shy about. I… really appreciate the effort.”
Something in your chest eases, a warmth spreading through you as your nerves settle slightly. Leon steps back, gaze steady on you as he pulls the navy shirt over his head.
Your eyes widen as you catch sight of him shirtless. You’d known he was big—his skin-tight shirts had done nothing to hide it—but seeing him like this… your gaze lingers on the solid expanse of his chest, shoulders, and arms, every inch impossibly thick and muscular.
Leon’s voice cuts through your ogling, “Why don’t you take a picture?”
The corny joke pulled out a breathy laugh from you, “You can’t be real,” you murmur, shaking your head.
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s pleased with himself. He leans in slowly this time, giving you a second to react, to pull away. You don’t.
His hands find your thighs, warm and steady, and when he kisses you again, it’s firmer—less teasing, more intent. The kiss deepens quickly, his tongue tracing your bottom lip. You part your lips without resistance, letting him in, a soft sound slipping from the back of your throat.
His thumbs press lightly against your abdomen, tracing a slow path upward toward your sternum. A soft, involuntary moan slips from your mouth, and his fingers linger there for a heartbeat, as if memorizing the curve of your body—before they begin to drift downward again, gliding over the gentle slope of your waist. They move lower, thighs clenching when his fingers brush against the delicate lace of your underwear.
Leon breaks away from the kiss, eyes filled with concern, “You ok?”
You catch your breath as he pulls back, heart racing. “Yeah… yeah, I just… haven’t done this in a while, and… I guess I’m just… more sensitive,” you breathe out, words trembling slightly.
He lets out a short laugh, eyes softening, “Yeah… uh, same here.”
You slowly release the tension in your thighs, letting your legs fall into a more open, relaxed position. Leon’s gaze drifts lower, catching on to the wet patch on your panties. He groans–quiet but hoarse, “Fuck you’re soaking.”
Then, his hand slides into your underwear, fingers feathering across your mound. A broken whimper falls from your lips, pussy clenching around nothing at all. Leon’s fingers move to your slit, slowly circling your entrance. The delicate trace has you shifting restlessly beneath him, desperate for more.
And then, after what feels like forever, he drags a single finger between your folds. It's just one finger, but it feels more than it should, your jaw unlocking and falling wide open.
You arch helplessly into his hand, chasing more. A sharp gasp escapes you as he adds a second finger, the stretch making your thighs quiver uncontrollably.
He settles into a deliberate rhythm, his thumb circling your clit with slow, measured circles.
“Oh fuck… Leon.”A low moan breaks from you, your toes curling against the sheets.
You shove your face into the sheets, hips jerking forward as he curls his fingers through your fluttering walls. Leon watches your face closely, noting every subtle reaction.
“That’s the spot?” He whispers, voice strained.
You nod against the sheets, feeling your vision going hazy at the edges. A loud, frantic moan slips past your teeth as his thumb speeds over your clit, the pressure just right. Immediately, your hand covers your mouth, attempting to bury any more moans that threaten to spill out.
“I want to hear you,” he says, his voice low and rough, “Let me hear you.”
Slowly, you lower your hand, resting it against your upper chest. His fingers plunge in and out of you, the pace quickening as he leans in. “Yeah… that’s a good girl,” he coos.
You clench hard around his fingers at the praise, a sharp gasp escaping. “Oh god, Leon—”
Leon’s eyebrows arch, his head tilting with a smirk. “You like that, huh?”
Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound catching in your throat as the friction becomes too much.
“Leon... I’m—I’m close,” you say hoarsely, legs shaking uncontrollably as you near your edge.
Leon looks down at you, his gaze dark and feral. “Yeah?” he goads, his pace turning ruthless, “Then don’t you dare hold back for me.”
All you can do is nod, eyes glittered with tears that threaten to spill over your lashes.
“Fuck! ‘Im gonna cum,” you whine pathetically, hardly breathing at this point. “Leon–oh god, m’ gonna–” you cry out, every thought burned away by the raw friction of his fingers.
“I know, I know,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “I’m right here. Do it for me, sweetheart.” He maintains a punishingly perfect pace that leaves no room for air.
Without warning, the sensation tips over the edge. Your breath dies in your throat as your cunt seizes around his hand. Everything goes white, your eyes stinging and wet.
Your back finally rests against the bed, chest heaving in a ragged rhythm. Leon tracks your shallow breaths, his gaze softening at your exhaustion. With agonizing slowness, he uncurls his nimble fingers and slides them from your slick, aching heat. A tiny, broken gasp leaves your lips as he retreats.
He leans over you, his thumb brushing away the stray strands of hair clinging to your damp forehead. “Good job,” he whispers, his voice a low, grounding rumble.
Usually, you’d flush and hide, but the intensity has left you with a daring, heavy-lidded buzz. Instead of shrinking away, you shift, propping yourself up on your elbows. The movement is slow, intentional, and entirely uncharacteristic of your usual shyness.
“Said I was gonna do all the work, right?” you whisper, your voice dropping into a sultry, confident edge as you look him dead in the eye. You offer him a playful, challenging smirk. “So lay back down, old man.”
Leon huffs out a laugh, shaking his head in amusement. “Alright, ma’am,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave as he plays along.
He settles back against the mattress, lacing his fingers behind his head to give you the floor. He looks entirely too comfortable, his gaze fixed on you with a heavy, hooded sort of expectation—like he’s just waiting to see if you can actually back up the talk.
Smug bastard.
“Ready when you are,” he groans, the corner of his lip twitching up into a lazy, lopsided smirk.
Oh, you are definitely going to wipe that look off his face.
Slowly, you push off your elbows, your weight shifting as you crawl over him until you're straddling his abdomen. You settle there, staying just high enough to keep him waiting.
Leon’s eyes go dark, his breath hitching as you press down against the hard ridges of his abs. You reach back, the muscles of your arms tensing as you fumble with the clasp of your bra.
The moment the metal clicks, the air leaves Leon’s lungs in a low, shaky exhale. The smugness finally fractures, his jaw tightening as he stares up at you, his composure stripped away as your bra falls from your chest.
His gaze drops from your face, tracking the movement with a heavy, unblinking focus, his mouth hanging open slightly as any witty retorts are seemingly scorched from his mind. “Fuck... you’re so beautiful, you know that?” he whispers, his voice strained and barely audible in the quiet of the room.
Your neck flushes at the compliment—as if he’s one to talk. Leon’s hands slide down your sides to find your waist, his grip firm as his fingers drift lower, grazing the edge of your lace.
You slightly lift your hips up, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear. With a slow, deliberate motion, you slide them down your legs, leaving a faint, shimmering trail of wetness clinging to the soft fabric.
You’re fully naked above him, skin gleaming in the dim light. Leon doesn’t know where to fix his gaze—your face, the curve of your chest, or the heat where your mound presses against his abs. He looks utterly entranced, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. Your fingers drift down to toy with the waistband of his jeans, a silent question in your touch.
"Can I?" you whisper.
He nods, his breath hitching in anticipation.
You make quick work of the zipper on his jeans. You’re impatient as you unbutton them and shove the denim down, leaving him in nothing but boxers. You swallow hard; you’d felt how big he was, but seeing the heavy bulge up close like this sends a fresh spike of heat through you.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and peel them away, dragging them down his legs with excruciating slowness. You toss them aside, and your gaze remains fixed, eyes immediately locked on his cock. The air between you goes heavy as you take him in, every inch of him finally exposed.
You swallow, blinking dazedly as you take in the length and thickness. It’s huge. The tip is flushed dark, already leaking slightly. It’s rock solid, twitching with every breath he takes. You don’t think your hand could even close all the way around it.
You cough, a desperate attempt to swallow your obvious fluster. “Wow, can still get it up, old man?” you say, feigning confidence—yet your voice lacks any real stability.
Leon chuckles, low and dark, “You’re bluffing.”
You roll your eyes playfully, thighs squeezing firmly around his hips to regain control. “Whatever, just—put it in,” you scoffed, trying to hide the fact that your heart was racing.
“Change of plans? I thought you were gonna handle this part yourself,” he drawls, mocking you with that lazy, arrogant smirk.
Your eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine then,” you challenge.
You reach down to circle the base of his length; the sudden contact makes him twitch, reacting instinctively to your grip. Slowly, your hand slides along his shaft, grip tightening slightly. Leon’s hips jerk up into your palm, a low groan escaping him at the weight of your touch.
Suddenly, you bite your lip, the heat in the room momentarily chilled by a realization. "Leon, wait," you whisper, your movements faltering. "I just realized… do you have protection?
Leon doesn't even blink. He just reaches out, his large hand covering yours for a brief second before gesturing blindly toward the mahogany nightstand. "Top drawer," he rasps, his voice a low, rough command. "Back corner."
You pause, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you reach over and slide the heavy drawer open. You have to push aside a fountain pen and a stack of printed documents just to find the small, foil square.
The wrapper glints under the dim light as you catch the edge between your teeth; with a sharp tug, you tear it open and spit the scrap of foil aside, your eyes locked onto his the entire time.
You place the condom against the head of his cock, still flushed and leaking. With careful movements, you slowly roll it down the length of him. Your fingers faintly brush against the soft skin on the base of his cock, and leon hisses through his teeth, his grip on your waist tightening.
You rise up on your knees, reaching between you to grab his cock. Carefully, you guide him to your entrance, thighs spread wider in hopes that you can accommodate his size. The leaking head of his cock meets your soaked slit, and it’s electric.
Finally, you start descending on him. The head of his cock pushes past your entrance, and the second it slips past your folds, you let out a muffled gasp. There’s no way he was going to fit.
“Leon,” you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as you lower yourself further.
Leon’s warm hands rub against the soft skin of your waist. “Easy, baby... take your time,” Leon says, his voice thick and strained.
You bite at your lip, thighs quivering as you lower inch after inch, your wetness making it easier to adjust to his length. You let out a ragged gasp as you finally take all of him, walls fluttering uncontrollably around his cock.
“F-fuck... don’t do that if you want me to last,” he says, his voice strained and desperate as he grips your hips.
You stay still for a few seconds, breath catching as you look down at where you’re connected. The sight is visceral, almost sinful.
Leon’s hands are steady on your waist, but his knuckles are white. He’s watching you with a heavy, hooded gaze. "There you go," he rasps, his voice strained as he tries to keep his own breathing under control. "Just breathe, baby. I've got you."
Slowly, you sink back up, the friction a slow burn that makes your head spin, before you slide all the way down again. The moan you let out is raw, and it hits Leon like a physical blow. His eyes snap shut and his head thumps back against the pillow, a wrecked "Fuck..." escaping his lips.
“You’re so warm,” he groans, his fingers digging slightly into your hips to keep himself from bucking up. “Keep that pace... just like that.”
You start to grind against him, a slow, heavy rotation. Your breasts move with the rhythm, and Leon opens his eyes, looking completely hypnotized. His hands leave your waist to grope them, his palms heavy and hot as he squeezes, his thumbs catching your nipples with every downward move.
"Look at you," he rasps, his composure starting to fray as he watches you work. "You're perfect."
Your head tilts back, your throat exposed as the pleasure starts to override his instructions. Your pace increases instinctively, the slow grind turning into a frantic, driving heat. Leon doesn't stop you anymore; he just grips your chest tighter, his breath coming in ragged, desperate hitches as he watches you take control.
Then, your legs give out. The muscles in your thighs begin to shake violently, and your movements turn sloppy. The burn becomes too much to handle, forcing you to a shaky, frustrated stop. You slump against him, your legs still twitching from the effort.
"Leon," you pant, "I—I can’t. My legs..."
Leon tries to smirk, but it’s more of a strained pull of his lips, his face flushed and damp with sweat. “Thought... thought you said you were going to do... all the work, baby,” he teases, the words coming out in short, breathless hitches.
You pout at him, your own exhaustion making your eyes watery, and Leon saves you the embarrassment of trying to continue. He lets out a low, shaky exhale, his grip on your hips tightening as he takes over. He begins moving you again, his movements heavy and uncoordinated but determined.
Suddenly, he grunts, using the last of his strength to hook an arm around your waist. He flips y’all on the bed, the world blurring until your body is splayed out beneath him. He collapses into the space between your thighs, his arms shaking as he props himself up. His eyes are dark, completely blown out as he looks down at you, and he begins to move inside you with a desperate, driving force that tells you he’s just as close to the edge as you are.
The new position made you feel him even deeper inside you. Your pussy pulsed around him while he drove his hips forward in a faster, more urgent rhythm.
“Leon–Leon, Leon, Leon!” your voice is gone, barely recognisable as yours.
“Jesus, sweetheart—” he groans, his head dropping to the crook of your neck, his voice sounding absolutely wrecked. “You’re tight as fuck. God.”
The walls of your pussy clamp down, forcing a loud, guttural groan from him.
Leon lets out a breathless, wrecked laugh against the sensitive skin of your neck. “Fuck, you really don’t want me to last, do you? You’re trying to ruin me.”
He lets out a sinful, low-bellied groan when you shift just right, the vibration of it making your pussy clench hard in response. You don't let up—you do it again, clamping down on his cock with everything you’ve got, forcing a raw, unfiltered moan out of him that echoes in your ear.
“You’re evil,” he chuckles breathlessly, his teeth grazing your shoulder before he sucks a bruise into your skin. “Taking every fucking inch of me and still asking for more.”
His hips drive upward in a faster, more desperate rhythm, chasing the friction that’s coiling tighter and tighter in your gut. “Leon, m’ gonna—m’ gonna cum, I’m—"
“I know, baby, I know,” he whispers, his voice strained and thick with his own need as he catches your frantic rhythm. “Just like that. Take it all. Come for me.”
A few more heavy, wet strokes and you finally come undone, your walls spasming around him in a breathless, shaking mess. Leon follows only seconds later, a low growl ripping from his throat as he thrusts deep one last time, his body locking up as he spends himself, buried as far as he can go.
He stays buried inside you for a long moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as his breathing comes in heavy, ragged hitches. The room is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath.
Eventually, the stillness breaks as he shifts his weight, easing up on his elbows just enough to look at you.
You swallow, then murmur, “T-that was…” your voice still a little airy.
“I know,” he murmurs, a faint huff of breath following the words.
Leon pushes himself up from your body, his movements slow and deliberate. “Need to clean you up,” he says, though his eyes haven't quite lost their heat.
As he stands, the sudden chill makes you bold, and you can’t resist teasing him one more time. “I was hoping for round two,” you say, letting your gaze linger, “but then I remembered you’re…”
The insinuation hangs in the air, obvious and biting. The dark look Leon gives you makes your thighs clench together. A slow, dangerous smirk tugs at his lips, and you realize you’ve just handed him the perfect excuse to prove you wrong.
You and Leon Kennedy collide like stars—over and over and over again. It is as devastating as it is inevitable, and maybe there is some comfort in knowing that you will always find your way back to each other.
A slightly canon-divergent retelling of the events of the Resident Evil series. Each chapter focuses on a different game/movie in the series with little interludes sprinkled in between.
Author's Note: wowowow - here's the first installment of my leon kennedy series. hope y'all enjoy a little re2 leon!
Summary: A cop and a doctor meeting during a zombie apocalypse... is probably a better setup for a joke than you care to admit.
Word Count: 27.1k
Content: 18+, smut, re2!leon, doctor!reader, angst, gore, mentions of past child abuse, allusions to suicide, medical inaccuracies, rookie leon is too good for this world, reader has a savior complex, jill & carlos are also here, yearning yearning and more yearning, they're very cute and i love them, leon is whimpering (OBVIOUSLY), unprotected p in v sex, cum eating, oral (f!receiving), lowkey breeding kink you already know, no use of y/n
To Read on AO3
Masterlist - Series Masterlist
Tag List: @aspinny @rjreins (let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series!)
You just want to help.
It's one of the earliest sentiments you remember settling firmly into the confines of your heart.
You're five years old, clumsily putting a Band-Aid on your little brother's scraped knee, cooing comfortingly at him as fat tears roll down his cheeks, sobs hiccuping out of him. When he finally calms down, you kiss his knee and loudly declare it all better—he giggles, which only encourages you to tickle his sides, peals of laughter echoing in the air, pain long forgotten.
You're nine years old, sitting in the nurse's office at school because your dad forgot to sign your field trip form, and they have nowhere else to put you. The school nurse is kind, and as you help her restock her cabinets and drawers with various medical supplies, she patiently answers all of your questions about them. She even lets you take her temperature, teaching you how the thermometer works, and lets you listen to her heartbeat with her stethoscope.
You're fourteen years old, and it's so late that even the crickets in the grass have fallen silent for the night, but you're sitting on the sidewalk beside your friend, arms wrapped around her as she cries. She's inconsolable, and you don't know how to help her except to keep her close against you while you whisper 'it's okay' over and over—it's not enough, and this is the last time you'll hear her voice, and the smell of cucumber melon body spray still makes you think of her.
You're seventeen years old, meticulously organizing your father's medicine while he sits in the old, worn-out recliner that stinks of tobacco. You carefully step around the oxygen tank on the floor beside him and hand him the small container of pills. He takes it with a wheezing cough, snubbing out the cigarette pinched between his fingers, which is smoked down to the filter into the already full ashtray. After sending your brother off to school, you begin the long trek to campus, a day of labs and clinicals ahead of you.
You're twenty-two years old, and you've just lost your first patient. The flatline of the heart rate monitor rings through your jaw—sweat pools at your brow, your arms ache from how long you'd been giving compressions, all while praying to a god you once believed in for just this one mercy. The little girl's parents are hysterical, begging you to keep trying, but your attending simply shakes his head, grief heavy on his face as he announces the time of death. You hold yourself together just long enough to stumble into the bathroom, soft gasps escaping as you struggle to breathe, your vision blurred by tears in your eyes. Ten minutes—that's how long you permit yourself to stay curled up on the bathroom stall floor, your body convulsing as you sob.
It's longer than you've ever allowed yourself to mourn your father.
You're twenty-three years old, and you're sure you're the last person alive in Spencer Memorial Hospital. You've been barricaded in the Emergency Department's breakroom for three days, and the muffled shuffling of the undead through the halls outside is not something you've gotten used to—the hairs on your body stand on end every time you hear them. Whatever is scurrying around in the vents hasn't managed to get past the vending machine you've placed in front of it, not that they haven't tried—and you think they're getting... bigger.
The thought that you're going to die here crosses your mind more and more often. You remember Dr. McKay, with her kind eyes still so vivid even as she wrung her hands in worry. "Why don't you leave, hun?" she suggested when evacuation efforts first began three days ago. She saw the warning signs before most people realized that whatever this was, there was no coming back from it.
You should have listened to her gentle urging, but you wanted to help, so you stayed—even as the ER was overwhelmed, even as patients died and came back to life, even as everyone around you was attacked or turned. You stayed because this is where you could help; now there’s no one left to save, only you and that stupid CPR mannequin propped at the table, which you and a few other residents dressed up for Halloween, the cartoony zombie mask placed haphazardly over its face mocking you.
Your watch beeps, reminding you to eat. Time passes in strange bursts here—when the air is quiet, and there's no terrible moaning from the halls, you can almost pretend that the world outside these four walls isn't so awful. But when the vents start rattling, and you hear the wheezing breath outside the door, time seems to crawl.
Clicking the button on the side of your watch, you blink back tears as you bite into a tasteless granola bar. Your brother gave you this watch when you graduated—he saved up money from that crappy bag boy job he worked during school breaks for two whole years.
"I'm really proud of you," he told you as he handed you the box in Christmas wrapping paper while you were both curled up on opposite sides of your shitty couch in your shitty apartment. Meanwhile, your other classmates, much older than you, were out at swanky celebratory dinners with their families. You and your brother, however, returned home to enjoy a feast of mediocre pizza and wings. "Fancy title needs a fancy watch."
Your lip quivers, and you breathe out a huff through your nose, mad at the sting in your sinuses and the way your throat constricts. It's not fair, you think. You just wanted to help people, and now you won't even get to say goodbye to your brother. The thought turns bitter as you grit your teeth, fists clenched in the pant legs of your scrubs, knuckles turning white. Your stupid, fucking father got two extra years he shouldn't have had, spent smoking and drinking—he got to say goodbye, going out far more peacefully than he ever deserved with you and your brother at his side, but you?
You're going to die here—alone.
Leaning your head back, it hits the wall you're sitting against with a faint thud, and you stare up at the speckled drop ceiling with tears welling up at your waterline. Resolutely, your eyes close, inhaling slowly, ignoring the way your chest caves in with acceptance.
"You just gonna lay there and take it, girl?" Your father's hoarse, scathing voice repeats in your ears, a memory stained by bruises and tasting of blood, and your eyes snap open, a gasp leaving your lips as a defiant fire sparks in your veins.
"Shut up," you spit out at his ghost.
You're on your feet in the next instant, a plan forming as you tear through the cabinets; you find an old backpack, probably from a previous resident, buried in the back of one. It's quickly filled with everything useful you can find—snacks from the vending machine you'd broken open when you first got trapped here, all the items in the first aid kit hanging on the wall, and any other medical supplies you can scrounge up. There's not much here you can use for defense, but you take what you can—some dull knives, a pair of hefty metal scissors, all better than nothing.
It takes longer than you want to admit to gather your nerve, ear pressed to the door, waiting for the telltale shuffling to disappear down the hall before you slowly and as quietly as possible move the filing cabinet that you pushed in front of it after being separated from your coworkers and narrowly escaping the snapping jaws of the undead. Every scrape of the metal against the linoleum floor makes you wince, listening carefully to see if anyone—or anything—heard you.
When it's finally out of the way, you swallow hard and take a deep breath before opening the door and peeking out. It's empty and dark—the chaos of the past few days is evident in the mess left behind. Gurneys are overturned and propped against partitions, blocking certain hallways where the undead are plentiful. Broken viewing windows into rooms have left glass splintered across the floor, which is covered in bloodied footprints and drag marks. The sterile hospital smell mixes with the stench of death—it's enough to make your stomach turn, but you've smelled far worse.
You're mindful of where you step, avoiding the broken glass and doing your best not to step into any blood puddles—more for your own sanity than anything else—while gripping a knife tightly, ready to defend yourself if needed. Body bags are lined up all around—the morgue stopped bringing them down shortly after the hospital became overwhelmed—and some are oddly shaped, as if the occupant had undergone some kind of transformation. They aren't moving, but you give them a wide berth anyway, not trusting that the dead are truly gone.
The path you need to follow is imprinted in your mind—you've strolled through these halls nearly every day for the past two years, and you hope that's enough to get you out. You stay low, ducking beneath windows where you hear the groans of zombies from inside rooms you pass, with your heart pounding in your chest the entire time. It's an arduous crawl, hiding behind caddies to avoid the shambling undead, while trying to calm your breathing and steady the tremor in your hands. You grab what you can along the way—a roll of gauze, a scalpel, some antiseptic.
You stop instantly when you hear a clatter in the hall ahead, heavy footsteps approaching. It's different from the shuffling of the normal infected—it's purposeful, and it's large. You slide your ID card through the reader to access the room next to you and step inside before you can second-guess yourself. The soft click of the door latch makes you flinch, but you keep moving, turning around, and slipping through what you realize is the filing room until you round one of the stacks and spot a figure standing there.
You recognize her—she's one of the clerks, Paulette. Her breath is coming out in painful wheezes, the veins in her arms are blackened, and necrosis is eating away at her skin. She's not facing you, just standing idly at one of the cabinets as if she'd been in the middle of filing away paperwork when she turned. Your face scrunches up with anguish, twisting the knife by its handle a few times in your palm. You can hear the footsteps in the hall, closer now.
You couldn't risk her alerting the creature to your presence.
Quietly—and assuredly—you step behind her and drive the dull knife straight into her skull. She emits a strangled, raspy sound—something animalistic and sad—and you catch her body before she can collapse, lowering her silently to the ground, but you keep your knee on her back, still gripping the handle of the knife, waiting to find out if you've delivered a lethal strike, aware of how resistant the infection makes them.
You hold your breath for one, two, three beats—and on the fourth, you exhale shakily. Sitting back onto the floor, you rest against the end of a filing cabinet—ears keenly listening for the monster while staring at Paulette's pale, sunken cheeks—her milky-colored eyes are blank and unmoving, but you still feel like they're staring straight at you.
The footsteps pass by the room, and you steal a quick glance from your hiding spot—you're not quite sure what you're seeing through the window. Maybe some kind of amphibious creature standing on its hind legs, with dark green, mottled skin that glistens in the faint emergency lighting. It has humanoid hands with long, curved claws that could easily skewer you. Sharp teeth line its maw, and it doesn't seem to have eyes—at least none you can discern—but it appears unaware of you, simply moving on before vanishing from sight.
If that is one of the things that were in the vents, they've definitely gotten bigger, you think anxiously.
Relaxing just a bit, your gaze drifts back to Paulette, instinctively focusing on her left hand where a simple, pretty engagement ring rests—she was supposed to get married next month. She was so excited for an autumn wedding—told you how she had it all planned out since she was a girl, hoping the leaves would change color in time because it would be so beautiful in the photos.
Your face crumbles, chin wobbling as tears blur your vision. "Fuck," you whimper, jamming your palms into your eyes as your teeth clench together.
You don't allow yourself to linger, so you count to twenty in your head before moving, abandoning your knife because you can't bring yourself to pry it from Paulette's skull. Instead, you arm yourself with surgical scissors you snapped up from a medical cart. The muscles in your legs burn from staying so low as you creep through the halls, a thin sheen of sweat forming on your skin that you only notice when it stings the corners of your eyes.
By the time you reach reception, there's a brief flicker of hope that you'll be able to do this. It's a straight shot from here to the lobby. You want to just run; you could be at the entrance in less than thirty seconds if you did, but you don't.
Impatience gets you killed, you remind yourself. You can't afford to be stupid.
Bodies are strewn across the floor, the fluorescent hum of a vending machine filters through the air, bathing the dark room in a ghostly blue glow. You move cautiously, stepping around the corpses, eyes alert for even the faintest twitch of a finger, but it's a groan from behind the desk that draws your attention. You hurriedly duck down, wedging against the cold surface of the front of the reception desk, listening as the zombie shuffles around, eyes scrunching closed in a grimace when you hear it knocking things over.
Still, you keep moving as quietly as you can, heart climbing higher and higher into your throat with every gurgled noise. So worried about not alerting the one behind the desk, you don't even see the body you're skirting by begin to writhe.
A gasp lodges in the back of your throat as a hand clenches around your ankle, yanking you to the floor. Instinctively, you kick with your free foot, smashing the zombie's nose—it's one of the security guards, Daniel was his name. He always said good morning to you, even when you were coming in for the night shift, as he was leaving for the day.
"Shit, shit," you heave, chest tightening, as you try to wrench yourself from his grip while avoiding the snapping jaws. "Let go!" With one final kick, you manage to dislodge yourself from its iron grip, scrambling away as you hear clanging from behind the desk.
You're unsteady on your feet as you see the other undead shamble toward you. Jamming a nearby wheelchair into the opening between the wall and the desk, you buy yourself only a little time as it begins to climb over the counter, while the one who grabbed you struggles to stand.
"Fuck," you breathe out as you turn on your heel and run, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floors as you push through the door to the corridor that leads to the lobby with a bang. You can hear the zombies chasing after you, and above, you hear something big moving, as if tracking you through the ceiling.
Once you breach the double doors at the other end of the hall, you slide across the ground, scurrying under the desk, pressing yourself against the cool metal of the filing cabinet beneath it as something crashes through the ceiling. You can hear the spark of the overhead lights as the bulbs crack, shattering across the floor. The ceiling tiles crumble as they hit the ground, and the ventilation falls with them.
Hefty footsteps stomp across the floor.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
It stands right in front of the desk you're curled up under. You clutch a trembling hand to your mouth, afraid your panicked breath will betray you, while your other hand grips the scissors tightly, worried they'll slip from the sweat gathering in your palms.
You feel faint and lightheaded, your heart pounding against your ears, as every muscle in your body tenses tightly. Fear strips you down to the basics—survival. As the other undead burst through the door you just stumbled through, you retreat further, a chill crawling up your spine. The larger beast chitters a monstrous noise, teeth clicking together, claws scraping against the top of the desk just above your head.
Dread weighs down on you, quietly urging the creature to go away, to just leave. You can hear the other undead circle around the lobby, wandering aimlessly now that their target is no longer in view, as if they'd forgotten about you—but this one seems more intelligent than that.
Then, as if some higher power finally decides to show mercy, you listen as the thud, thud, thud of footsteps walk to the double doors leading back to reception, which swing open with a bang that makes you flinch. Then, you hear them fading down the hall, deeper into the horrors of the hospital.
You don't move immediately—your body unravels slowly. The hand covering your mouth lowers, and you realize you probably have little crescent-shaped indentations in your cheek from how hard your fingernails dug into your skin. Your shoulders relax, no longer tense all the way up to your ears. Then, carefully, you crawl out from under the desk, peeking over the edge to figure out where the other two undead went.
One seems to have found interest in the vending machine near the opposite end of the desk, staring blankly into the light as if the phosphorescence is whispering secrets to him. The other is aimlessly shuffling along among the turned-over chairs.
Your gaze flicks to the exit—the way is clear, you realize. You see the outside. It's right there, just twenty feet away.
Still, apprehension grows inside you. This is just the start. You have no idea what the rest of the city is like—the last you heard, the bridge out was closed to maintain a quarantine zone. You'd have to find another way. It almost feels like you're at a disadvantage. Spencer Memorial has been your only world for the past five days, with no thought given to what was happening elsewhere. You couldn't afford to think about it; you needed to focus on what was right in front of you, what you could control, which was trying to save anyone who came into the Emergency Room—though, in the end, it doesn't seem to matter.
The fear of the unknown taunts you just beyond those double doors, but you've made it this far—you just need to go a little farther now.
You tread steadily, and then you're free—the cool early autumn air soothes your sweat-soaked skin like a healing balm. With the hospital at your back, you look ahead. The sun starts to rise, peeking up at the horizon through the buildings. The smell of smoke fills your nose, but the streets are quiet, as if the city tucked in for the night; no doubt it will start to wake soon.
Checking your watch, you see the date: September 29th.
You've made it through another day.
Heaving your backpack onto your shoulder, you step forward into Raccoon City.
It's chaos—as you creep through the streets, you think you might have been lucky to be stuck in the hospital during the initial outbreak. Entire blocks of the city have been cordoned off; cars flipped over and abandoned, windows in storefronts broken out, blood and viscera splattered all around. You pass so many bodies in the streets, you're sure there can't be more than a handful of people left, if any. Undead lumber around in constant hoards that are easy enough to avoid, but that doesn't stop the trepidation from settling into your stomach whenever you're sneaking past them.
You navigate around blockades, darting through alleyways while praying you won't hit a dead end. You know the route to the Raccoon City Police Department—it's the first place that comes to mind. If luck is on your side, there might be a few police officers still alive, handling evacuation efforts. If not… well, hopefully there are at least some weapons inside.
It's another slow crawl. It takes you three hours just to reach the plaza, and you're struck by how bizarre the scene before you is—like some kind of firefight took place. The few cars scattered around are still smoldering, and scorch marks are everywhere, as if someone used heavy artillery.
You're trying to avoid it, nervous about the open space, when you clock a figure lying at the end of one of the alleys. You almost keep walking, thinking it's just another body, but for some reason, your eyes stay on it a little longer than necessary, and that's when you see the steady rise and fall of the chest.
They're alive.
There's no second-guessing as you run toward them, your feet pounding against the ground, knees buckling as you instinctively place a finger on the throat, searching for a pulse. That's when you realize you know this person.
"Jill," you gasp. Her pulse is weak at best, but it's better than nothing. You grab your penlight from the front pocket of your scrubs, pulling an eyelid open to check her pupils. That's when you notice the wound on her arm and the way her veins are starting to blacken around it. "Fuck."
You should leave her here—the way the infection progresses is so clear in your mind. You've watched patient after patient go through it over the past few days. She has at most half a day before she starts chomping at the bit, trying to bite chunks out of any still-breathing sad sack nearby.
It would be stupid to allow that to be you.
But this is Jill.
You met her as an intern. She and another S.T.A.R.S. team member, Chris Redfield, were brought into the Emergency Department after sustaining injuries during a mission—gunshots to the lower extremities. Nothing life-threatening, and as a result, you were assigned to treat her injuries. You were so nervous that even with a resident watching, you stuttered out questions and walked her through each step you were taking—as if it was for her comfort, not just yours.
She was so kind, even as your eyes narrowed with wariness when she asked how old you were. "That's impressive," she said with a smile when you told her, and there was no hint of ridicule.
A month later, she got carted in with a stab wound. You think that's when the two of you became friends. You're not naive enough to think you were terribly close, but you'd get drinks every so often when your abysmal schedules lined up. Sometimes she'd stop in to the E.R. when she knew you were on shift, and you'd visit her at the R.P.D. a few times to get lunch together.
She'd been the only friend you'd managed to make in Raccoon City.
You grasp the sides of her face, slapping her cheek lightly. "Jill," you whisper. "Jill, you need to wake up."
Her brows furrow, eyes only opening a fraction, but they slide up to you, and she breathes out your name like it's a question.
"Yeah, it's me," you confirm gently with a tight smile. "We gotta get you up." You don't give her an option, hauling her into a sitting position, ignoring the way she groans as you sling her arm around your neck, lifting her up off the ground. "Can you walk?" you ask, already knowing the answer.
She manages a shake of her head, and you take a deep breath before maneuvering her onto your back after switching around your backpack. Adrenaline still seems to be coursing through your veins because you hoist her dead weight up relatively easily, despite how tired you know your legs—and the rest of your body—are.
As you adjust your grip, you start moving.
You don't know where you can go. You don't know what you can do.
You just know you can't leave her here.
"I got you," you murmur, taking one step after another. You hear her breath slow as she no doubt falls unconscious again.
You could take her back to the hospital, maybe there's still a dose of the vaccine topside—you swallow thickly. The immunology team was working on the vaccine as soon as it became obvious you were dealing with some sort of infection, and they were going to vaccinate the staff once it was ready, but—
You sigh heavily.
It would be a long shot just to get her back to the hospital, never mind finding a sample of the vaccine, if there was even one left.
"Hey!" a voice calls out.
It startles you, and you swing around, putting yourself between whoever it is and Jill. It's a man in tactical gear, gun pointed toward you. Your eyes widen, and you hold Jill tighter to you. You push down the panic bubbling up in your throat—it's not the first time you've stared down the barrel of a gun.
You study him intently; he's tall with dark hair falling into dark eyes, and the signature Umbrella logo on his arm. It doesn't bring you any comfort; if anything, it only makes you more nervous.
Still, he looks at Jill as if he knows her, but you're hesitant to feel any sort of ease. You've heard some rumors about the R.P.D., with most of the S.T.A.R.S. team, including Jill, being suspended, but you haven't seen her in the past few weeks to ask her about it. What would she be doing tangling up with Umbrella mercenaries?
"Where are you going with her?" he asks, and he pauses, eyes narrowing as he takes in your appearance for the first time—your bloodstained scrubs and the fierce tint in your tired eyes. "Are you a nurse?"
"Doctor," you correct in a clipped tone. "She's infected, I'm—" You pause.
What were you doing?
"She doesn't have long."
His expression twists up with distress as he lowers his gun. "The hospital," he says. "We can take her there. They have a vaccine, you must kno—."
You glower. "How do you know that?"
"I spoke to one of the doctors there—Dr. Bard," he replies.
Blinking, your scowl only deepens. Dr. Bard is one of the immunologists and the hospital's director—one of the most odious men you've ever had the misfortune of meeting. He'd disappeared before you got separated from the rest of your coworkers—you thought he was dead. You thought everyone else was dead, but—
"You know her, don't you?" he asks suddenly, as if the protective way you've positioned her and the sad slant to your eyes suggest she's more than just a random stranger to you.
"Yes," you answer, not seeing a reason to lie.
"If I bring Jill there, I could find the vaccine—I could save her," he insists.
You're a good judge of character—or at least you think you are. You study his face and the sincerity in his eyes—the determined set of his jaw. For a moment, your edge softens. He's definitely more than capable of handling the monsters crawling around the hospital, judging by the gun in his hands and the rest of his arsenal.
"It's overrun," you say, but it's not to deter him. "There are these… creatures, not just the normal infected."
"Creatures?"
You nod gravely. "Big… they were using the vents to get around until they… outgrew them. If you're going there, you need to know what you're up against."
His brows furrow at the implication of your words. "You're not coming with us?" he asks.
"No," you say, with apprehension lingering at just the thought of returning to the hospital. "I… I can't go back there."
He must see something in your expression—the fear, the exhaustion—because he seems like he understands even if he wants to argue. A thoughtful look causes his brows to raise as he studies you—it's full of concern for you, a person he doesn't even know, and it only endears him to you. "Will you be okay on your own?"
A tight smile forms on your face—it's supposed to be reassuring, but even you detect how your lip wobbles. "Been okay so far," you say, voice soft and almost breaking. "If you're going, you should go now."
His head bobs as if remembering the dire situation you're in. "Here, let me take her," he says as he approaches, kneeling so you can transfer Jill onto his back.
"Dr. Bard's office is on the first floor. If there's a sample of the vaccine still in the hospital, it's there," you tell him. "It's got one of those weird voice recognition locks on it; you're going to need to find a way in."
His brows pinch together as he takes in the information, not confused, just processing. "Where are you going to go?" he questions after a moment.
"Hopefully to find a way the hell out of this place," you joke weakly. You glance at Jill, and she almost appears as if she could just be asleep right now—like she could wake up any second. Your heart curls up into something worse than grief. "You… you take care of her, okay?"
"Yeah," he murmurs with a tender nod.
With no care for his personal space, you lean up to smooth some of her hair back from her face that rests against his shoulder. You're keenly aware of his gaze on you, watching as you press a kiss to her cheek, breathing in the smell of sweat and blood and gunpowder.
"I'll see you when this is done, okay, Jill?" With a lump firmly in your throat, you pull away, peeking up at the man with tears building in your eyes, and he only watches you sadly as you nod to him before turning on your heel.
"Wait," he says suddenly, stopping you in your tracks. With one hand, he unholsters a 9mm pistol, holding it out to you by the barrel like it's a lifeline. "You know how to work one of these?"
You do, so you take it, checking the safety as if it's a practiced habit. "I'm familiar," you assure before tucking it into the waistband of your pants. He gives you a look as if to say, 'Familiar, huh?'
He hands you some ammo, apologizing for not having more to give you. "Gotta give you a fighting chance," he says it like it's a joke, but you're both aware it's not.
The words trigger a memory—kind eyes and a sting in your arm. "Now you have a fighting chance," she said
Absentmindedly, you rub your arm before remembering something. "Oh," you pat the front of your scrub pants, then dig into the right pocket and pull out your hospital ID card. "Here." You hold it out to him, and he seems confused. "My ID card. It will get you into most of the doors in the hospital."
He breathes out in relief, pocketing the card with a grateful smile. "Thanks, doc." There's a brief pause. "I'm Carlos."
You swallow the lump in your throat. "Take care, Carlos," you say and begin to head off.
Worry bunches up inside of you, but it's an emotion you're familiar with, so you carefully fold it up and tuck it aside, knowing you've given Jill the best shot at survival. You feel more confident, though, moving through the city now with a proper weapon.
The sun begins to set as you arrive at the Raccoon City Police Department. Things don't look promising, you think, as you weave through the burning vehicles and zombies milling outside the fence of the station. You reach the heavy metal gate; it's been left unlocked, and you can easily push it open. You briefly consider locking it behind you, but decide against it, just in case some other wayward soul makes their way here and needs a way in.
When you step into the lobby, you're almost overcome with the urge to call out, but quickly refrain, instead searching around attentively for anything useful—snatching a flashlight on the front desk, a much better option than your dingy little penlight. The security shutters to the right have a big sign that says 'keep out,' and you're inclined to follow instructions.
You try to recall the times you've been here to visit Jill—you know the S.T.A.R.S. office is on the second floor, but you'd feel a whole lot better if you had more ammo—or maybe a shotgun, you think with morbidly amused snort.
"I just need to go drop something off in the Safety Deposit Room, and then we can go, okay?" she said, a package tucked under her arm as she made her way through the reception on the left, leaving you alone with the officer on front desk duty—Officer Scott, who leered at you over his newspaper with a quirked brow and an attempt at a flirtatious smirk on his lips.
A grated door now covers the reception area; the control box is covered in tape, and you're hesitant to make too much noise, afraid of drawing unwanted attention. Your eyes scan the main hall, and that's when you notice the far door slightly ajar, as if someone left it open in a hurry.
"That's as good an invitation as any," you mutter to yourself as you slip through the door, shutting it behind you. It's an office, you realize as you scan the room, flicking on the flashlight you found. Desks are gathered in the middle, chairs are overturned, and it's a mess—not much different from the hospital. The state of it doesn't give much confidence that you'll find much help here.
Peering up, you observe decorations hanging from the ceiling above the desks.
Welcome Leon.
"And the award for shittiest first day goes to," you whisper sardonically.
There are several bodies lying about, and you step as quietly as you can, entering into a familiar snail's pace as you make your way out of the office, though not before grabbing a box of ammo sitting haphazardly on one of the bookshelves near the door.
You can hear the shuffling of undead as you step into the hall, teeth clenched as your body tautens, but you keep moving, ears alert for anything else—god knows what kind of monsters are probably lurking after what you've seen in the hospital.
Across the way, you catch sight of the sign labeled 'Safety Deposit Room', and there is a suspicious wave that flows through you at your luck, though you don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth. The room is thankfully empty, and you move through the lockers, peeking in to see if there's anything of use for you here.
Near the end of the first row, you note something that catches your eye—flash grenades. Your eyebrows raise as you memorize the locker number before punching it into the console, observing that two of the keys are missing. Luckily, this doesn't stop you from taking what you need, including those flash grenades and some extra ammo.
Then, as if your eyes are being guided to a shining beacon of hope, you spot a shotgun sitting behind the bars of a weapons locker at the back of the room. You glare with displeasure at the keycard reader before gazing back at it longingly, hand caressing the bars. "I'll be back for you," you promise.
Suddenly, a burst of gunfire reverberates through the station, and you instinctively crouch, your heart pounding in your chest. You quickly zip your bag shut before creeping toward the door to listen. The hall is silent now, and you slowly open the door, planning to rush back across the hall to the office so you won't get trapped in a maze of unfamiliar corridors.
As your hand touches the doorknob, you hear the sound of boots coming toward you and a faint 'what the hell', followed by the groaning of the undead and more gunshots. You use the noise as cover to skirt back into the office, ducking behind the door.
The pistol Carlos gave you feels cold in your clammy hands—the weight of it is one you're well acquainted with, pulling the slide to check if a round is chambered before flipping the safety. You turn off your flashlight, blinking as your eyes adjust to the darkness, the footsteps growing closer.
The creak of the handle turning traps your breath in your lungs, not daring to even exhale as the door opens. When the person steps through, you kick the door closed with your foot, causing them to whip around as you level your gun at them.
Leon instantly recognizes the barrel of a gun pointed at him in the brief moment when he turns with his flashlight, dropping it and his gun as his hands raise toward the ceiling. "Don't shoot," he says. "I'm not one of those things!"
Another light switches on, causing him to squint as it darts across his face, like you're testing the honesty of his statement—searching for any signs of blackened veins or necrosis. He can faintly make out the silhouette of your figure behind the blinding glare. When you finally lower the flashlight and your gun, he blinks rapidly, his vision dotted with spots as they readjust, but he interprets it as a sign to slowly bring his hands down.
"Sorry," you apologize, watching raptly as he grabs his flashlight and gun off the floor. "I heard you shooting and I—"
"It's okay," he interrupts. There's a moment where you both take each other in, and Leon can see the unsure frown on your lips, like you're embarrassed by your reaction—as if it were possible to overreact in this type of situation. You couldn't be much older than him, he realizes—youth still clings to your cheeks, not yet hollowed with maturity, a softness of lingering adolescence. "Better safe than sorry," he assures with a smile.
The corners of your mouth twitch up into a tentative smile of your own, and Leon feels a surge of warmth at how your nose scrunches. His gaze drops to your attire—burgundy scrubs that have known better days, with a long-sleeved shirt underneath, though the sleeves are pushed up to your elbows, and white sneakers sit comfortably on your feet, splattered with blood and other gore. You shift under his stare, tugging your worn-out backpack higher on your shoulder as you chew the inside of your lip.
"Are you a nurse?" he asks.
The smile drops immediately, and Leon knows he's said exactly the wrong thing. "Doctor," you correct sharply, your tone lowering in a way he recognizes—like you want to be respected.
He scrambles, stuttering under the weight of the disappointed way your shoulders slump as he tries to explain himself. "It's just—you look young."
It has the opposite effect he intends, and you lean back away from him, a furrow in your brow that makes you seem more adorable than severe, but he pushes that thought down just as quickly as it pops up. "So do you," you shoot back as your eyes dip down to observe his police uniform. "How long you been a cop?"
He scratches the back of his head sheepishly as if hesitant to answer. "Well, it's my first day."
Recognition flashes in your eyes. "I'd say you have some really shitty luck, Leon," you joke.
He lets out a huff of weak laughter. "Yeah," he agrees. "Definitely not the greatest start."
"At least it can only go up from here," you offer with a shrug of your shoulders.
"Wait," he says when the realization dawns on him. "How did you know my name?"
You lift your light to the decorations hanging from the ceiling, and Leon gazes at the sign with something close to loss etched into his face. When he peeks back at you, he notes how the pinch in your brow has softened as you watch him—it's an empathetic look, as if you understand exactly what he's feeling. "It's kind of cute," you say gently. "They must've been excited for you to start."
He swallows thickly, but his voice still cracks anyway. "Yeah," he murmurs. "You said you're a doctor—my lieutenant is back in the main hall, he needs medical attention. Could you help him?"
You observe Lieutenant Marvin Branagh with a painstakingly neutral expression—it's one you've mastered the last two years of your residency. It never did a patient any good when they saw that something was wrong on their doctor's face.
"How bad is it, doc?" Marvin asks between wheezed gasps.
The bite on his side is horrific, and with the amount of blood he's lost, you're not quite sure how he's even conscious, let alone sitting upright. The human body truly is a thing of wonder.
Still, you take the time to clean and disinfect the wound, eyes passively noting the darkened veins around it that have already spread across the rest of his torso. Leon is hovering behind you; you can tell he's nervous by the way he keeps shifting his weight back and forth. You give him credit for remaining quiet as you examined the injury—most people would be asking a million questions by now.
"Do you want the truth, Lieutenant?" you ask.
He gives a firm, but pained nod. "Don't gotta sugarcoat it."
You dress the bite with clean gauze and steady hands. "You don't have much longer left," you inform.
"Wait, you mean there's nothing you can do for him?" Leon cuts in.
You only give him a brief, sorrowful stare over your shoulder before your gaze settles back on Marvin—the sad gleam in his eyes shows he already knew what the outcome would be, but maybe he'd hoped for a miracle, one you couldn't give him. "How much do you know about what's going on?" you ask Leon.
He appears uncertain. "I mean, I've seen the news reports—"
"It's worse than the news reports," you interrupt, more sharply than you intended. "… Obviously." You stand up after giving Marvin's bandages another once-over before pulling off your gloves with a definitive snap. "It's a virus. We don't know where it came from, only that the outbreak started six days ago. It's capable of transmission through various methods, including bodily fluids—" Your jaw sets. "—for example, a bite."
"There's not like… medicine or something you can give him?" he asks defeatedly.
"No," you answer, and your eyes meet Marvin's. "I'm sorry, I know it's not what you want to hear—"
"Don't worry about it, doc," he says as he leans back into his seat with a grimace. "You two just worry about getting out of here."
Leon steps forward as if ready to argue. "But—"
"I mean it, rookie."
His mouth snaps shut, and you glance between the two officers observantly as you repack your supplies into your bag. Clearly, this is a conversation they've already had—one that Marvin is not keen to repeat despite Leon's insistence, judging by the simmering stare the older man sends him.
You step away, allowing the lieutenant the chance to rest, pulling Leon with you. "Is there a way out?" you ask with a curious gleam in your eye. "I heard a lot of the evacuation routes were shut down a few days ago to contain the spread of the virus."
"They think there's a secret passage under that statue," he answers, jutting a chin over to the large statue looming behind the desk.
You gaze back and forth between him and the statue several times before you give him a deadpan look—as if you think he's joking. "Seriously?"
A small, lopsided smirk forms on his face like he's amused by your reaction, and he shrugs his shoulders half-heartedly. "It's worth a shot, right?"
You consider each other, and for the first time in a very long few days, you let comfort settle in your chest—at least, you wouldn't be alone anymore. "Alright," you concede. "Me and you… rookie."
He blinks with surprise at your teasing tone, a laugh bubbling out of him. "Hey!"
Leon keeps you close behind him as you make your way through the police station, putting himself between you and the undead that are wandering around, even though you're armed and more than capable of defending yourself. "You know you don't have to protect me, right?" you say as you watch over his shoulder as he shoots the knees out from under another zombie.
He looks over at you, blue eyes fixed on yours. "I want to," he replies before quickly shutting his mouth, as if he knows he's said something wrong but can't stop himself, and stammers out, "I just… if you'd let me, I'd like to."
He can't tell what you're thinking; he only sees the understanding fall across your face as you bob your head. "Okay, Leon," you agree more readily than he expects. "But just so you know, I'm an excellent shot."
His gaze drops down to your hands—the ones he saw so tenderly treat Marvin's wound—and then to his own—already covered and caked with blood and grime. "Don't want you to get your hands dirty." He says it casually, like a joke, but you can discern it in the tightness around his jaw—the truth of it.
Your teeth clench until you feel the ache through your skull. You wonder if he knows the amount of blood you've had on your hands or how many times you've scrubbed your skin raw to wash it away, as if your dreams aren't haunted by visions of blood and death.
"Yeah, wouldn't want that," you murmur.
Sometime later, as you're catching your breath in a relatively safe spot, he asks, "So, you were at the hospital when the outbreak started?"
You're checking your supplies, something Leon is already picking up as a habit of yours, like you don't know what to do with idle hands. "I was," you reply in as passive a tone as possible, as if trying to disconnect from what you witnessed there. "Kind of a shitty place to be when the zombie apocalypse starts. We didn't really know what was going on at first, and I… I just wanted to help." You take a deep breath. "Eventually, we got inundated—staff were turning, and the hospital became overrun. I got separated from everyone else, and was holed up by myself for three days before I finally decided to try to leave."
"You're okay, though?"
Your eyes flick up to his, noticing how he's carefully watching you, before dropping back down to check how much gauze you have left. Tears gather at your waterline, and you try to blink them away as your nostrils flare, but your gaze lifts to him again as a smile tightens on your lips. "Do you want the truth?" You repeat the question you asked Lieutenant Branagh.
"Don't gotta sugarcoat it," he answers.
Your chin trembles, but the forced smile stays in place as your nose scrunches to accommodate the sting in your sinuses. "Not really."
He's at your side before he even knows what he's doing, his hand gingerly grabbing your shoulder as he ducks his head to look you in the eye. "Hey." His voice is soft and tender.
Embarrassment burns across your cheeks in the form of a blush, raising your hand to wipe at the tears that have escaped, but he takes hold of your wrist. His touch is gentle, as if he's handling something fragile—it's something that normally would fill you with disdain, but in this moment, after everything you've been through, you find you don't mind being handled with such care.
"Hey, it's okay." He doesn't make you face him; instead, he steps in front of you. The warmth of his body so close to yours feels grounding and disorienting all at once—it's overwhelming. You focus on his voice as he murmurs, "We'll get through this, okay?"
You avoid eye contact with him, just staring at the 'R.P.D.' on his vest, trying not to sniffle pathetically, especially when you can feel his gaze on you.
He tilts his head down. "We will," he reiterates, more firmly this time.
As if you can't help yourself anymore, your eyes finally rise to meet his. Being so close, you're finally aware of the exact shade of blue they are, like the sky on a summer afternoon when the sun burns so hot that the ice cream would start melting before you've even unwrapped it.
You stare up at him, and for a moment, you look like you believe him. "Okay."
When you and Leon end up on the east side of the station in the Art Room, you're both examining the statue with slanted heads and quirked brows. "This place is really weird," you say finally, and Leon can do nothing but nod in agreement.
You're aware that the Raccoon City Police Department used to be an art museum, but that was well over thirty years ago, so the fact that there are still remnants of it lingering about the station is certainly odd, never mind all of the strange doors and puzzles you've both stumbled upon.
As he's checking out the statue and fruitlessly trying to pry the ruby scepter from its hand, you're searching around the room for anything else that might be useful when you see something sitting on one of the end tables. You let out an excited squeal that causes Leon to lose his grip on the scepter, stumbling back and nearly tripping over his own feet as he rushes over to you. "What?! What is it?" he asks, already feeling a lump gathering in his throat.
You spin around and hold up what you've found with a triumphant twinkle in your eye, his close proximity not even phasing you. "Keycard!" you declare before blinking as your brows furrow together, watching as he places a hand to his chest and begins to take deep, regulated breaths. "Uh, you okay?"
He gives a weak thumbs up. "Yeah, y'know, only a minor heart attack, I'm sure it's nothing I can't walk off." As his blood pressure returns to normal and he waves off your brief look of concern, he asks, "So, what's that for exactly?"
"For the Weapons Locker in the Safety Deposit Room," you say before tapping him on the nose with the card, a mischievous grin on your lips, causing his cheeks to flush pink as you lean in, pushing all boundaries aside. It's so uncharacteristic of what he's seen from you so far—a glimpse of who you were before all of this began, and he feels a flutter in his chest. "Dibs on the shotgun."
That's how Leon Kennedy ends up watching you inspect said gun in your hands with something like reverence, delight spreading across your face that eases the deep lines of worry and exhaustion that once marred it. "You know how to work that thing?" he asks with an amused raise of his eyebrows.
You wink at him—quick and playful. "Wanna find out?"
Some time later, you find yourself outside in the rain, your scrubs starting to stick uncomfortably, the drops catching on your eyelashes and blurring your vision as you rifle through your backpack, a couple of packets of gauze held between your teeth as you fish out disinfectant and medical tape. Behind you, the back end of a helicopter hangs out of the police station after it crashed into the building, while in front of you, Leon talks through the fence with the girl he came into Raccoon City with—Claire.
"Any luck with your brother?" Leon asks her.
Her expression falls only slightly as she shakes her head, like she's trying to put on a brave front. "No."
"You're looking for your brother?" you question, finally piping up in the conversation for the first time after Leon introduced you to her.
"Yeah, he's part of the S.T.A.R.S. team for the R.P.D.," Claire says. "His name is Chris—"
"—Redfield?" you finish.
"You know him?" she asks, eyes growing wide with hope.
You nod; Chris was a familiar face to you, always sending you a smile when he saw you around and asking how you were doing. According to Jill, he tried a few times to join you both on a night out, but she quickly shut him down. "I told him it's girls' night, not girls' night plus Chris," she said with a roll of her eyes.
"Met him a few times," you answer. "He—"
You're cut off as the sound of an explosion reverberates through the air, the helicopter bursting into a ball of fire and metal. Instinctively, you flinch back while Leon steps in front of you in case any shrapnel flies out. "Damnit," he curses. "You know what that means."
"Yeah," Claire mutters as she glances over her shoulder at the zombies in the courtyard beginning to stir. "Dinner time."
"Hey—" you call out to her before she can leave. "Take this." You start shoving the medical supplies through the fence, and when she reaches to take them, you lean in. "I don't think your brother is in the city."
Her brows furrow with confusion. "What do you mean?"
"I saw Jill—He wasn't with her," you explain. "Haven't seen him for a few months, actually."
She frowns at that. "Do you think—"
"I'm sure he's fine," you assure quickly, realizing how your previous statement might've sounded. "And with the way things are looking around here, it's probably a good thing he got the fuck outta Dodge."
She nods, though it's uncertain. "Yeah." Her gaze flits between you and Leon. "You two stay safe, okay?"
"You too," Leon says with a worried pinch to his brow as he watches her start to leave.
"Be careful," you call out.
"We'll get through this," she says as she turns to weather the swarm of undead. "All of us."
Your suspicions that there were more than just normal undead here were not unfounded, you think bitterly as you come across creatures that someone deemed "lickers" in a note you found. The hall near the S.T.A.R.S. office is crawling with them—quite literally. You grab Leon by the sleeve of his shirt, dragging him through the door as one crawls overhead, closing it just as it makes a high-pitched shrieking noise.
"God, what was that thing?" he breathes out.
"No idea," you answer as you put an ear to the door to ensure they won't follow you in here. "We had something in the hospital that wasn't normal undead, but it wasn't that."
"You mean there's more than just undead wandering around?" he asks with a frown.
You grimace as you think of the various possibilities—given what you've observed so far, most of them are bleak. "Well, if the virus is capable of transmission to other species… yes."
"Is that… likely?"
You don't imagine your expression is particularly comforting as you say, "More likely than a zombie apocalypse."
He inhales, processing the information before taking a look around. "Where are we?" he asks.
"S.T.A.R.S office," you reply as you make your way further in, hoping to find something—anything—that might be useful.
Leon trails after you. "You said you were friends with Claire's brother—"
"I knew Claire's brother," you correct. "I was friends with one of his teammates—Jill Valentine."
The office is a mess, as if someone tore through it searching for something, with papers scattered and boxes everywhere. You're looking around the captain, Wesker's, office when Leon calls out to you. "Is this Jill?" he asks. You peek your head out and notice him holding a picture frame he picked up from one of the desks.
You step closer, unsure of what you're expecting as he flips it around to show you, but seeing your face staring back at you isn't it. A pit forms in your stomach as you look at the photo of you and Jill; she'd bought one of those disposable cameras and wouldn't stop taking pictures one night when you were out bar hopping together. You're both sitting on stools in some dingy dive bar, leaning into each other, practically cheek to cheek, smiling at the camera, very obviously drunk.
It's a photo that Jill keeps on her desk.
Your throat tightens at the realization. "You two seem close," Leon notes with a fond smile.
You didn't think you were. You never even considered the possibility that Jill thought of you as more than a casual acquaintance with whom she would occasionally grab a drink or lunch. But she is the closest friend you have—your best friend. Too caught up in your own inability to allow yourself to take up space in another person's life, you didn't realize that someone had carved out that space for you without you even asking.
Regret wells up inside you. It's sharp and agonizing, a pain worse than fear—something you should have endured for her. You should have gone with her and Carlos and made sure she was okay. But you didn't, and now you don't know if you'll ever see her again, if you could've made a difference.
What if she's dead because of you?
A noise escapes the back of your throat, like a wounded animal, and Leon is startled by it. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asks, setting the photo down to take you by your shoulders.
You shake your head; you can't put the feeling into words right now—the immense grief of a loss you never knew you were entitled to, hacking your heart into pieces. "I—" Your throat tightens. "Yeah… yeah, we were close."
"You said you saw her," he recalls. "Is she…"
"I don't know," you answer, voice hoarse as you try to hold back tears.
He's quiet in his understanding, leaving you standing in front of Jill's desk, staring at the photo as he investigates the rest of the office.
When you and Leon leave, the frame is empty, and the photo is safely tucked in your backpack.
"So, we just put these medallions in?" you ask, voice full of disbelief as you stand in front of the statue in the main hall, peering over Leon's shoulder at the notes written in the notebook Marvin gave him.
He nods. "Seems so."
"This is really fucking weird."
"Yup."
Once you insert the medallions, the hall fills with the sound of stone grinding against stone as the gears turn the mechanism on. You take a cautious step back as you watch the statue's base start to shift, revealing a passage underneath. "Well, shit," you mutter, scratching the back of your head. You honestly thought this Officer Elliot was full of shit.
Leon steps down the stairs, pulling on the metal gate to open it, trying to spy what might lie beyond the darkness the stairs lead to, but sees nothing. "Looks like it goes underground," he says before turning. "Lieutenant Branagh!" he calls out. "Marvin!"
You follow behind him, a frown on your lips as he approaches Marvin, who is now curled up on the bench you'd left him on, appearing much worse for wear. Sweat clings to his forehead as his face scrunches up in pain, even as he sleeps. His breathing is labored, and you can note the bandages on his side have bled through, as if he isn't clotting properly.
"It's time to go," Leon urges. "Hey, Marvin." As he goes to shake the lieutenant awake, Marvin juts up, an almost inhuman growl resonating from the back of his throat as he bears his teeth at Leon.
Your fingers hover at the back of Leon's uniform, ready to pull him away if the worst were to happen, but you watch with only a minimal amount of relief as Marvin shakes his head, blinking blearily as if realizing where he is—who he is.
"We've got to get you to a hospital," Leon softly says.
Leon doesn't give up—it's like he doesn't know how to. "Look, we can still make it out of here together—"
You don't flinch when Marvin unholsters his gun and points it at him. No part of you believes he would actually pull the trigger. His eyes lock onto yours, as if you're the voice of reason who might talk Leon out of it. "Please," he begs. "We can't let this spread. Just go."
You take a deep, steady breath as you grab Leon by the arm. "Leon," you say as gently as you can because you can already feel the way he's trembling. "C'mon, we need to go."
He doesn't even try to pry himself away from your grip. "No, we can't leave him," he murmurs, and you can hear it in his voice—the break of desperation—the realization that you can't save everyone.
Marvin nods at you, tears threatening to spill over, and a quiver to his lip that he's determined not to show, but you see it anyway. You're guiding Leon toward the passageway, and he lets you pull him along as if he won't allow himself to move on his own, sorrowfully watching Marvin the whole time as you cross through the door. You shut the gate behind you, the way back getting cut off as the passageway seals up once more.
The tremor in Leon's hands won't stop, and you hear him sniff, a sound that makes guilt prickle up your spine. You hold the hand you'd been gripping a little tighter, as if to remind him you're still here with him. "I'm sorry, Leon," you murmur.
"What good are we?" he finally asks, voice barely above a whisper as if he can't bring himself to speak any louder. "I'm a cop, you're a doctor… and we couldn't even save him—that's what we're supposed to do, we're supposed to save people."
You don't take his words personally. It's a thought you've found yourself dwelling on many times over the past few days—actually, the past few years. You remember what Dr. McKay said to you after you lost your first patient. "We can't save everyone." She didn't say it to be cruel or to diminish what you were feeling. It was meant to serve as a reminder that you could do everything right and it still might not be enough. There is a peculiar kind of heartache in the death of good intentions, and the way defeat can pile up so easily.
"But that doesn't mean you give up," she finished, and as you looked up at her from the bathroom stall floor, tears streaming down your cheeks, you nodded in understanding. A silent promise to her and to yourself that you would keep going, even when it becomes too much and you feel like quitting—especially when you feel like quitting—you have to keep going.
"We can't save everyone," you say in just as soft a tone as Dr. McKay had that day, hoping you can impart half as much wisdom as she did to you.
"You've lost patients before, right?" he asks.
"I have," you confirm. "It doesn't… It doesn't get any easier—but you learn to make room in yourself to tuck those feelings into so it doesn't feel so overwhelming." Your fingers weave through his, pressing your joined hands firmly to his chest. "And if you need to cry, you cry."
His eyes find yours in the dim light, and you see the exact moment when the unyielding shield he's had raised this entire time comes crumbling down. He gasps for breath that stalls in his throat, getting caught there as he chokes back a sob. Tenderly, you reach out with your other hand, clasping the back of his neck and bringing him to you, allowing him to bury his head into your shoulder. His arm wraps around you as he cries, body shaking as he does.
Your fingers comb through his hair, rubbing his head soothingly, whispering 'it's okay' to him again and again, hoping that this time it will be enough, and that the smell of gunpowder and leather won't linger in your memory bittersweetly.
He remains slumped against you for a while—you don't count the minutes, only listening as his breathing steadies, body relaxing in your arms. When he finally pulls away, you let him. "Sorry," he mutters as he sniffs. "Didn't mean to start crying on you."
There are still remnants of tears on his cheeks, and you absentmindedly reach up, swiping them away with your thumbs. "I've already cried in front of you twice," you say in a lighter tone. "As far as I'm concerned, you still owe me one."
He laughs, it's soft and raspy, and you know his heart isn't quite completely in it. "Didn't know we were keeping track."
You step back, brushing off some dirt from the sleeves of his uniform. "Officer Kennedy, it's very important to never let yourself be in someone's debt," you say with a dramatic somberness. "You'll never know when they'll come to collect."
"If it's you, I don't think I'll mind," he says, smiling down at you with a little less grief on his face.
"I'll make you eat those words," you say. You peer down the dark staircase, flicking on your flashlight to get a better look. "Wanna go check out what's in the creepy secret passageway?"
He nods readily, squaring his shoulders once more, preparing for whatever you might discover. "Yeah, let's find a way out of here."
After stumbling upon some kind of office, you and Leon step into an elevator that takes you even deeper underground. When you exit, it's like you're in a totally different place—an industrial processing area. Grated catwalks hang above, and a room filled with vats steams below. "What is this?" you mutter. "Are we in the sewers?"
"Maybe?" he offers unhelpfully as he leads the way before you come to a metal locker blocking the path forward. "Hold on." He holsters his gun, lifting the locker back into place with a grunt.
You refrain from clapping but make an idle comment, "Way to go, muscles."
He peeks back at you bashfully as he ambles through the doorway, just as something drops down from above. It's a man—or at least it was; he's been mutated into something monstrous—sinewy muscle strands connect to an enlarged arm, a gigantic yellow eye blinking at the shoulder.
"What the—" The creature snatches Leon by the throat, slamming him onto the grated floor. "Run!" He manages to shout at you as it lifts him up again, only to hammer him back down, the floor starting to give way beneath them.
You don't. Instead, you level your shotgun and fire, hitting it right in its deformed shoulder. It lets out a loud roar that echoes all around you, stumbling back from Leon. "Up," you order as you help him off the ground. "Let's go." You motion over the railing to the ten-foot drop to the level below.
Leon can't argue, too busy trying to catch his breath as he lets you guide him over the railing, landing with a firm 'oof'. He hears another blast from your gun, and the monster screams once more, before you fall down beside him, grimacing as you feel the impact in your knees. Then he's grabbing your free hand, his own gun now drawn as he moves through the maze of machinery.
Behind you, the creature jumps down, stumbling after you, bellowing out in a way that almost feels like it's trying to speak. "Split up," you say, pushing him one way before he can protest, while you head in the other direction.
Predictably, it follows you after the two shotgun slugs you put into it. You peek over your shoulder, seeing the massive eye on its arm open and scanning around. You turn, treading backward as you fire another shot, and it screams out—angry or hurt, you don't know, but you keep shooting.
Leon appears behind it, emptying a whole clip while you have it distracted. "Aim for the eye!" you call out before turning to run again, the beast hot on your trail. You hear the grind of the metal pipe in its hand against the floor as it roars, lumbering behind you.
You hear Leon yell your name, and you glance over your shoulder just in time to see the glint of the metal pipe about to strike you. Your stomach drops as you squat down, narrowly evading the attack, feeling the rush of air from the swing.
Clang.
Hiss.
The pipe bashes against one of the valves leading into the machinery, filling your vision with steam, and you use the distraction to scramble away from the monster.
"Wily ain't ya, girl?" a voice laughs in your ear. You shake your head, trying to rid yourself of your father's ghost.
As the labyrinth floods with more steam with each wild flail of the creature and its pipe that clang, clang, clangs against the machinery. It becomes disorienting, and you almost run headfirst into Leon, and he steadies you by your shoulders as you cough out an apology, feeling your lungs cloud with hot vapor.
As it stomps toward you, he steps in front, squinting as he tries to make out the large figure in the mist before discharging more rounds as it wails. "H-help," you think you hear it groan out—like it's still clinging to the memory of once being a person.
The thought makes bile rise in the back of your throat.
"Shit," Leon murmurs. "Gotta reload."
You push him to the side, racking your shotgun and using the sickly yellow glow of the eye in the haze as a target.
Ch-chunk.
Choom.
It screeches out as you hit it dead center in its shoulder, and it staggers backward as it writhes in pain. You watch with bated breath as it sails over the railing, falling into the darkness below. With a sigh, you wipe the sweat gathered at your brow.
Both you and Leon nearly jump out of your skin as a ladder close by suddenly lowers, though when you look up, the steam obscures whoever might be lurking on the catwalks above. "Someone is watching us," he notes with a hint of apprehension.
"Let's hope they're friendlier than that guy," you say while tipping your head to where the creature fell.
His gaze shifts to you, concern clear on his face. "Are you okay?" He doesn't wait for an answer and reaches out as if you're the one who was choked out by that thing, turning you back and forth by the shoulders to check for injury. "It didn't hit you, did it?"
"No," you answer before cocking a brow at him, noticing the red marks around his neck. "Are you okay?"
He nods, rubbing at his throat. "Yeah, I—" He glances down at the shotgun still in your hands. "I guess you do know how to use that thing, huh?"
"Did you doubt me?" you ask with a hint of mirth in your voice. "I'm a little offended."
He laughs and shakes his head. "No, just surprised." As you walk over to the ladder that dropped down, he decides to make conversation, finally asking a question you know has been burning in the back of his mind for hours, "So, you're pretty young to be a doctor, huh?"
You hum your confirmation as you climb up first. Leon watches, admiring how your scrubs cling tightly around your backside as you move, a flush spreading across his cheeks when he realizes where his eyes have landed, and he quickly looks away, waiting until you've reached the top to follow behind you.
"You're like… a genius, then?"
You purse your lips, like you don't quite like the term, or maybe you're too modest to accept the title. "Something like that," you say. "Graduated high school at fifteen, accelerated undergrad program, and then med school in three years."
His eyes widen, mouth open in an 'o' shape. "So you've been a doctor for…"
"Two years," you reply as you grab some ammo off a shelf and toss it to him.
"And you're… how old?" The way he asks this particular question takes on a much more intimate tone, as if it weren't just for idle curiosity.
An amused smirk twitches at your lips. "Twenty-three," you answer as you come to another ladder leading up. "And how old are you, rookie?"
"Twenty-one," he murmurs, as if embarrassed now. "You're… really impressive."
You feel your cheeks heat up as you turn to him, watching him peer down at you with fondness. "I—thank you," you say awkwardly, but Leon can still see the traces of pride on your face. "Guess there's nowhere to go but up, huh?" you ask as you peer up at the long climb with your hands on your hips.
"Hopefully it leads out?" he offers.
"Somehow, I doubt it," you murmur.
"How does a doctor learn how to handle firearms so well?" Leon asks as you ascend.
You pause for a moment, like you're considering your answer. "Dad was a big gun guy," you finally say, quieter, like it's something you don't like to talk about. Still, you explain, "Y'know the kind—doomsday prepper who thought he'd outshoot the end of the world he was sure was coming." You pause as you reach the top. "Turns out he wouldn't live long enough to see it."
Leon's silent, maybe noticing that saying 'sorry for your loss' doesn't seem appropriate for the situation—not with the tone you'd used when saying 'dad,' heavy like molasses on your tongue. "At least you're able to get some use out of it."
He's relieved when you laugh at that while pushing on what you realize is a manhole cover. "Yeah, there's always that." With a grunt, the cover comes loose, and you're able to slide it to the side.
When you pop up, you notice you're in an underground parking lot. You reach out a hand to Leon, helping him climb out as he looks around. "Still in the police station," he says. In the distance, you hear a sound that makes your stomach tighten: dogs.
"Is there a K-9 unit?" you ask, unsure if you ever remember interacting with any at the R.P.D.
"Huh?" He stares at you with bewilderment. "I… I think so, why?"
You quickly reload your shotgun and ensure your pistol has a fresh clip, too. "Remember how I said it was likely that the virus spread to animals other than humans?"
His eyes widen. "You think there's some zombie dogs roaming around?"
"I wouldn't be surprised if there's zombie goldfish swimming in the sewers at this rate," you say with a scowl.
He surveys the area, spotting the parking garage terminal next to the shuttered entrance and points to it. "Over there." You follow closely behind him, keeping an eye out for anything that might be lurking around. The parking garage is oddly silent, and it doesn't settle you; if anything, it makes you more anxious.
"Something feels off," you murmur.
"Yeah, I know," he agrees as he inspects the terminal. "Looks like we need a parking pass."
You sigh. "Of course we do."
A low growl behind you draws your attention, and you spin around, weapon ready. "Fuck," you mutter as you glare at the mutated doberman. Its eyes are milky, and it snarls, baring its teeth at you, with saliva and blood dripping from its mouth. "I hate being right."
As the undead animal goes to lunge at you, a single round puts it down, viscera splattering across the pavement of the parking garage. "Jesus Christ," Leon breathes out.
There's a grimace on your lips as you walk over to it, stepping carefully, knowing these things are hard to kill. You feel sorry for the poor thing, and so caught up in that feeling as you circle around it, you don't even detect the person lurking behind the pillar until you feel the cold metal of a gun muzzle to the back of your head.
"You two have made it further than I thought you would," a voice behind you says—a woman, you realize.
Leon brandishes his gun, a furrow on his brow as he points it at the woman just over your shoulder, but with you in between, you doubt he'd risk shooting. Still, she jams the gun harder against your skull, your head pitching down with the force, a scowl on your face. "Put it down," she orders.
"Let her go first," he insists.
The fact that she didn't disarm you immediately was a mistake on her part—likely, she doesn't see either of you as a threat. "Unless you want to lose a leg," you mutter back to her, and there's a brief pause as she realizes that your shotgun is still in your hands, aimed just slightly backward at an angle that would surely blow her entire right leg off at the knee.
"Clever," she muses, and then you feel the cool metal leave your head and the click of heels as she backs away.
You spin around as soon as you're sure she's at a safe distance, keeping your eyes on her while you drift backward toward Leon, who, once you're within arm's reach, grabs you by the backpack pocket and pulls you closer, lowering his gun as the woman lowers hers.
You take in her appearance—pretty with short black hair, wearing sunglasses, and clad in a trench coat, like a secret agent straight out of a cheesy spy movie. "F.B.I.," she declares as she raises her badge, then flips it closed too quickly for you to get a good look at it.
Leon relaxes behind you, but you don't; instead, you keep a scrutinizing leer on her. "What's the F.B.I. doing here?" he asks.
"Sorry," she says as she begins to saunter away, shoes clacking against the ground with a sharp tap, tap, tap. "That information is classified."
You scoff with disbelief. "Seriously? This place is crawling with monsters—an entire city's population has been nearly decimated, and you're worried about keeping the government's secrets?"
She glances over her shoulder at you. You can't see her eyes behind the sunglasses, but you know they're drilling holes into you right now. "Do yourself a favor—stop asking questions and get the hell out of here."
You both watch her leave through one of the side entrances, the door latching with a definitive click. "Easier said than done," Leon mutters as he turns to glower at the closed parking garage door, and then, after a beat, asks, "What do you make of that?"
The look you give him tells him everything he needs to know, but you answer anyway, "I don't trust anyone who wears sunglasses at night."
He chuckles, then, almost absentmindedly, his hand rises to cup the back of your head and tenderly rub the spot where the woman dug her gun into your skull. Your cheeks warm at the gesture, and you try to ignore the flutter in your stomach even as you lean into his touch. "I'm inclined to agree with her on one thing at least," he says softly. "Let's get the hell out of here."
You both go in the opposite direction from the woman, though you doubt it'll be the last you'll be seeing of her.
Staring at the man behind bars, you feel like you've seen him before. "You a reporter?" you ask, interrupting him and Leon when you finally place his face. You saw him in the hospital a couple of times in the past few months—he was desperately trying to get an interview with Dr. Bard, if you remember correctly.
The man tilts his head at you, beady eyes scanning you as if he's trying to uncover your secrets. "I am," he says. "Was about to blow the whistle on Irons—it's why I'm down here."
"Irons?" Leon repeats. "You mean Chief Irons? Is he still around?"
"Who cares," the man says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Hopefully, he's somebody's dinner by now."
"What do you mean by that?" Leon asks, his demeanor changing—shoulders squaring as his jaw clenches.
A screeching noise, like metal on metal, rings out through the cellblock, catching everyone's attention. You step closer to Leon, hands still steady on your shotgun as you focus down the corridor. "What the fuck," you mutter.
"Hey, I'll make you a deal…" the man says suddenly, leaning against the bars, and holding up the parking pass that hangs around his neck. "Unlock this cell, and I'll give you this. There's no other way outta that parking garage! Believe me!"
"Sorry, I can't do that." Leon shakes his head. "I have to talk to the chief first."
You whip your head around, staring at him incredulously. "Leon." The noise continues, growing louder as if it's getting closer; it vibrates through your eardrum right into your teeth. "We need to be quiet."
Quiet kept you safe during those three days alone. Quiet meant those things didn't know where you were.
"We're all prisoners in this station," the man says, sweat starting to bead on his forehead as panic takes hold. "So either we play nice and help each other out—" Another loud bang makes him flinch, and his eyes widen as he stumbles back from the bars. "Shit. It's coming."
"What's coming?" Leon asks as he steps forward.
"Be quiet," you whisper firmly, but it goes unheard. Your eyes dart around, yet despite the approaching noise, you can’t tell where it's originating from.
"C'mon—c'mon, don't be an asshole, okay? You need this!" The man presses himself against the back wall of the cell. "Just get me the fuck outta here!"
A sharp gasp escapes you as an enormous, gloved hand punches through the wall behind him, sending bricks flying as it grabs him by the head. Leon shoves you behind him as he levels his gun, trying to get a clear shot at the creature. All you can do is watch as it drags the man, like he's nothing but a ragdoll, more of the wall crumbling with the movement, before a sickening squelch echoes out.
"Oh my god," Leon breathes as you watch the body slide down the wall, leaving a red smear of blood from his crushed skull.
You quickly avert your gaze, the sight of the man's bulging eyes making you nauseated, and when you look at the gaping hole now in the cell, you only see darkness beyond. You teeter away until you feel the jut of wood against the back of your thighs, leaning against the table.
You stare down at the concrete floor of the jail, tracing the cracked surface as you try to calm your racing heart. "We could have helped him," you quietly say.
Leon turns to you with a crinkle in his brow. "I didn't know if he was a criminal or not," he says.
You glare up at him with a scathing expression. "Does that matter?" you question.
He frowns as if he's puzzled by your reaction. "Of course it matters."
"He was a person, though," you say. "You said you wanted to help people."
"Yeah, innocent people," he clarifies.
His naivety unravels before you, and you huff with a shake of your head and a roll of your eyes. "You're not the judge and jury, Leon," you argue, and as you consider him, you realize you're looking at a kid—just like you—but someone who didn't grow up with a steel-toed boot on their neck. His world isn't tinted in shades of gray like yours. "It's not guilty until proven innocent—it's innocent until proven guilty."
"But what if we let him out and he hurt you?"
He's trying to understand, you know he is, but it still doesn't make you feel any less frustrated. "And what if he didn't?" you retort. "When people need help, you don't get to pick and choose who's the perfect victim."
A quiet tension settles between you two—it's uncomfortable and prickly, making you want to apologize immediately, but you hold back the urge. Instead, you watch as his eyes drift from you to the ground before you notice the sound of heels clicking through the cell block.
"Hope I'm not interrupting," the woman from before says coyly, no doubt having overheard your argument.
You ignore the quip, shrugging off your backpack to check your supplies again as Leon talks to the woman—Ada, as she introduces herself. Your mind concentrates on numbers—gauze, first aid spray, shotgun shells.
Things you can control.
You're transported back to every moment you've felt overwhelmed, imagining yourself at the suture cart, counting everything—forceps, scalpels, epidermal closures, tissue adhesive tape. Everything neatly logged and categorized in your mind, as you try to keep your head above water when it feels like you're drowning.
Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Ada stroll away again, waiting until the tap of her shoes completely fades before zipping your bag back up, maybe a little more aggressively than you intend. Leon approaches, standing in front of you and looking every bit like a kicked dog. You purse your lips, resenting how your stomach coils with guilt at how sad he appears. "I'm sorry," he says. "You're right."
"It's not about being right," you sigh. "It's about doing the right thing."
He nods insistently. "I know," he says. "I just—I was worried, and I don't want you to get hurt because I made the stupid mistake of trusting someone I shouldn't have."
Giving a noncommittal hum, you swing your backpack over your shoulder and finally stand up from your leaning position. It brings you much closer to Leon, who looms over you with a pout still clearly in place at your perceived indifference.
"You're not mad, right?" he questions, voice small and unsure.
When you peek up at him, the tender way he gazes down at you floods your stomach with butterflies. You pat his chest with the back of your hand, your expression softening. "Can't be mad at you, rookie," you mutter. "You're too cute."
He blinks in surprise, a blush spreading up his neck. "You think I'm cute?"
You try not to smile, rolling your eyes playfully. "C'mon, we need to find a way to get that cell open," you say, brushing past him to leave the jail.
"I think you're cute, too," he whispers as he trails after you.
It should have been simple. Find the electrical components to reroute the power in the jail, open up the cells, grab the parking garage pass, and get the hell out of the station.
Easy peasy.
Until you encounter a massive, hulking figure with skin a sickly blue mottled with scars, it’s dressed in a leather trench coat and a black hat, resembling a human, but it very clearly isn't. You think you've found what killed the reporter—or rather, it found you.
"Jesus Christ," Leon stammers as he reels backward, watching as it lifts the helicopter like it weighs nothing.
"What the fuck is that thing?" you question.
When Leon shoots off its hat, you think it starts to walk faster.
"I don't think it liked that," you say with wide eyes.
"Nope, definitely not."
It moves deliberately, too precise to be considered a mindless creature driven solely by instinct like the normal undead or Lickers. Its heavy footsteps boom behind you as you dash through the station's halls, and you pull Leon through a door, one you remember leading to a room with two exits. Before Leon can try to run toward the other door, you snatch him by his belt, scrambling behind an overturned desk and pulling him down with you.
"God, he's moving like we owe him money," you mutter.
He hauls you between his legs, wrapping one arm around you as you curl into him, while the other hand covers your mouth to silence your heavy breathing. The door you just went through suddenly swings open with a bang, making you both recoil, and you can feel Leon tense behind you as sweat beads on your brow.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
The footsteps stomp through the room, pausing only briefly, before you hear the other door open and close, disappearing down the hall deeper into the station. Neither of you moves right away, too afraid that one small move might give away your position. Then, after what feels like forever, Leon's hold on you loosens, and you both finally allow yourselves to slowly exhale.
His cheek rests against the top of your head. "You okay?" he asks, arm still protectively enveloping you.
"Only a minor heart attack," you answer. "Nothing I can't walk off." He laughs softly, and you can feel the rumble in his chest behind you. You cant your head back to look at him, not realizing how close he'd be. You can feel his breath on your lips as you ask, "Are you okay?"
In the dark room with just the moonlight streaming through the window, you think you see his eyes flick down to your lips for a moment before he nods slowly. "Yeah," he whispers, swallowing thickly like he's got a mouth full of honey. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"Okay," you murmur back, and a part of you—a very large part—wants to tip your chin up and close the gap between you. But the more sensible side wins out as you lean back, Leon chasing after you, maintaining the tempting distance. "We should get moving." There's no real urgency in your voice, and any resolve you hoped to convey wavers under his stare.
"Yeah," he breathes in agreement, even if his expression is tinted with disappointment, and his thumb traces circles against the soft skin of your arm.
Using every ounce of self-control, you extract yourself from him, standing and adjusting your backpack. Quietly, you head toward the door you entered, hoping that the monster will stay occupied elsewhere in the station for a while, when Leon whispers your name, catching your attention.
He grabs you by your jaw as you turn to peer at him, and the warmth of his lips against your forehead causes the rest of your face to heat up. Even as he pulls away, his hands continue to cradle you like you're something worth keeping. "Do you think—" His voice cracks, and you only find it endearing. "—Do you think when all of this is over, we could get dinner or something?"
You nod, a smile growing on your face—it's something to plan for, something to look forward to. "Yeah," you whisper. "I think I'd like that a lot."
He grins, and it feels like entire universes are collapsing inside of you at the sight. You find yourself once again praying to a god you don't believe in for the first time in two years, hoping that the man in front of you survives this and maybe, selfishly, hoping you survive too.
The trek through the station slowed to a crawl when you realized that making too much noise alerted the large, trenchcoat-clad creature to your presence—Tyrant, as you learn it's called when you finally manage to open the reporter's cell. He had written a note about it and how it's being used to hunt down witnesses to the events that transpired in Raccoon City—meaning you and Leon.
Whoever is behind this doesn't intend to allow any survivors.
With the parking garage pass in your possession, you and Leon weave your way through the undead that are beginning to swarm out from the now open cells, all the while avoiding the Tyrant as it chases after you. As you rush out into the parking garage, the door slamming open with a bang, you hear him yell out your name as something crashes through the wall beside you.
The first thing you're aware of is the iron grip around your throat, and the second is that you're hanging in the air, your feet scrambling to find purchase on solid ground now three feet below you as you desperately claw at the Tyrant's arm, trying to make it let go. You hear the pop, pop, pop of gunfire, but it doesn't even flinch, and you're gasping for air, your vision darkening around the edges.
There's a bright flash of light and the roar of an engine, then you're landing in a heap on the ground, wheezing as Leon rushes over to help you up and away from the Tyrant, now crushed between the wall and the S.W.A.T. van. As you shakily stand up, Leon's hands firmly on your shoulder, Ada steps out.
"You owe me one," she teases, a smirk on her lips, but it shifts into a scowl as the Tyrant begins to move. "God, nothing stays dead down here." You flinch back as she presses a button on the small remote in her hand, and the van explodes in a burst of flames, taking the Tyrant with it, though you doubt it'll stay down for long.
You're scowling as you hold up the parking garage pass. "Consider this your payment," you croak out, and Leon takes it from you, his hand hovering at your back as you all head toward the terminal.
As you all watch the grated shutter covering the exit start to rise, you realize that escape still doesn't feel any closer.
You don't think twice, stepping in front of the gun pointed at the little girl. "We need to terminate her before she turns," Ada says—her tone is callous, indifferent. Like she is talking about a lame horse and not a child.
"'Terminate'? That's my fucking daughter," the man grinds out, his own weapon drawn, ready to defend his family.
She doesn't acknowledge him; her focus is solely on you. "Step aside," she orders you, pointedly ignoring the fact that Leon is urging her to lower her weapon as well.
"You know I'm not going to do that." You see the shadow of her eyes behind the sunglasses, fixated on you as if she's searching for something. There's no change in her expression, not even a slight twitch of her lips, so you don't know if she finds what she is looking for.
"You're a doctor, you know what happens," she says.
"I do," you reply with a solemn nod, but even then, you don't move. Your gaze shifts to Leon, who is watching this unfold with a furrowed brow and a frown on his lips. His gun firmly in his hand, and you wonder for a moment what he would do if Ada shot you—if he would turn his weapon on her, the supposed F.B.I. agent.
Where, then, would his duty lie?
"You're a doctor?" the man asks from behind you.
I am, you confirm without turning around. It's a tense moment as you meet Ada's gaze again, watching the way her hand briefly tightens around her gun's grip before slowly lowering it.
"Is there… Is there anything you can do?" He knows the answer, but he still hopes anyway.
"No," you reply, and that's when you finally turn your head to look at him. "There's nothing I can do." The neutral demeanor you've trained yourself to keep when delivering bad news slips off your face as you regard him and his daughter with sorrow.
He takes a deep breath in—it stutters in his chest, and he nods sadly with acceptance. Behind him, his daughter rasps out, "Daddy…"
"Yeah, Emmie," he says as he kneels in front of her. "Daddy's here. I'm here, okay?" He holds her close, and you think of your own father and how he'd never held you with such gentleness. You're glad for the little girl, that she knows the love of a father and not the cruelty of one.
Leon tentatively steps forward beside you. The man turns his gaze to him, misplaced anger morphing onto his face. "You're a cop, you're supposed to know something—how did this happen? Huh?!"
"Mommy?" the girl chokes out.
And just like that, the anger crumbles away. "Mommy's sleeping, honey, okay? And I'm gonna put you to bed too, okay?" You can only watch with a lump in your throat as he picks her up, carrying her back inside before turning to consider you all. "Just go… just give us some privacy."
When the door shuts, Leon turns to Ada, frustration and anger twisting up his features. "It's one thing to keep the truth from us, but why from him?" You wince when the gunshot goes off, inhaling sharply and trying not to think about how that sound—this moment—will stay with you for the rest of your life. "I want to find out what's happening here. And stop whoever's behind it. People like them are the whole reason I joined the force."
You watch her eyes dart to you from behind her sunglasses. "And what about you?" she asks.
Disdain creeps onto your face. "And what about me?" you repeat back.
She quirks an eyebrow. "Did you not take an oath to help people as well?"
She's not as sly as she thinks she is—using your bleeding heart against you. You hate that you know you're about to agree.
You want to help.
It's a feeling that grips you so tightly you feel your bones ache with it. Even still, it feels bitter, spiteful, as you ground out, "Yes."
"My mission is to take down Umbrella's entire operation," she finally says, and she looks back and forth between the two of you. "We may not make it out."
"Whatever it takes to save this city, count me in," Leon firmly answers.
You study his profile—this version of Leon Kennedy, the rookie cop, cementing into your mind, idealistic and good.
Isn't that what you are, too, though?
You thought you were.
"If I'm rotten, so are you, sweetheart," your father's voice cackles in your ear. "Apple don't fall far."
The taste of spite fills your mouth—it's acrid and sharp—rotten like you. You swallow it down anyway.
When Leon looks at you with blue eyes full of determination, you capitulate under the weight of his gaze and nod your acquiescence. You don't have the heart to tell him this city is already lost.
Unease builds up in you as Leon prepares to drop into the sewer way below. "Be careful," you urge as you pat his shoulder. He glances back at you, nodding. "And don't get any of it in your mouth." When he jumps down, he sputters a bit, and you glare over the edge at him. "What did I just say?"
He surveys the area before peering back up at you and Ada. "Are you sure this is the right way?" he asks her.
"Unfortunately," she answers, and somewhere further down the waterway, a rumbling noise reverberates through the air.
"Wait there," he orders, and you watch with disbelief as he delves further into the dark of the sewer.
"Leon," you caution, skin prickling with anxiety.
The sound continues, growing louder as an enormous beast breaks through the sewer, a giant mutated reptile—perhaps an alligator. Meanwhile, Leon stands there, barely managing a small, "Jesus Christ."
"Hey, time to run now!" you yell, snapping him out of his stupor as he spins on his heel and starts to run, the beast lumbering toward him.
"Come on," Ada says to you as she backtracks along the walkway, both of you watching through the grated floor to keep an eye on Leon as he is chased by the creature.
"Why the fuck is there a mutated alligator in the sewers?" you ask.
"Same reason there are undead roaming the city," she replies before gesturing to the right. "This way."
An explosion echoes through the watercourse, and worry clings to you until you round the corner and see Leon in one piece down below, the remnants of the beast smoldering behind him. You breathe a sigh of relief, kicking the release on the ladder nearby. "Are you alright?" you ask as he climbs up.
"Peachy," he says, lip curling up in disgust as he shakes his boot, full of sewer water.
You, unfortunately for him, don't take his word for it, making him stand there while you check him over for any injuries. He doesn't even have the heart to wave you off and just watches with a smile as you sign off and declare him okay to proceed.
While you follow Ada, she tells you about the scientist she's tracking, Annette, who is responsible for making viruses for Umbrella to sell as weapons. For the first time, you consider the fact that there might be more than one virus at play: one that reanimates corpses and another that mutates people.
It makes your skin crawl.
You can feel Leon's eyes fall to you during her explanation, as if gauging your reaction to this information. Though your face remains indifferent, inside you're reeling at the news.
Spencer Memorial is a private hospital, and it's well known that it received significant financial support from the Umbrella Corporation during its construction in 1992. You were personally headhunted for your residency—you hadn't even applied there. In fact, you only applied to hospitals in the Northeast, hoping to stay close to where your brother attends college, but then you received an offer from Spencer Memorial with a number far above what most doctors could even imagine earning during their residency.
It was enough to get you a shitty little apartment in Raccoon City close to the hospital and to pay for your brother's college tuition—it was a no-brainer.
Now, though, you wonder if Umbrella had a hand in your recruitment, and if they did—what exactly did they want with you?
Fortunately, you're not able to ruminate on that thought too long, as your search for Annette is a short one.
She flees from you, yelling how she won't allow you to get your hands on the G-Virus, and as Ada pursues her through the corridor, shots ring out, and you can only watch in horror as Leon dives in front of her, taking a bullet to the shoulder. "Leon!" you yell as he hits the ground in a heap, crying out in pain.
You're sliding on your knees next to him in the same breath, and Ada's gaze dips down briefly, her eyes falling to you as you roll Leon over, like she's assessing whether you have this covered. "Go," you say as you dig through your bag.
She doesn't need any more convincing, disappearing down the hall, and as she goes, you think you hear her talking to someone. If you weren't so worried about Leon, you might suspect something, but your mind filters out the noise of unimportant thoughts—your only concern right now is Leon.
Leon exhales your name as you lay out your medical supplies on the floor beside you. "Yeah, rookie," you murmur. "I'm here."
"Did I get shot?" he asks with a wince.
You give him a disbelieving stare as you haul him up into a sitting position, despite his pained gasps. Pain is good—pain means he's still alive. "What do you think, idiot?" you ask.
"I think… I think I got shot," he confirms through gritted teeth.
You quickly cut through the sleeve of his uniform to get a clear visual of the wound, sighing in relief when you discern that the bullet went clean through. "You're a real MacGyver," you say.
He chuckles at you, though it turns into a sharp gasp as you begin to disinfect it. You mutter an apology to him, but don't stop until you've flushed the hole. He watches you the entire time, the intense focus that makes you seem more severe than he's seen you so far—for a moment, he imagines what you must be like in the hospital when you're in your element.
You must be a good doctor, he thinks.
As you start to pack gauze around the injury, he quietly says, "I'm glad you're here."
You snort as you wrap his shoulder to secure the bandages with tape. "Someone needs to patch you up," you say.
"I'm glad it's you, though," he reiterates. You tip your chin to peer up at him, realizing how close you are, and he rests his forehead against yours. His eyes flutter closed as he breathes in deeply—like this is a moment he wants to savor. "I… wouldn't want to be going through this with anyone else."
As he pulls away, you smile tenderly at him, the confession making your chest flutter. "Yeah, me neither," you say. "Don't think I could've done all this alone, to be honest."
"You could've," he assures tiredly. "You're so smart. You could do anything."
You lean up, pressing a kiss to his forehead, not caring that it's covered in sweat and grime. "Rest for a bit, and then we'll go after Ada."
There's pink tinging his cheeks as you draw away, giving the wrapped wound another once over, before starting to repack your bag.
"What do you make of all that?" he asks suddenly after a minute or two of silence. "Umbrella, Annette…"
"I don't know," you admit, as you sit next to him. "But I certainly don't think we're getting the full story from Ada."
He frowns, but not because he disagrees with you—more because he agrees and wishes he didn't. "She said she was F.B.I."
"People can say they're a lot of things," you comment with a shrug of your shoulders. You observe him for a moment—he's so trusting, and you can only imagine the people who would use that to their advantage. "But—" You take a deep breath in. "—If you're determined to bring down whoever is behind this, then I'm with you—F.B.I. or not."
He considers you for a moment. "If it comes down to it, promise me you'll save yourself," he says.
You recoil back, eyes narrowing. "I'm not making that promise—" He tries to interrupt, but you keep talking. "—We either both get out, or we don't. I'm not promising to leave you behind, so don't ask me to."
He whispers your name like it's something precious—like you're something precious. Even in a city surrounded by so many unspeakable horrors, with him next to you, you don't feel so afraid. It's odd, the steady way your heart thrums in your chest as you make up your mind. You're both getting out of here, you determine, you're not going to let the undead, F.B.I. agents, or Umbrella scientists stop you from doing that.
"You're just like your daddy, ain't you, stubborn as all get out," you hear in your mind.
Your ears burn, and the urge to move—to not stay still—pulls you to your feet. "C'mon, we should go look for Ada."
"I'm going to take a really, really long shower when we get out of here," you say as you trek through the sloshing sewage. The smell has seeped deep into your sinuses, and you hoped you might get used to the awful odor, but then you catch a new layer to it, and bile rises in the back of your throat.
Leon laughs as he leads the way. "Got big plans after all of this is over?" he asks.
"Well, someone promised me dinner, so I figure it'd be in poor taste to show up smelling like runoff," you answer coyly.
"You could show up smelling like anything you want," he says.
You smile because you know he means it. "What about you, Officer Kennedy?" you question. "Anything besides dinner plans?"
The smile on his face softens into something sad. "No," he answers. You wonder what life was like for the rookie before this—you want to ask, but it almost feels wrong—like you're dredging up something he might not want to talk about.
Not like you're particularly keen to talk about your shitty dad.
"Kinda hard to think past all of this, huh?"
He nods, falling silent.
When you finally find Ada, it's looking down at her in a trash heap through a viewing window. She appears injured, with a piece of metal sticking out of her leg, and you're glad she's smart enough not to try to remove it.
The door down to the area she's in is locked, and, predictably, as with most things thus far tonight, opening it will be an ordeal. As you explore deeper into the sewers, you realize the inefficiency of Raccoon City's infrastructure. "Who thought this was a good idea?" you question incredulously as you glare at the electrical component with a chess piece at the end.
"I feel like I've been in Pee-wee's Playhouse since I got here," Leon admits with a chuckle.
You glance at him briefly—the image of Leon dressed as Pee-wee Herman flashing in your mind—and then you're cracking up, hand on your stomach, doubled over. "You know you're really funny," you say.
He smiles sheepishly. "I—uh—thanks."
The undead appears out of nowhere. Neither of you notices it until it has your arm in its mouth, teeth sinking into your skin. Reacting on instinct, you push your arm further into its mouth, like you do with a dog when they bite, more concerned about it ripping away with chunks of your skin and muscle. You have it backed against a wall, cringing in pain as it chomps into your arm, when Leon steps in, driving a knife through its skull to make it let go.
As he finished it off, you're already pouring antiseptic onto the bite, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes at the sting. "Fuck," you whisper out through gritted teeth.
"Oh no," Leon murmurs, and you can see the panic, the way his face crumbles like you're already gone. "No, no."
You're trying to staunch the bleeding, thankful it didn't appear to have hit any major veins or arteries. "It's alright," you assure.
"You said the virus could be transmitted through a bite," he says, a pained look on his face as he remembers. "Like with Marvin—"
"Leon, I'm okay," you interrupt. "I've been vaccinated."
He blinks. "…What?"
You were down to just a few staff members—most of the others were turned or killed outright by the monsters wandering the halls of Spencer Memorial Hospital. They were supposed to be working on a vaccine, but you hadn't heard anything from the immunology team in over a day. It was Dr. McKay who said she would brave the haunted corridors to see if she could reach Dr. Bard's office.
You tried to stop her from going.
When she returned, covered in blood with a bite mark on her neck, she waved off her colleagues' help. "Didn't find anything," she told you all, and that was that.
You stayed with her as the virus took hold, watching her weaken until even just lifting her head was a Sisyphean task. "You're a good kid," she said through wheezed breaths. "You're a good doctor."
Your eyes filled with tears, and your throat constricted. "Yeah, well, it helps when you have a good teacher," you replied softly.
She reached out, hand cupping your cheek, gazing at you with such kind eyes. Always so kind—the person in the E.D. you've always looked to as a guide for compassion and empathy. There was no better doctor than her, that you were sure of. Then you felt a sting on your arm, and when you glanced down, you saw she was injecting you with a syringe. "Dr. McKay, what—"
"Now you have a fighting chance," she said, eyes shining with unshed tears.
"That was—"
She nodded in reply, and you feel your lip quiver. "Only managed to get one dose," she explained.
"Why didn't you save yourself?" you whispered, voice cracking as tears streaked down your cheeks, as you grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her. "Why did you do that? Why?"
There was no trace of doubt on her face, just a peaceful acceptance as she smiled at you. "You're gonna get outta here," she murmured. "You're gonna live."
"So you're immune?" Leon asks as he delicately dresses the bite, and you do your best not to backseat doctor him.
"If the immunology team did their job, then yes," you answer. "Hey, not too bad." You lift your arm up to inspect his work—the bandage is a little tight, but better that than loose and falling off your arm. "Still time to change careers," you say with a grin, though you're still feeling a bit woozy from the amount of blood you lost.
He gives a snort. "I don't think I could hack it in medical school."
You study him with a hawkish gaze. "Yeah, you're probably right," you tease. "Bet you'd faint at your first degloving."
He pales, and you just laugh.
When you finally gather everything you need to unlock the door, a somber mood settles over you after discovering a nest of creatures that resemble the one you fought earlier with the gigantic eye, almost as if this virus has been festering under Raccoon City much longer than anyone realized. The beast makes another appearance, and as Leon tries to knock it off the platform he's standing on with a shipping crate, you take pot shots at it from above. Watching it fall into the darkness again, you have little hope that this will be the last time you see it.
"Ada?" you call out as you tramp through the piles of trash.
"Over here," she yells back.
When you find her, you crouch beside her, mind going straight into triage mode as you examine the piece of metal protruding from her thigh. "Can you move your toes?" you ask as you snap on some gloves, not like it much mattered, given how much filth you are in.
She nods with a wince. "Yeah," she confirms. "I can't get it out on my own."
"Probably for the best," you explain. "If it hit an artery, you could bleed out, but we won't know until we remove it."
"Wonderful," she says as she braces herself while you get a firm hold on it.
"On three," you instruct. "One, two—" You yank the piece of metal out, and she gasps in pain.
"I thought you said on three," she groans.
"The three was in my head," you explain as you inspect the wound. "Looks like you got lucky," you say as you dab it with antiseptic before beginning to bandage it.
"What happened to your arm?" she asks with a curious purse of her lips when she catches sight of the wrappings on your arm.
"Caught it on a sharp metal," you lie. "Good thing I'm up to date on my tetanus shot—" You glance down at her leg as you finish dressing it. "Hope you are, too."
"You two should get out of here," she urges. "While you can."
"Not getting rid of us that easily," Leon says. "We meant it—we want to help."
As she looks up at him, her gaze shifts to you like she's questioning if you hold the same sentiment, and you only raise your eyebrows as if to say 'What do you think?'
You stand, take off your gloves, and toss them aside as Leon extends a hand to Ada. She accepts it, allowing him to help her up.
"Grab my shoulder," he instructs.
"Don't push it, rookie," she shoots back, and you snort.
He holds his hands up sheepishly. "Just trying to help," he says.
"If I want help, I'll ask the doctor," she says, sending you a sly smirk and a wink that makes you roll your eyes with a smirk of your own as you shrug your backpack on. "We need to get to NEST."
"NEST?" Leon questions.
"It's the lab, it's right underneath us," Ada explains. "Annette let it slip. That's where the virus samples are."
You lean against the wall of the cable car, too afraid to sit down, fearing you won't be able to get back up if you do. Exhaustion weighs you down, running your bones ragged. Idly, you check your watch, realizing you've been awake for well over twenty-four hours—it's almost hard to believe that you started the day in the hospital; it feels like so long ago now.
Your mind wanders to Jill, and just the thought of her creates a lump in your throat. If Carlos didn't manage to find a vaccine, she would be gone by now. You close your eyes, inhaling, trying to force that possibility from your head.
She's fine, you tell yourself.
She has to be.
"You okay?" Leon asks as he stands in front of you; there's concern on his face as he observes you.
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Ada give you an inquisitive quirk of her brow.
"Tired," you answer before giving a weary grin. "Longest shift of my life."
He smiles tenderly at you. "We're almost done," he says as if he has any way of knowing that. "I can't wait for the F.B.I. to raid Umbrella's headquarters and bring those guys to justice."
You look at him, the sincerity so Leon that it almost pains you to think negatively, especially when you see Ada's gaze shift from you to him. "I agree… but to be clear, you're not working in an official capacity," she explains. "This is a federal case. Once we get the G-Virus, I'm back on my own."
This makes him frown. "Right," he murmurs.
"It's not a bad thing," she says. "You don't want to get mixed up with all of this."
"Feels like we already are," you comment. "That big guy that was stalking us around the station? He was sent specifically to take care of witnesses." You point between yourself and Leon. "Us? Yeah, we've witnessed a whole fucking lot." You feel the anger on your face. "And you haven't exactly been the most forthcoming with information—in fact, I feel like we've only just scratched the surface of what you really know. So, regardless of what you say—we're already involved."
She scowls. "Listen, I just need you both to secure the G-Virus, and then I can make sure what happened in Raccoon City never happens again," she says. "Trust me."
You hold her gaze, and it bothers you that you're not able to discern anything from it. She doesn't give a single thing away. You watch Leon, and his own conflict is written so clearly across his expression. "Fine," you say. "We'll get you the G-Virus, and then you get us the hell out of here."
She smirks. "Deal." As the cable car comes to a stop, she hands you the wristband she picked up in her pursuit of Annette, telling you it would give you access to the lab. "I'm counting on you two."
The lab—NEST—is a ghost town. The fact that this laboratory has been hidden beneath Raccoon City the entire time is unsettling, to say the least. You and Leon exchange looks as you venture through it, encountering the undead doctors and lab technicians that you skirt by, not wanting to waste valuable ammo.
There's a familiarity in the sterility of the lab that should make you feel at ease, but seeing the disarray the place is in only makes you feel like you're standing at ground zero.
"Can we catch a fucking break?" you mutter as you and Leon stare through the window into the room filled with overgrown plant life—God only knows what kind of weird experiment this is. You spot the wristband chip you need on the corpse wedged up against the glass inside, and your scowl only deepens.
"Maybe when we're dead," he jokes.
When the Tyrant appears again, you think for a second you might cry, but instead you run, briefly wondering if this is what your life will be, even if you do manage to escape—constantly running from one threat to another.
"What's the point of all this?" you ask as you and Leon finally find the lab where the samples should be stored. You're staring with a grimace at the mutations floating in large tubes like a fucked up art exhibit. "Create all these viruses and then what... the entire world population falls, and there's no one left to give a damn?"
He looks back at you, frowning. "I don't know," he says, but holds up a vial in his hand. "I think this is it, though."
You let out a sigh—not relief, not quite yet. "Great, let's get the hell out of here."
Then the alarms start going off, and you groan.
"Ah, c'mon," Leon mutters as he reaches a hand out for you. "Let's go."
You two don't make it very far as another familiar creature drops down from the ceiling, appearing larger than before, and with maybe a few extra limbs. "Why won't this thing just die?" you murmur as you level your shotgun to take aim at one of the numerous eyes it now has. Behind you, the door swishes open.
"Move," a voice orders—Annette. "He's mine." She shoots it with some sort of solution that brings the beast to its knees. "I'm sorry, William, you've left me no choice." With another shot, it collapses, letting out a noise reminiscent of agony.
"You called this thing 'William', why?" Leon asks as he kneels near it, despite your silent urging to maintain a safe distance.
Annette shakes her head, tears in her eyes. "It shouldn't have been like this," she says. "It's Umbrella's fault—this whole mess."
"You're Umbrella, too," he says with his eyes narrowed. "You're telling me you weren't involved in this?"
"Yes," she answers, not denying it. "But we never meant for this to happen."
"So how did this happen?" you question.
Annette recounts what happened to William—her husband—after the events captured on the tapes you and Leon found while exploring the lab. He was shot by Umbrella mercenaries after Umbrella discovered William was in talks with the U.S. military, intending to betray the corporation. He injected himself with a remaining sample of the G-Virus and turned into the monster before you.
"You made this monster then?" Leon asks.
She shakes her head. "We made the G-Virus, but we never intended this to—"
"You can spin it anyway you want," he interrupts.
You catch sight of the creature beginning to stir. "Back up," you order, snatching Leon by the scruff of his uniform and pulling him with you, but Annette isn't so fortunate, getting snatched up by it, and you can hear the bones in her body break. She lets out an agonized scream as it tosses her away, her body hitting the wall with a thud. With a roar, another arm sprouts from it, no longer even recognizable as what it used to be—human.
"Go," Leon says as he waves his hand at you.
"I know you're not talking to me," you say as you pump your shotgun. Your heart is pounding against your ears—you're afraid, but this time you wouldn't run from it. "I told you, we either both live or we both die." You hear him whisper your name, and you glance at him, smiling tightly. "Just one more fight, we can do this."
He nods with a determined set to his jaw. "Yeah." The lights around you flash red, and alarms begin to blare as the platform you're on with the monster starts to lower. "What are you doing?" Leon calls over to Annette, who is doubled over the control console.
"We can't let him get away!"
"Fuck," you mutter, and then Leon is urging you over the railing before following after you.
"Split up," he says as you both go your separate ways. The creature initially focuses on you, as if it still remembers your first encounter. It's easy to corner yourself in this place, and you're trying to stay out of its massive reach allowing Leon shoots at it from behind, while it's distracted.
It's a stupid mistake, overestimating how far you are from it, and you don't even register you've been hit until your body collides with one of the metal vats—the wind getting knocked right out of you. You're positive there's a rib or two that's broken and a ringing in your ear as your vision doubles. For a moment, you think you're going to be sick.
You think you hear Leon scream your name, but it's muffled as if you're underwater. You lie on the ground, watching through blurry eyes as it turns its attention to Leon; the only thought on your mind is how tired you are.
If you close your eyes now, it could all be over.
You've thought about dying a lot—of course you have—you imagine what it would feel like. Some people just slip away in a breath, and others go out kicking and screaming. You always figured that those who got to go peacefully had Lady Luck on their side—no pain, no fuss, just close your eyes, and then nothing.
Isn't that what everyone hopes? To just go quietly in the night?
With a small, broken sigh, your eyes flutter closed. The world around you feels distant—the hiss of steam and pop of gunshots so far away now that you can almost pretend they're not even there, just a dream you're about to wake from. Then you hear the footsteps amble up next to you—the sound is clear, present, here. It's the heavy stomp of steel-toed work boots, a familiar gait that would send a lick of fear up your spine when you heard the thud, thud, thud.
You're five years old, nine years old, fourteen years old, seventeen years old, and you're curled up in the corner of your childhood room. Your hands are trembling as you cover your bruised and bloodied face, and you don't call out for help because you know no one is coming. He squats down in front of you, reeking of tobacco and cheap beer.
"C'mon, girl, get up… acting like you ain't never taken a punch before," he scoffs. "Didn't raise you to be a chickenshit."
You gasp for air, the taste of blood in your mouth as your eyes snap open. With gritted teeth, you pry yourself from the floor, crying out as a sharp pain shoots up your side, but even still, you keep going. You need to get up. The sounds of a battle focus in around you, the creature bellowing out as it attacks Leon, who stumbles just out of its reach.
Your feet are unsteady beneath you, but you stumble forward anyway, shakily holding up your gun, the one Carlos gave you.
You are twenty-three years old, and you are not scared of the monster in front of you because you were raised by one.
You fire off a round, and it screeches. When Leon's eyes catch yours from across the way, you think you see tears glimmering in them, and then you're both back to it. It's him who deals the final blow, shoving a grenade into its maw when it grabs at him, and as it crumples to the ground—hopefully for good this time—you're both left standing there, breathing heavily.
He considers you—a silent question of if you're okay—and you give him a weak thumbs-up, and the next thing you know, he's crossing the distance between you, clutching you carefully by the shoulders, even though he wants nothing more than to embrace you. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb tracing against the contour of your cheek.
"I—I thought—" he stammers, nose red as his bottom lip quivers. "I'm so glad you're okay."'
You place a reassuring hand on his chest. "Don't worry," you wheeze. "I'm built to last.
He laughs weakly, wiping away the tears with the back of his hand, before the two of you make your way over to the lift to take you back up, finding Annette propped up against the wall. You go to crouch down to help her, but she waves you off, as if she's already accepted what comes next.
When she tells you to destroy the G-Virus sample, Leon shakes his head. "No, it's evidence. It's going to the F.B.I."
This is the moment, you realize, when those loose threads finally come undone. "You trust that bitch?" Annette chuckles bitterly.
His brows furrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"She's not F.B.I., she's a mercenary," she says, and there's not even an ounce of you that thinks she's lying—why would she? What is left for her to gain here? "She's gonna sell it—the G-Virus is gonna go to the highest bidder."
"That's bullshit," Leon argues—the rookie cop, always wanting to believe the best in people.
Annette slumps over, holding her side. "I hope you're right."
Above, the automated voice warns that the self-destruct sequence has been initiated and you're pulling Leon away, leaving Annette to her fate. "We should destroy it," you say.
"What? You believe her?"
"Leon," you maintain with as gentle a tone as you can. "You know I haven't trusted Ada from the start, and… best case scenario, we set the F.B.I. back a few months in an ongoing investigation… worst case scenario, we just put a catastrophic bioweapon into the hands of a mercenary."
He's quiet as you two hurry through the lab, contemplating your words.
When you reach the main hub of the lab, you're not as surprised as you should be as you watch Ada walk toward you and Leon, concern pinching at her brow—you almost think it's sincere. "I was getting worried," she says as the lab begins to collapse around you.
"I gotta ask you something," Leon says.
It's like she doesn't hear him. "The way's clear. Please, tell me you got it."
"Yeah, we got it," you murmur.
She approaches, holding her hand out. "Let me verify the G sample, and we'll get the hell out of here," she says.
"Before we do that, we ran into Annette," Leon says, and you spot the subtle shift on Ada's face—the mask slipping. "She claims you're not F.B.I."
Ada exhales loudly, giving you both a look like she's the one disappointed. You're less surprised when she pulls out her gun. Leon shifts so he's in front of you, holding the G-Virus sample behind him for you to take before drawing his own weapon. "Why couldn't you just hand over the sample?" she asks.
"Because I realized even if I wanted to trust you," he answers. "I don't."
You grasp the vial—the weight of the decision in your hands feels crushing, with billions of lives at stake. Could you risk that? You swallow, tightening your grip, and you think of your brother—safe and sound, far away, but for how long if this gets into the wrong hands?
"I really hoped it wouldn't end up like this," Ada says.
"Maybe you should have thought about that before treating us like pawns," he retorts.
"Look, I'm just doing my job," she argues, cocking her head.
"And I'm doing mine, so drop that damn gun!" Leon orders. "I'm taking you in."
Not even a foot behind you, the catwalk begins to collapse, and you're barely able to plant your feet as Leon tilts his head back to make sure you're okay. Over his shoulder, Ada catches your eye. "Hand over the sample," she orders. When you glance over the edge to the chasm below, she notices it, the contemplation on your face. She hisses your name like it's a warning. "Don't."
"Put the gun down, then," you say, and then outstretch your hand so the sample dangles over the abyss. "Or I'll drop it."
There's a moment when she's weighing her options. With a heavy exhale, she lowers her gun, and just as she does, a shot hits her in the shoulder. With wide eyes, you turn to see Annette leaning against a wall, gun in hand. "Now no one gets it," she mutters.
Then, the worst thing happens.
You feel the floor beneath you give. You're grasping for something, anything, as you feel yourself slide, barely managing to hook your fingers on the grates—the sample of the G-Virus clatters against the ground, rolling until it flies over the edge—falling down, down, down.
Leon clenches his teeth as he grips Ada's wrist. Behind him, he hears you gasp his name, and he peers over his shoulder to see you struggling to hold on to the failing platform.
"Let go," Ada urges as she stares up at him—like she knows the heartache he would endure if he allowed you to fall. "You can't save us both."
"No, I can save you both, I—" Tears gather in his eyes as he tries to haul her up, but the platform drops even more, barely hanging on now, and he hears your panicked noise as you feel your hold giving.
"Take care of yourselves, okay?" she says, and he doesn't even have time to protest as she slips from his grasp, and then she's falling down, down, down.
Leon doesn't linger—he can't, or he'll lose you too; instead, he's scrambling to the other side of the platform, grabbing you under your arms, and heaving you up into his. "I got you, I got you," he assures as he practically carries you to the elevator. "C'mon, we gotta get outta here."
"Ada?" you question.
He pauses—you hadn't seen her fall. "Gone" is the only thing he manages to say.
He doesn't see how your expression turns somber—how you wanted to be wrong about her.
When you reach the bottom, it's Claire's face that pops up on the control room monitor. You allow hope to bloom in your chest—you're so close.
The voice overhead keeps track of the self-destruct countdown, and you're moving as quickly as you can with your shotgun ready—there's no time to fight your way through the undead that are beginning to crop up; instead, you and Leon carve out holes for yourself to move through.
"Is this a fucking joke?" he grumbles as the Tyrant jumps down in front of you two.
"The worst fucking joke in history," you say, out of breath and entirely sick of Raccoon City.
You and Leon sit on the platform between the train cars, breathing heavily. "Thanks," he pants after you practically dragged him up beside you when he was trying to jump on as it was moving.
"Don't expect that feat of strength from me ever again," you joke weakly.
He lets out a huff of laughter, bumping your shoulders together in a way that makes both of you groan in pain. Your hands remain clasped, and his gaze drops — taking in the dried blood around your knuckles and how your fingernails are crusted with dirt and grime. They look the same as his, and he tightens his grip on you, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Then, your eyes catch each other's at the same time. For the first time all night, the world around you doesn't matter, and the only thing you can think about is the gentle slope of his nose and how soft his lips look.
He slants his head to the side, and his other hand comes up to cup your jaw. This time, you don't deny yourself; instead, you bridge the gap between you. The moment your lips touch, you can't think about anything else other than Leon Kennedy and the goosebumps that prickle along your skin.
The kiss starts gently, like he's afraid he's going to hurt you, but you can feel the desperation in the way he angles his body, and how his breath hitches in his throat. One of your hands grips the fabric of his uniform at his waist, as if trying to anchor yourself to him as you lick his bottom lip. He gasps out your name, and you can feel his touch becoming more insistent, hand sliding from your jaw to your neck, drawing you even closer to him, and soon it feels like you're trying to devour each other.
When you finally break away from each other, he breathes in deeply against your lips. "I've wanted to do that all night," he admits.
You don't know that anyone else has ever considered with such tenderness. It fans a flame inside of you that you did not know was lit, and you tilt your chin up, pecking him on the lips. "Me too," you whisper, cheeks flushed at the confession.
"So, got any plans Friday?" he questions, thumb tracing your jawline.
Tears well up in your eyes as you laugh. "No," you say as you sniff. "I think I'm free."
He smiles, slotting his mouth against yours once more, kissing you once, and then twice, before he nudges his forehead against yours. "C'mon, let's get inside."
Relief floods you when you see Claire standing inside the traincar, and she appears equally as relieved to see you and Leon. There's a little girl with her—Sherry—Annette and William's daughter. At Claire's behest, you examine Sherry, but besides a healthy dose of mental trauma from the events of the past few days, you give her the all clear.
When you all feel the train rock, you peek over to Leon, meeting his worried gaze from across the train car.
"You two stay with Sherry," Claire orders as she goes to investigate the noise.
William Birkin turns out to be pretty fucking persistent. You're holding Sherry while Leon tries to uncouple the cars that are being consumed by the mutated Birkin while Claire riddles it with bullets from a minigun.
"Got it!" Leon yells. "Claire, c'mon!"
As Claire jumps back across, you all watch as the traincar Birkin fused with is caught in the explosion of the lab's self-destruct. You can feel the heat of the flames on your face even as you move farther from it, but soon it becomes just a speck in the distance. A collective sigh of relief fills the air.
Sometime later, Claire sits on the floor next to you. You're leaning your head against the wall, eyes closed, teetering on the edge of sleep, being gently lulled closer and closer by the constant rocking of the train.
"I'm just resting my eyes," you told Leon, who smiled at you like he definitely didn't believe you before kissing your forehead.
When you feel her presence, you peek an eye open, humming an incomprehensible greeting.
"You were right," she says as she peers up at the ceiling. "Chris wasn't in Raccoon City."
You blink, letting your head fall forward before glancing at her from the corner of your tired eyes. "Got any idea where he might be?" you ask.
She nods with a tight-lipped smile. "Europe," she answers.
You find yourself thinking of Jill once more. If she got out of Raccoon City, you had no doubt she'd be meeting up with Chris. "When you find him, and if Jill's with him, can you let her know I made it out?"
"Of course," she says.
Silence falls between the two of you, and you look over to where Leon is occupying Sherry with a very riveting game of rock, paper, scissors. "Listen," you say quietly. "When we're clear of the mountains, if you want any shot at finding Chris, you need to get as far away from here as you can."
Her brows pinch together with confusion. "What, why?" she questions.
"There was just a large-scale outbreak of a lethal virus—the government is going to be picking up and vetting survivors to ensure they contain the spread," you explain. "You have a better shot of evading them by yourself."
Her gaze shifts to Sherry, who's laughing as she wins another round—you have no doubt Leon is actually trying his hardest to win, judging by the small pout on his lips. "What about her?" she asks. "I can't just leave her."
"We'll look after her the best we can," you say before sighing. "With her parents gone and what you told me about the G-Virus, they might put her into federal custody—"
"Wait, what?"
You shrug your shoulders, not with indifference, but rather the knowledge of an expected outcome. "With the vaccine that was used on her, she's a precious commodity to the government now." You can see from Claire's expression that your words haven't eased any of her worries. "It'll be alright," you whisper as you place a comforting hand on her shoulder. "We've survived the worst of it."
"Yeah," she nods. "Thank you. Take care of them, okay?"
You follow her gaze, stare catching onto the smile on Leon's face as he finally wins a round.
You're picked up by federal agents forty miles from Raccoon City.
There's no resisting—it's something you knew would happen. They take you to a government facility somewhere in the Midwest. They draw blood, collect saliva and hair samples—every part of you is poked and prodded before you're thoroughly interviewed about your time in the city.
You tell them what they want to know—you don't mention Jill, or Claire, or Carlos, or Ada.
And then you're given an ultimatum, and you know it's because you're more valuable to them alive than dead—but that doesn't mean they would have qualms about killing you.
They threaten your brother, they threaten Leon, they threaten Sherry.
You're not stupid, though. You counter their terms with your own—you're not operating at a net negative with this deal. If they expected you to work for them after threatening anyone they could think of, you're going to make sure you get something out of this and more.
You're allowed to talk to Sherry before they move her to another site, claiming she'd be put into state custody.
She's upset, reasonably so, but she's such a smart kid. "Will I get to see you and Leon?" she asks. She doesn't mention Claire—knows not to when there are cameras everywhere, and you hope Claire is halfway to Europe by now.
You nod as you smooth her hair back from her face. "Yeah," you confirm. "We'll be able to visit you. I made sure of that."
And you did; it is part of your agreement that you and Leon should be allowed to visit her at least once a month. If they think you're a soft-hearted woman for wanting to be there to comfort a child, then so be it, because that's exactly what you are. She’s a little girl who just lost her parents and went through something so unimaginably horrible that she needs people in her life who don't just view her as a test subject.
"Be strong, okay?" you say, even if it feels unfair to ask that of her.
She puts on a stiff upper lip, and you know she's going to be fine. "Okay."
They let you call your brother after that. The phone rings only once before he picks up, and when you hear his voice on the other end, you immediately burst into tears. You hear him say your name like a breath of relief, and then he starts to cry.
He never cried; not since he was barely knee-high, not even when your father died—especially not when your father died. He tells you he's been calling around for days now, trying to locate you using the hotlines set up for family and friends to find those displaced by the outbreak and who managed to evacuate.
When you tell him you stayed to help, he lets out a watery laugh of disbelief. "Of course you did, you fucking idiot," he says.
You smile, cradling the receiver against your ear, and even though he can't see you, you nod. "Yeah," you huff out—shaky and tearful. "Yeah, I'm a fucking idiot."
You're not allowed to talk for long; you suppose they're worried you'll give away something if you speak for too long, but you tell him you're okay and that you'll call him again when you're able. You don't want to hang up, but when you do, you sit there staring at the phone for a long while.
With the proverbial collars firmly around your neck, they loosen the slack on yours and Leon's leashes. They put you up in a hotel for the night, promising that an agent will return in the morning to escort you to the airport for your flight back to the capital, though you have no doubt that there are several agents strategically stationed around the hotel, as if either of you would be stupid enough to try running.
You check in using fake names and IDs provided by the federal government, an extra precaution they claim, and receive your room keys—your room is a floor below Leon's, you notice as he takes his key from the woman at the front desk.
As you stand beside him in the elevator, he's silent, but so are you. You gaze at your distorted reflection in the metal walls of the elevator. This is the first time you've been alone together since you were picked up from a shabby gas station off the interstate. Something feels off—you can sense it from the way his eyes are downturned, how hopelessly he clutches the duffel bag filled with the personal belongings he was allowed to keep.
You wonder what they told him—what kind of deal they made him.
Your focus falls on him—he seems like a different person, you realize. Not just because he's no longer covered in sweat, grime, and blood, but there's something in the way he's standing.
You wonder if you look different, too—if this is what you'll be reduced to: the person you were before Raccoon City, the person you were during Raccoon City, and the person you are after Raccoon City. Your gaze shifts away, watching the numbers above the elevator door rise, until a tiny ding sounds, indicating you've reached your floor.
You step out of the elevator, preparing to turn to say goodbye to Leon, but he exits with you. "Leon?" you question softly.
The elevator door closes with a fwoosh, and his eyes stay fixed on the ground as if he can't bear to look at you. "Can I sleep in your room?" he asks.
Your heart twists at how small he sounds. "Yeah," you answer, and even though you want to reach out to him, you don't, as if he's a scared animal you're afraid you'll spook. "Of course."
He stays close behind you as you head to your room, a steady presence at your back as you unlock the door, almost guiding you inside, the cool blast of hotel air conditioning hitting your face immediately to counter the heat on your spine.
There's a thud as you toss your own bag to the floor near the entrance, and Leon does the same after closing the door, flicking the latch closed. When you turn to him, you find yourself being herded against the wall. You breathe out his name as his hands come up to cradle your cheeks.
He kisses you like he's drowning and you're air—like it's the only thing that will save him. It's desperate and heartbreaking. Your fingers curl into his shirt—it's baggy on his frame, a stark white color that almost feels clinical. He breathes you in as you exhale, tipping onto the balls of your feet to deepen the kiss.
"Thought I wasn't going to see you again," he whispers against your mouth, voice hoarse, and you note the tears welling up at his waterline.
His fingertips trace over the scrapes on your face, sliding down to your neck, where the skin is a bruised purple from where the Tyrant grabbed you in the parking garage. You see his chin quiver, and you reach up, taking his hand in yours and lacing your fingers together. "I'm right here," you murmur.
His nostrils flare, as if he's trying not to cry, and he kisses you again—harder this time, his other hand slipping under your shirt to rest on your hip as he pulls you close. You let out a shaky breath as he swipes his tongue against your lower lip, begging for entry with a whimper. When you open your mouth, he licks inside, eager to taste you, and nearly moans as he tilts his hips up into yours, and you can feel the hardening against your thigh.
The hand on your hip moves higher, careful as they brush against your ribs, and you instinctively flinch back from the touch. "I'm sorry," he apologizes quickly, starting to pull back.
You shake your head. "No, you didn't hurt me," you say, and stop him from moving away. "Just reflex."
Still, he's even more gentle as he traces along the edge of your bra, and when he kisses from your mouth to your cheek, then down to your neck, sucking at the sensitive skin there, fire burns hot in your core, and you gasp, eyes fluttering closed.
His hand slips past the waistband of your pants, and when he feels how wet you are, he leans his forehead against the junction of your neck, whining out, "Fuck."
There's no pretense as he yanks your pants down along with your underwear. You feel your cheeks heat up as they fall to your ankles, and he helps you step out of them before tugging his own pants down just enough to free his cock. He thrusts against you, wetting it with the slick of your cunt, and you can feel him shuddering at the sensation. When he grinds against your clit with the underside of his cock, you bite your lip to keep from moaning.
Grasping the back of your thigh, he lifts it up, forcing you onto your tiptoes with your other foot as he spreads you out for him. With another drag of his cock—a slow and arduous down and up—the tip catches at your entrance, and he slides in with one smooth motion.
It leaves you both gasping—Leon moaning out your name as he buries his head into the crook of your neck, and you clutching his shoulders, trying to find purchase on something as he starts to rock his hips—he doesn't even wince when you accidentally grip where he was shot, too focused on the way your pussy tightens around him.
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the nearly dark hotel room, your own breathless moans and gasps joining in. A dizzying sensation builds in your abdomen and spreads through the rest of your body, numbing your toes and making it harder and harder to keep yourself upright, but Leon supports you, the muscles in his arms straining with each thrust.
A thin sheen of sweat coats his skin, and as he pulls you up just a little higher on the wall, adjusting the angle, your nose scrunches up with pleasure as you let out a small, choked 'oh'. His cock twitches at the sound, and he reaches up with his other hand to cradle the back of your head, preventing it from hitting the wall as his hips snap into yours, rougher now.
"Shit, Leon," you gasp.
"Say it again," he begs as he feels his balls tighten with his rapidly approaching orgasm, the way your cunt clenches around him with every drag of his cock edges him even closer.
"Leon," you moan.
He buries his nose against your throat, clumsily kissing your neck while softly whimpering your name, hips trembling as he cums. He doesn't stop until he's fully emptied inside of you, and as he gradually comes to a stop, he's left heavily panting against your shoulder.
You bite your lip, an ache still in your core at not having reached your own end, which he quickly realizes. "I—" he breathes out. "You didn't, I—"
You shake your head, fingers combing through his hair. "It's okay," you assure, wincing a bit as he carefully pulls out and lowers your leg.
"No, it's not," he murmurs as he kisses you, keeping you wedged between him and the wall.
"Really, it's—"
He drops to his knees before you can finish your sentence. Heat floods your face, a flush creeping up from your chest as you stammer his name. "Shut up," he says with no real bite to his voice as he spreads you with two fingers, licking his own cum that's dripping from you before you can protest further.
He groans as his nose nudges into the hair between your legs, tongue sliding through folds—the heady taste of you and him mixing together as his fingertips dig into your plush thighs. The coil in your stomach starts to tighten as he eats you out.
"Ah, Leon," you gasp when his tongue plunges into your cunt, like he's trying to lick out the rest of his cum. Your fingers weave through his hair, gripping it at the root. Even though he whimpers at the pressure, he doubles his efforts, noises growing obscene.
He's messy, his chin dripping down his neck with cum and saliva, and he thinks the scent of your pussy could drive a man to madness. What he lacks in technique, he makes up for in voracity, diving in like a man starved. When he throws one of your legs over his shoulder—his good one—he's practically whimpering into your pussy as he plunges two fingers into you, relishing in the way your walls flutter around them and how you moan his name.
"Shit, right there," you pant out as he crooks his fingers in a way that makes your toes curl. "Leon, fuck."
He can feel his cock twitching to life again—hardening against his inner thigh, and he reaches down, wrapping his hand around it, expediting the process. He whines when he feels the way you begin to tense, working his hand up and down his shaft as he hears your moans pitch up.
As you tilt your head back, your vision floods with white, hips grinding onto Leon's face, and he lets you—welcomes it. He doesn't stop until you're nearly sliding down the wall boneless, and only then does he pull away. Your chest heaves as you struggle to breathe in the aftermath, peering down at Leon, who is still on his knees, chin glistening and lips swollen from his efforts. You tug him by the collar of his shirt to get him to stand, and like an obedient dog eager to please their owner, he does.
He doesn't hesitate to press another kiss to your mouth, and you don't mind the taste on his lips as he does—your head still in the clouds from your orgasm. "Was that okay?" he murmurs.
You're nodding, eyes half-lidded as you hum out 'mhm'.
He smiles against your lips. "Can I fuck you again?" he asks, voice low in a way that sends a tingle straight to your cunt even having just cum.
When you bob your head, he pulls back just enough to shuck off his own clothes before pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it elsewhere in the hotel room. You giggle when he struggles to unclasp your bra, taking pity on him and doing it yourself, all the while he mutters an embarrassed 'shut up' into your hairline as he kisses your temple.
He walks you over to the bed, arms wrapped around your waist as he leads you from behind, kissing up and down your neck. Gingerly, he guides you onto the bed, taking extra care as he lays you down, being mindful of your ribs as he climbs in between your legs. Leaning down, he kisses you delicately—slowly, as if he can finally take his time.
You arch into him, feeling the thickness of him against your thigh, and he tilts his hips, giving you the friction you're desiring. He pulls back, fingertips tracing the contours of your cheekbones as he gazes down at you. "You're so pretty," he says, like it physically pains him.
Your face flushes. "Leon—"
"I'm serious," he murmurs against your lips as his hand trails down to cup one of your breasts, thumb rubbing over your nipple as it comes to a peak, leaving you sharply inhaling at the sensation. "So fucking pretty."
Bending down, he takes it into his mouth, eagerly sucking on it, enjoying the way you squirm beneath him. When he pulls himself away with a pop, the warmth of his saliva mixed with the cool air of the hotel room sets your nerves on fire, as you grind up against him, whimpering his name.
He kisses his way back up to your neck, nipping at your jawline before slotting his mouth against yours. "This okay?" he asks as he slides his cock up and down your cunt.
"Want you to fuck me," you pant out.
He's happy to oblige, but he eases in this time, savoring the feeling with a slow and deliberate thrust, and when he bottoms out, you both exhale with relief. "You feel so good," he whines as he pulls out and begins an unhurried pace.
It's still enough to leave you gasping as your nails dig crescents into the skin on his forearms. You're still so sensitive, and it's almost embarrassing how quickly you feel yourself building back up to the precipice of release. "Leon, please."
He stares at you like you might disappear from underneath him—like the heartache is inevitable. "Tell me what you need," he murmurs as he props himself up on one elbow, so he can kiss you properly while he fucks you.
"Touch me," you moan into his mouth. "Please."
His hand dips down to where you're joined, two fingers circling your clit in earnest, and he feels you clench around him. "Fuck," he groans as he speeds up, just slightly, but it's enough that you feel the tingle all the way up your back.
Each slide of his cock in and out of you pushes you closer and closer to your end, and he starts to softly murmur into the crook of your neck as his own release approaches. "So good," he whimpers. "You feel so good, I'm so close."
As his fingers work your clit, the white-hot tidal wave of your orgasm crashes down on you suddenly. "Leon, I'm—" Your words get caught in your throat before you can finish the sentence, thighs tightening around his hips as he keeps thrusting, gasping and moaning against your throat as he follows closely behind you.
You can feel the warmth of his cum as he fills you once more, hips stuttering to a stop as he pants. Your skin is sticky with sweat, and you feel like you can barely keep your eyes open. As he carefully pulls out, your body unwinds, and you're left with a pleasant ache between your legs as he collapses on the bed beside you.
He delicately tugs you to him, like he can't stand to not be touching you, and he buries his nose into your messy hair, inhaling deeply. You're both quiet for a while, breaths slowing, and the gentle whir of the air conditioning fills the room in the wake of your pleasured moans.
"Was that okay?" he asks again. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
You grab the hand he has around your waist, lacing your fingers through his, and tuck yourself even closer to him. "It was great," you murmur. "And no, you didn't hurt me."
You can feel him nod into your shoulder, and you know there's still more he wants to say—something hanging at the tip of his tongue. You don't push; instead, you gently rub your thumb against his, as if silently reminding him that you're here.
The silence stretches every which way around you until—
"Are we going to be okay?" he questions—so soft you thought you might have misheard him.
You peer over your shoulder at him, seeing him already gazing down at you. "Do you want the truth?"
He tries to smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't gotta sugarcoat it."
"Not for a very long time, I don't think," you reply.
His grip on you tightens, and his lip wobbles, as if he expected that answer but hoped it would be different. Tears fill his eyes and reflect in yours. Silently, you both begin to cry as you realize you've survived—and now you have to learn to live with it.
pairing: leon kennedy x reader (ft other re characters)
summary: 4 times the team notices something's up with leon and the 1 time they figure it out (spoiler: he's married)
genre: fluff
Claire notices the ring by accident.
They’re in the middle of a debrief. Multiple papers are spread across the table, coffee’s gone cold, and Leon is leaning back in his chair with one arm slung over the backrest, listening quietly and absorbing the information seamlessly. He isn’t speaking much, nodding occasionally, eyes flicking between whoever’s speaking.
It’s when he reaches forward to slide a document closer that the light catches on his hand.
Claire raises an eyebrow in curiosity.
A ring.
It’s a casual band, not decorated with gems. It sits on his ring finger on his left hand. The hand.
She blinks, certain she’s mistaken. Leon doesn’t wear jewelry. He never has, especially with the type of work they do.
The conversation flows around her, but she’s no longer following along. Her eyes drift back to his hand, specifically the finger, tracking the movement as he flips a page, as he gestures to a chart as he makes a point. She feels like if she rubs her eyes or looks away for too long, it’ll vanish.
It doesn’t.
By the time the meeting finishes, Claire convinced herself that she needs confirmation.
Everyone rushes out of the conference room, ready to start working. Sherry’s halfway out the door when Claire catches her wrist, tugging her back into the conference room.
“Did you see that?” Claire asks, lowering her voice. Leon’s hearing is freakishly good.
Sherry frowns. “See what?”
Claire tilts her head toward the conference room, where Leon is still inside gathering his things. “His hand.”
Sherry squints, trying to follow. “What about it?”
“There’s a ring,” Claire deadpans. “On his left hand.”
Sherry’s expression sparks with curiosity immediately. “No way.”
“I’m serious.”
They both glance back to the man in question. Leon slips his jacket on, rolling his shoulders slightly, trying to ease the tension out of them, completely unaware of the scrutiny.
Sherry leans closer to her, whispering. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
“On that finger?” Claire raises an eyebrow. “That’s not nothing.”
Sherry purses her lips together. “Okay, but if he was married, we’d know, right?”
Claire scoffs. “Would we?”
Sherry frowns a bit at that. Leon’s always been private, sure. It’s a known fact that he likes to keep things to himself. Almost to his detriment.
Still.
“Maybe the ring only fits on that finger,” Sherry suggests. “Or he doesn’t know the meaning of the finger. Or-”
“Sherry, Leon’s not that stupid.”
They look at each other, then watch as Leon finally walks up to them near the door. He gives them a nod and a small smile only reserved for those closest to him.
“Everything good?” he asks.
Claire nods automatically. “Yeah. Just… talking.”
He raises a brow. He can tell there’s something more, but he doesn’t press. He never does. Instead, he lifts a hand in a casual wave and heads down the hall, footsteps steady as they echo.
The ring glints once more before he disappears around the corner.
Claire exhales slowly, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Sherry turns to her, eyes wide. “Okay, that’s weird.”
Claire crosses her arms, still staring at the empty space where he stood. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “That’s really weird.”
–
Sherry doesn’t mean to see it either.
She’s leaving a lot later than usual, caught up in paperwork that refused to end, and by the time she finally makes her way out to the parking lot, the sky has already started to darken.
She’s halfway to her car when the low hum of an engine draws her attention.
The Porsche is hard to miss.
Leon’s leaning casually against it, one hand resting on the roof, the other tucked into his pocket. He checks his watch, then glances toward the entrance.
Sherry slows her steps without thinking, curiosity pulling her attention in that direction.
A few seconds later, someone steps out.
It’s a woman.
Sherry frowns slightly, instinctively trying to put a name to her. She doesn’t recognize her from the office, and she’s certain she would remember if she had. The woman moves towards the black car, spotting Leon immediately.
He straightens as she approaches. Sherry notes that his shoulders relax, his lips curve upward, and his attention narrows entirely onto her.
They exchange a few words that Sherry can’t hear from where she stands, but the woman smiles, bright and wide, and Leon mirrors it. Sherry hasn’t seen him smile like that in a while. Then, without hesitation, he opens the passenger door for her.
Sherry’s eyes widen even more.
She watches as the woman slips into the seat, as Leon closes the door behind her and circles around to the driver’s side, as he glances at his passenger one more time before getting in.
The engine hums again, and the Porsche pulls away with the rev of the engine.
Sherry stands there, dumbfounded, for a few seconds. She blinks, shaking herself out of it, and hurries the rest of the way to her car.
–
Chris figures out something’s off when Leon turns him down.
It isn’t the first time they’ve gone for drinks after a long day, and it certainly isn’t the first time Chris has been the one to suggest it. It’s a routine that the two found themselves performing regularly, a way to digest everything they… deal with. Plus, Chris likes that Leon and him have similar tastes in drinks and bar establishments.
So, when Chris finds himself itching for a glass of whiskey, he doesn’t think twice.
They’re walking out of the building together, the afternoon sun casting long shadows on the pavement. Chris wraps up his story of the most recent mission he went on.
“Hey,” Chris asks, glancing over. “I’m probably gonna head over to the bar and drink a glass or two. You in?”
Leon looks at him, but pauses for a second before responding. Chris has never seen him hesitate like this.
Then, Leon shakes his head. “Can’t tonight.”
Chris slows to a stop, circling around to stand in front of Leon. “You’ve got something going on?”
Leon nods, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Already made plans.”
Chris just stands there and stares. Leon’s response is… unusual.
“Alright,” he says, shrugging it off. “Rain check.”
“Definitely,” Leon replies. “Next round’s on me.”
They reach the parking lot, and Chris watches as Leon veers slightly, heading toward his sleek, black Porsche parked a little further down.
Chris leans against his own car for a moment, arms crossed, as Leon unlocks the door. There’s a brief pause before Leon gets in and he’s checking something, looks like his phone at a message. Chris swears he sees a glimpse of a smile as Leon slides into the driver’s seat and pulls away.
Chris watches until the car disappears from view.
Plans, he thinks. Leon has plans.
He huffs out a small breath, shaking his head as he pushes himself off the car and reaches for his keys.
“Since when?”
–
Jill would’ve missed it if she hadn’t been paying attention.
Her and Leon stop for a coffee break in between briefings, a rare, small pocket of time. The place is small, a few blocks away from the usual rush of the main streets, and they wait silently in line, comfortable. Whenever it’s just them two, there’s not much chatter.
It’s their turn to order, and Leon, the gentleman that he is, offers to pay for her drink. When the cashier echoes their total, Leon reaches into his leather jacket for his wallet.
This catches her attention as her eyes focus on his expensive leather black wallet. Jill remembers when Sherry bought him that for his birthday. It’s worn, slightly shedding at one corner, but it’s just proof that it’s well loved. She sees his hand flip open the wallet, reaching for a couple of bills in the pocket.
That’s when she notices. There’s a photograph tucked into the clear sleeve.
It catches her attention before she can stop herself.
Leon doesn’t seem to notice. Like it’s always been there. He pulls out the cash, hands it over, thanks the barista, all with the politeness he always has. The wallet stays open long enough for Jill to see the photo.
A woman.
She’s close to him in the picture, leaning into his side. Leon’s arm is around her shoulders, a curve of his smile. The photo is domestic and warm, she feels like she’s intruding an intimate moment by just looking at it.
Jill looks away before he can catch her staring, but the warm feeling from the photo stays.
The baristas call their names and hand over their cups. The warmth radiates through the cardboard sleeve. As they step outside, a breeze goes by, making her shiver at the difference in temperature.
“Since when do you carry photos?” she asks.
Leon pauses mid-step, glancing at her. They both know what she’s referring to. “Since a while ago.”
Jill tilts her head slightly. “You’ve been holding out on us.”
He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “It’s nothing like that.”
Jill puts her arms up in fake surrender. She doesn’t push further even though curiosity pulls at her. She knows that in this line of work, there are just some things you want to protect. Keep to yourself.
As they part ways, she finds herself glancing back at him.
Leon slips his wallet back into his jacket, the photograph hidden once more.
–
Grace decides she’s had enough.
By the time everyone’s all in the same room again, the pieces started to come together. Claire and Sherry are big gossips, talking about Leon’s mysterious woman, and Grace, being the FBI agent she is, needs to come to a conclusion. Now.
Leon, for his part, is completely at ease.
He’s seated at the table, flipping through a file, either unaware or unconcerned with the glances everyone’s been giving him.
Grace leans back in her chair, arms crossed, studying him.
“So,” she coughs, cutting through the low hum of conversation. “Leon, are you seeing anyone?”
The room hushes immediately. Claire and Sherry’s mouths open wide in shock, Chris hides a smirk under his hand, and Jill simply looks up from the paper in her hand.
Leon looks up, blinking once, caught off guard by the directness. He closes the file, setting it aside on the table.
“Yeah,” he admits.
Claire leans forward. “Yeah?”
Sherry’s eyes are practically sparkling with anticipation. Chris watches with an even bigger smirk, and Jill remains still, observant.
Grace raises an eyebrow. “You want to elaborate on that?”
“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” he shrugs.
“It’s a huge deal,” Claire argues. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks.”
“Weeks?” Chris repeats. “Try months.”
Sherry points at him. “You have a ring.”
Jill adds, “And a photo.”
Grace nods. “And apparently a whole secret life that we don’t know about.”
Leon glances between all of them, realizing very quickly that there’s no easy way out of this.
“…I’m married.”
For a second, no one reacts. Leon sees all of the wheels in their heads turning, digesting what he just said. He can physically see the lightbulbs in their heads go off.
“You’re what?” Claire blurts out.
“Since when?” Chris demands.
“Married?” Sherry echoes, incredulous.
Jill just shakes her head, a small, disbelieving smile tugging at her lips.
Grace leans forward. “You’re telling me you got married and didn’t tell anyone?”
Leon raises his hands slightly, as if to calm the sudden wave of reactions. “It wasn’t exactly planned.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” Claire says. “It actually kinda makes it worse.”
“We would have come,” Sherry trails off, sounding a little offended. “You didn’t even give us the chance.”
Chris crosses his arms. “You kept this from all of us?”
Leon hesitates, searching for the right words. Everyone in this very room is the closest thing he has to a family.
“We… were in a rush.” he finally answers. “It happened before I left for Wrenwood. There wasn’t time for anything big, and we probably didn’t want anything big anyway.”
Grace studies him. “So you just decided to get married in secret.”
“I thought I was dying, okay?” Leon defends himself. “I just wanted to marry her.”
Claire exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “Unbelievable.”
Sherry shakes her head, though there’s a small smile starting to form. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.”
Chris lets out a low sigh. “You owe us a long explanation.”
“And an introduction.” Jill leans back slightly, arms crossing.
“Of course,” Leon shrugs. “I figured that was coming.”
Grace smiles widely. “So when do we meet her?”
“Soon.” His expression turns soft, thinking about his wife at that very moment. Everyone in the room can’t help but smile at the sight.
And this time, no one misses the way his hand lays on top of the table, the ring catching the light, shining bright.
like this is my FAMILIA yall i love them so bad
i kinda had a hard time deciding the title of this actually... may change at some point iDK
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