(departure from my usual content, apologies for the self-indulgence)
SPOILERS FOR THE MAGNUS ARCHIVES - SEASON FINALE
Lyrics under the cut:
Find a Leitner when you’re eight
Take a job at a spooky place
Start smoking again way too late
Run back toward the worms to grab a tape
Dumb ways to die
So many dumb ways to die
Spun by the eye-eye-eye
So many dumb ways to die
Wander tunnels after dark
Chop a fractal table into parts
Let yourself be framed
Shake the hand of an angry living flame
Dumb ways to die
So many dumb ways to die
Spun by the eye-eye-eye
So many dumb ways to die
Don’t let Michael Crew be polite
Find yourself facing Daisy’s knife
Get skincare advice from a plastic face
Decide Distortion is a good escape
Dumb ways to die
So many dumb ways to die
Spun by the eye-eye-eye
So many dumb ways to die
Steal a ghost from the hunter’s den
Bring a bunch of C4 to The Stranger’s dance
Let a man dig in your chest
You know, who said you need all your ribs?
Dumb ways to die
So many dumb ways to die
Spun by the eye-eye-eye-eye
So many dumb ways to die
Walk into a coffin to save someone
Look into the heart of a blackened sun
Gouge out your eyes in a half-baked flight plan
Step into the Lonely cuz it’s taken your man
And when it all comes down the that last ending
At Martin’s hand, it’s quite possibly
The roughest way to die
The roughest way die
Roughest way to die-ie-ie-ie
So many dumb-
So many dumb ways to die
Be safe around webs. A message from the Archives.
No matter what happens, don't have hate for this era you were born in. Never forget the strength to be able to smile at any time. If you survive, a lot of fun things will happen!
During elections, they keep policies that would be unpopular with the public a secret, and then once they have won a majority in the election, they will... [push through anything using the power of the majority. What is the point of elections or a Diet if this is allowed? This is the majority party digging its own grave for parliamentary democracy.]
Inejirō Asanuma's last words before being assassinated on stage (and prepared continuation), 12 October 1960
WC/Tags: 1.2k / infection, character death, last words, love confession
A/N: title from ‘When it’s raining’ by Borderline. Kind of lost steam for this at the end so it someone wants to try a rewrite I wouldn’t deny! @angsty-april
He’s dying.
He knows it, and you know it.
You’re holding his hand, fighting to keep the tears at bay, his skin clamy against yours; you raise it to your lips anyways, pressing a kiss to his hand.
The infection is spreading rapidly, you can tell. The black strips under his veins bulge and pulse, and he’s sweating, shifting in pain with shit eyes.
“Go,” he whispers, the bed creaking under him. “No point in you…seein’ this.”
You shake your head, pressing your lips together. “I’m staying right here.”
His fingers twitch weakly in your grip as he lets out a hoarse chuckle, though there's no real humor behind it. “Stubborn as hell... Always were.”
A sharp intake of breath as another wave of pain hits him, jaw clenching hard enough to make the muscle jump. But even now his gaze locks onto yours with that same stupid, stubborn intensity. “...Fine. But if I start turnin’ into one of those things, you better put me down before I embarrass myself.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly, just for you.
“It’s my end of days, gorgeous,” his voice is cracked as his eyes find yours. “Don’t start lying to me now.”
“Leon,” you whisper, blinking hard because he can’t die. Not now. Not like this. “Please.”
His thumb brushes weakly over your knuckles—gentle, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of them. “Hey... I've cheated death more times than I can count. Maybe it was always gonna catch up.”
A ragged breath, then his voice drops lower—barely there, but still steady. “But listen... You don't beg for me. Not ever.” His grip tightens slightly, as if he could will strength into you through touch alone. “You walk outta here when it's done. Alive. That's the deal.”
The faintest smirk tugs at his lips again, even as his eyes start to lose focus, always having to have the last word.
“You can’t, Leon you can’t just- not when I-” you stop, because you hadn’t said the words yet. You hadn’t been brave enough, and even now as death stared at you through his eyes the words caught on your tongue.
“I know,” he murmurs, his eyes closing. “S’okay baby. You don’t have to say a thing.”
“I want to,” you whisper. “I really do.”
He lets out a bitter laugh turned ragged by another sudden wave of pain, eyes squeezed shut as he leans his head back against the pillow for a moment. It feels like eternity while you wait for the wave to pass. When he finally looks at you again, there's a softness there—pain, yes, but something like tenderness, too.
His hand lifts to brush a strand of hair away from your face, the calloused pad his thumb tracing along your cheekbone.
“Hey... I can be selfish, right...?”
“Be selfish with me,” you whisper, clasping his hand and keeping it to your face. You scoot closer to the bed with your chair, your knees pressing to the edge of the mattress. “Fight for me. Don’t die, for me. Fuck umbrella, and Racoon city, and everyone that made this world your problem. Be selfish, and love me.”
“I already do.”
His response is quick, a knee jerk reply, and you still, your eyes widening and his hand is warm on your cheek as it keeps a grasp on your face. His expression softens further, his gaze never leaving yours, steady and intense, that familiar stubbornness in it, even now. It makes your chest ache, because he never changed and you don't want him to. He'll always be Leon.
He's quiet for a moment, just studying your face, his thumb stroking gently over your skin with what must be the last of his strength.
Then in a hoarse whisper, he's making a demand. “Come closer.”
You lean forward, pressing your elbows to the mattress so you can lean on your palms, your face closer to his. The tears prick at your eyes before you inhale, finding the scent that is so clearly him under the gun powder and antiseptic.
His breath hitches, just once, as your face hovers just above his, his grip tightening ever so slightly in your hair before he exhales.
“Tell you what,” he murmurs, rough with pain but still so warm. “If I make it through this... you better be ready to say those words back to me.” His smirk is weak now, but it's there, barely. Teasing. Like always.
Before you can answer, he tugs your face down the last inch and kisses you like he's got nothing left to lose.
Which, well... he might not, but hell if that stops him from making sure you do.
You close your eyes, committing the feel of his lips on yours to memory. They’re chapped but smooth, cool against your warm ones. Even with the pain and the fever, he still kisses you so gently, almost reverently. As if you're something fragile or delicate, instead of a trained agent who can put a bullet in a zombie's head at a hundred feet, but then, he's always treated you as if you were something rare. Something he never deserved.
He breaks the kiss but only just, his forehead presses against yours, a shaky exhale leaving him as he breathes in the scent of you, one that reminds him always of home.
You’re crying now, salty tears slipping down your cheeks and wetting his skin. He makes a soft sound, shaking his head. “Don’t cry for me.”
“Can’t help it.” You pull back, taking in his face, the lines of black that crawl up his neck and your eyes crinkle as you blink rapidly. “I love you. Oh god, Leon I love you.” Your voice cracks and you break, your head falling to his chest as you sob. “Please. Please don’t do this.”
His arm comes around you, weak but insistent, pulling you as close as he can manage, his hand cradling the back of your head like he's trying to shield you from all of this.
“Damn it,” he rasps, pressing a rough kiss into your hair. “Not how I wanted to hear that for the first time.”
You can feel his heartbeat under your cheek, too fast, too uneven, but still there. Still fighting, because Leon Kennedy doesn’t know how to do anything else.
“We can fight this,” you whisper into his chest. “I know we can. The doctors said-”
“Doctors don’t know everything,” he says softly and you sit up, wiping at your eyes. “They’re guessing, at best.”
“They could be right,” you insist. “And I’m not giving up. Not on you, never on you.”
His gaze sharpens, a flicker of that old fire in his exhausted eyes, and he exhales through his nose like you're being particularly difficult.
“Stubborn as hell,” he mutters, but fondness laces his tone.
With a slow inhale, he nods once, sharp and decisive. “Fine. We try, but if this shit goes south…” His thumb brushes under your eye again, wiping away another stray tear before it can fall. “You still walk out alive. You still live.”
You chew at your lip but nod nonetheless.
Leon Kennedy never was good at surrender; not even now.
