serena ira | Leon S. Kennedy/Reader | find on AO3
And on the seventh day, god brought your soulmate into a dying city, crawling with the monstrous undead. Damn your luck.
Fandom: Resident Evil 2 (remake)
Relationship: Leon/Reader
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 2,568
Tags: soulmate AU, canon divergence/not canon compliant, no Y/N, Leon A and Claire B (in my head they meet up before the final train scene), canon typical violence, lots of cursing, reader can be anyone but I tend to write queer afab reader-oc's.
Event: @lunarbuck's Soulmate AU writing challenge
Soulmate Prompt: "You and your soulmate have matching tattoos that become clear once you meet." (Added a bit of flavor so hope it's a good read still!)
Photo credits: Nicolas Ladino Silva (woman in shadow) and Trevor (city landscape) on Unsplash
A/N: Nothing like a new fandom to control the braincell. Please be kind, I just got into RE like two weeks ago lmao! I only know half of RE2:make, the RE4:make, and Lady D from Village.
An entire city overturned into a place of nightmares not even within a week.
Familiar streets turned into dangerous traps filled with, what you could only describe as, the undead. You had no idea how you were going to survive. Hell, you had no idea you've survived this week. Damned Luck pitying you perhaps, for Her sick game.
The Raccoon City PD was no longer a safe haven like the radio repeated, a turned labyrinth of monsters, and the group of people you escaped with (stupidly taking your chances outside, running out as quickly as you had run inside) and traveled with dwindled in number as many small hordes of once living and breathing people descended upon you all, multiple times. Until more people broke off on their own. Until more people became part of the living dead numbers. Until it was just you. Just you. Alone.
Didn't anyone learn about the buddy system?
And, somewhere in the middle of this all on the sixth or seventh day, your outer forearm inked with your soulmate mark -- a large raven feather that broke into smaller silhouettes of the same bird, flying off your skin if it could -- burned with the damned telling sign that you were close to that First Meeting. That they, whoever they are, were close. And very much alive.
Great. In the middle of a zombie apocalypse and your soulmate had to arrive somewhere within this large ass city. That would be the cards dealt by Lady Luck. And your luck would pin either of you as dead before arrival.
You couldn't curse your bad luck enough. On the verge of leaving, meager and stolen supplies packed up in a motorbike you've hidden in a secure space and a route planned out of the city, you hesitated. A settling sinking feeling sat in your stomach like a heavy stone. You can't leave your soulmate here to die. With a growl, you shoved your assorted pockets and bags with as much ammo, medical supplies, food and water as possible, finality lining every movement.
Damn it! Damn them!
Following the burning pulse radiating in strength as you, hopefully, close the distance, you leave your own safety bubble to seek your soulmate out. Out in the rainy night in this dreary city. Bundled in the remains of a warm outfit. Whatever fucking idiot was roaming around here better be worth it.
Hours of slow going, getting soaked to the bones, avoiding the hoards as they swarmed the PD station again as a loud siren and explosions echoed in the night air, your heart sank.
You gotta be kidding me.
That would be the most likely place in the city, wouldn't it?
Damn your luck.
(On any other day, you wouldn't curse your lack of luck to incur more of Lady Luck's wrath; even now, you're still alive thanks to the whimsies of Luck and the Fates. And firearm and survival lessons of your paranoid and militaristic step-fa-- your dad. For another countless time this week, you wished he was still alive so you could thank him for his hindsight for all his 'ridiculous' teachings. Still: fucking damn your luck--)
Stop.
Control your breathing, even as panic laced every inhale, every exhale. Focus on keeping quiet, on this warmer-colder game of tag with someone you don't even know, on keeping alive because what's the point if you die in process?
Focus on the undead blocking your path to get back into the metal graveyard of the museum-turned-police-station before you.
Aim at the back of its head.
Line up the shot.
Inhale.
Steady.
Gotta thank the old man when you die a natural death of old age and see him in the afterlife. Or something like that, you thought, firing the shot.
The creature shrieked a horrifying hiss as the bullet hit, like someone released air out of a balloon, a squeaky sound that you still internally wince, unused to it even after this week. It twisted and turned, head lulled back, and you ready-aimed-fired a quick second bullet before you could see its face. You didn't want another ghost of their human self to add into the mix of your dreams -- whenever you did find a safe space to sleep next.
The body dropped to the wet ground in an awful slump.
Exhale.
White puff of cold air left your lips as you stared at the body for a second to see it unmoved. Quickly, you checked your surroundings for any other zombies; four more shots fired, three downed dead, three more bullets in your P220's mag. Another prayer casted towards the capricious Lady Luck: please, don't summon a licker.
An empty street was all that greeted you. Nothing attracted by the sound of bullets firing, nothing but an unnerving feeling that you were being watched, shivering beyond the coldness of the rainy night. A loud scraping sound kept you low to the ground, half bent over and nearly squatting, as you casted your eyes around, looking for signs of threats.
No threats. Street still empty. Empty, except two survivors in the distance, exiting from the Station’s parking lot.
From where the noise came from.
On the other side of the sinkhole and its halted repair started before this week of hell.
You managed to get yourself to the edge of it, avoiding two zombies eating flesh along the way, them happily and thankfully ignoring you as horrifying chewing and slurping sounds loudly scraped against your own gut. Managed just quick enough as the two strangers had their back to you, one working their way to get inside the gun store, its neon sign lighting highlighting the woman's silhouette with a fade glow of red.
"Hey!" you wanted to scream, but the word stuck in your throat. It wouldn't do anyone good to scream here and attract monsters. Selfishly, you wanted someone to turn around, to see you in the distance, to wait for you-- As if you could be heard, the other silhouette turned, ever so slightly, enough for you to read the miniscule and faded letters of R.P.C. across his chest.
The mark hiccuped in its heat, only fluttering coolness the brief moment you both saw each other. Your breath hitched in your throat.
Him. It's him.
The door to the gun shop opened and, even from your spot across the way, you heard the woman call out to the cop, distance obscuring what she actually said however. She entered the shop without a backward glance. He hesitated, giving you a look you were too far away to read, before following in after his partner.
You couldn't help but rub your fingers along the cooling shape of a feather on your arm, a silent prayer on your lips to the Fates or fucking Luck or whatever listening to give whatever goodwill you had and send it to him. Let him survive.
And then you were alone again.
Let him be safe. Please.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A curse hissed out of your mouth, unwanted as a zombie bit at your not dominant arm, the one burning with the feather soulmate mark. The wound's deep enough where blood blossomed under your sleeves, but you yelped as you wrenched your arm free. Its teeth pulled away with your skin and shirt fabric in between its maw. It growled. You shoved the barrel of your pistol against its temple, firing.
Blood and brains splattered onto your long sleeves, already soiled with sewage and dried gore. A loud groan left your lips, frustrated at your sloppiness over the fact you were bleeding. Contagion was the least of your worries; you'd been a zombie three times over during this week. But regular infection of an untreated wound? That could kill you.
Your thoughts stilled as a chilling scream sucked in your breath.
You should have expected the NEST to be filled with zombies, everywhere else in the city was. It's why you shared your ammo with Claire as she explored her portion of the NEST to unlock the antiviral needed to save Sherry; if anything, she had a better sense of survival than you, especially after the way she fought that terrifying eyeball monster of a once-human.
What you didn't expect was the fucking licker crawling around on the ceiling.
You should have.
A high pitched whine sent a chill down your spine, before its long claws scraped across the walls.
Tensing, you covered your mouth and held your handgun in its direction, hoping that it didn't hear you. You didn't have enough rounds in the mag, hell in general if you had to fight it. Two shots left before reloading. Your pistol’s full eight wouldn't even be enough.
Circle around it slowly as it seemed to sniff the air (and deluded yourself that it could not smell your disgusting stench of sewer and sweat clinging to you).
Slowly, foot by foot.
Freeze as it hissed again.
The door opened, creaking. Both the licker and you tilted towards it. One booted foot in, someone you know by the returning of the intense burning of your forearm in the shape of a raven's feather.
Him.
The licker posed to jump in his direction, like a cat ready to pounce on a mouse.
Fuck you Lady Luck and her shitty timing.
"Careful, licker!" you shouted.
It whipped around towards you, its loud growling wheeze echoing in the room. Fucking shit--
The bastard howled as it lunged forward.
Into your space.
Duck -- too late. It jumped on your body, throwing you to the ground as its large claws hit your shoulders. You yelped from the impact. Happlessly, you fired your two shots into its large, brain-like head. The bullets hit, but not the weak spot.
Another shot rang out in the room. Enough for the licker to hesitate sinking its teeth in your flesh. It erupted in flames as He came closer, holding a fucking flamethrower in his hand. It screamed. Its weight disappeared and you scrambled back on your hands and arms, pain shooting through them in the movement as blood, old and new, smeared along your palms. The smell of burning flesh, nothing like the sweet scent cooking but more ashen and decay, filled your nose, alongside the metallic under layer of blood, your blood.
The screams died as the licker did, flames simmering down into nothingness alongside its charred and blackened skin. You forced yourself to sit up, groaning in pain. Everything hurt. Your back, your shoulders, your arms especially -- but you couldn't tell if that's because of how heavy you hit the ground or that damned fucking mark that threatened to burn your own arm off.
He cursed, repeated fucks and shit expelling under breath as he made it to your side. "Here, you're okay, you're okay, I got you."
He pulled out some medical supplies from within his packs. A bottle of hydrogen peroxide. A roll of bandages. Without thinking, he reached for your bleeding arm.
And the burning stopped, his touch instantly dropped your arm into a freezing chill as his eyes took in the teeth marks ripped in your skin, the bloodied feather and its tiny ravens, ink gradually running clear. You shivered and he did a double-take on you, hand shaking as if he too was dropped below zero.
A moment paused into an eternity as you caught your breath. In the darkened room with broken flickering lights overhead, dark shadows chiseled his face in sharp angles, despite his youthful look. Stands of light golden blonde hair clung to his forehead, dirtied with grime and sweat. Blue eyes swept over your features, just as you did to him.
Even in this mess, he was handsome, pretty even. Heat licked your cheeks as your mind wandered on how pretty would he be cleaned up…
"You’re the goddamn idiot,” you muttered under breath, face heating from embarrassment. Talk about a dramatic First Meeting.
"What?" the stranger asked, strangely breathless. "Hey. Are you okay?"
His eyes widened, blues roaming between your arm and your face again. You didn't answer him, but you said a bit louder, "It’s you."
"It's…me." Words he repeated, but laced with a question. Like he didn’t realize who he was to you. Not until the remaining half an outline of the feather, barely just visible, disappeared entirely as he laid another glance on it.
Nothing. Like you were never marked at all.
“Oh…”
He knew now.
"Yes, you! The kind of idiot that strolls into an infested city of the undead!" you said, words streaming from your lips in a hiss, holding back your scream as he no longer knelt frozen before you and worked to disinfect your wound. Unwanted tears pricked at the edge of your eyes; you lied that it was because of the sting of the disinfectant, not frustration nor relief to see him. "You were safe up until today!"
And you could have been okay dying with that knowledge!
He tied the bandage tight, too tight, and you winced from the pain. “Sorry,” he apologized softly, even as his lips pressed into a thin line. “But I had my duty. I couldn’t leave the city without helping.”
You slapped his hold on you away -- he let you go easily -- and forced yourself to your feet. He followed you quickly, arms reaching out to steady you as you swayed and stumbled onto your feet, sliding on gore and fluids, legs trembling in pain and useless adrenaline. His grip on your arms were tight, hands warm and comforting.
"Right… Duty.” The word tasted like blood in your mouth. You’ve seen enough people die for the sake of duty; you’ve seen others die for less honorable reasons. Something hot burned down your grime-streaked cheeks. “And I was leaving. I was leaving," you confessed. “I couldn’t, not with you here. Guess we’re both the idiots here.”
A faint chuckle, akin to puffs of air more than anything, left his lips. Slowly, as if you were a spooked cat, his hands found your cheeks, thumbs running comforting wipes along the trails left by your tears. You tried not to lean into his touch, craving that comfort from him selfishly.
"Thank you." It's soft, embarrassed even as his eyes gaze just a little out of your reach, and his cheeks tinted with pink.
"Don't thank me yet,” you scoffed, “Now we can die together."
Another laugh. "Fair enough. It's not safe out here."
"Duh, Mr. Obvious.”
But he smiled like nothing happened, a cheeky little grin that warms you even further. Oh shit, he's cute. "It's Kennedy, actually. Leon Kennedy," he said, introducing himself.
You gave yours, rolling your eyes as he repeated it reverently.
"We're going to get out of here alive. I swear it," Leon promised with such conviction you believed him. “Okay?”
He waited until you nodded to release your cheeks, but not before his eyes lingered on your lips. As if you didn’t share the same thoughts. Later, later.
Instead, Leon grabbed your gun from off the floor. Relief settled your limbs as your hands found the familiar metal of your handgun. Silently, you reloaded, as he did the same, hands reaching for his shotgun.
Not dead yet, still a chance.
Taking a deep breath, you grinned at him as fake confidence steered your lips, "Alright then, pretty boy, lead the way. I got your back."
"Pretty boy?"