Bun-Bun

cw: self-loathing, traumatic childhood, mentions of physical abuse

November 15th, 2:23 p.m., Naval Station Rota, Spain. 

Six hours since the mission.

Buzzing lights. Humid air. Damp strands. 

Leon stands in the middle of the room he was awarded at the base once he delivered Ashley. After going through decon, as well as the initial verbal report, he was allowed to rest once he showered and given a meal that he scarfed down faster than he realized.

He was surprised to be able to stomach food with the constant nausea simmering inside his guts. But he was so hungry his instincts took over when the plate of chicken parm appeared before him, queasiness be damned. Now that he's clean, full, and his wounds have been dressed, all that is left for him to do is relax. 

If only it were so easy.

Flicking off the overhead lights, he kicks his new boots off one by one, then lays down on the creaking bunk with his fingers interlaced on his chest. Dressed in a soft cotton shirt and comfortable cargo pants, he should be able to pass out in no time with the curtains drawn, plunging the room in a dim atmosphere. 

But as soon as he closes his eyes, the day’s previous events play like a video compilation from hell. His brain showcases the 'highlights’ of the mission, with an emphasis on a particular brunette and her screams in his ears. 

It’s suffocating. His breathing is slow and deep, and yet he feels like he's constantly lacking oxygen. Every breath feels like betrayal, like he's not supposed to be here safe and sound after all that he’s done. The hurt, the ruthlessness, the cruelty—he should be held behind bars right now instead of being hailed like a hero.

A hero.

He remembers how much that word triggered him. It felt like an insult then, but even more so now. He has never felt like a bigger fraud than he does at the moment. Not even when he joined military training as a young, traumatized rookie, surrounded by jaded soldiers who saw him as nothing more than a lucky bastard who happened to be at the right place, at the right time.

They're not wrong, of course. He was never anything special—that's what he was repeatedly told by his own parents. Not when his grades fell at school, or when he got into trouble at recess, but rather when he didn't hide contraband well enough when cops came to search the family home.

He remembers his father being particularly brutal with the belt the night he came back after three months in prison. He hit him mercilessly then, but it wasn't the first nor the last. He would strike him all over—his back, his arms, his legs—it didn't matter where the lashes landed, as long as they did. And then, he’d do the same to his mother for ‘not raising the brat well.’ Except, with her, it was always on her behind, like he’s correcting a child the old fashioned way. His father loved to humiliate the woman at any given chance.

Still, that didn't prompt her to grow much sympathy for the kid who suffered just as much if not more. If anything, she'd often put the blame on him for things he didn't do, or make him lie on her behalf to hide her affairs. Then she'd watch with a disappointed look when the man punished him for things he never did. That's why he stopped feeling bad for her when she'd get caught ‘in need of a lesson’ as his father would say—there was no escaping from the wrath of his belt no matter how much she begged.

The only difference is that Leon would never stick around to watch. He preferred locking himself in his room with his palms over his ears until it stopped. And when it did, it was somehow worse, because then he’d hear rhythmic creaking in the adjacent room coupled with high pitched noises. At first he didn't know what it was, but later he understood it as his parents ‘making up.’ That’s also around the time Metallica became his favorite band—more so for the loud music that didn't leave room for any other sound than for anything else.

He now understands his parents fucked him up more than he’d realized. He always knew the result of his father’s violence and his mother’s hypocrisy had made him into a mess of a man. But this… This is so much more terrifying. 

The cruelty he's capable of is not surprising. Directing it at an innocent woman, however, is mind shattering. Especially when a weird feeling of want interlaces with guilt each time he recalls the event. He can't get it out of his head no matter what. The feel of her writhing in agony on his lap, the smoothness of worn leather, the rippling of tender skin, the glossiness on teary brown eyes—it's like a nightmare painted by a sick, sick artist.

Him. He’s the sick artist. The instigator of her pain and architect of her suffering. He just hates that no matter the gut wrenching sickness filling him at the memory, he still thinks she looked beautiful during that bloodcurdling moment. 

He doesn't understand. 

Since when has he lost all humanity that he now hurts others and finds beauty in it? He was never supposed to turn out like his alcoholic of a sperm donor, but now he may as well be worse. Because at least the bastard was a known piece of shit—no one praised him for being a savior or a saint.

Leon opens his lids, attempts at rest feeling futile in his broken state. But then, the mental images don't stop even as he stares at the ceiling, and tears suddenly prick his eyes when everything comes crashing down on him. 

He curls into himself, pulling the crinkly sheets over his head as if afraid he might be mocked by unseen ghosts that will call out his duplicity. No killer has the right to mourn his victims, and yet he can't stop the ugly sob that escapes his lips.

He quickly slaps a hand on his mouth in retaliation, his shoulders shaking with every muffled cry that leaves his battered and bruised body. He squeezes his eyes shut again, fingers gripping his own hair to ground himself in the middle of his breakdown to no avail.

There is no escape from the berating voice in his head—her voice—as it reminds him of the magnitude of his sins.

She trusted him, she cared for him, she was a fan, and she just wanted to help keep them both safe. But in return, he humiliated her in a way that would have him seeing red if he was in her place. And for what? For revealing his world isn't real? Nothing has felt real since Raccoon City anyways. He already lives like a ghost among the living, carrying on for the sake of carrying on, in hopes that maybe if he saves enough people he’ll feel revitalized again. 

But the brutal training and punishing missions never did the trick. Hurting her, on the other hand… He hates to admit how alive he felt with every crack of his belt against her tempting flesh.

Sick, heinous, and broken. That is what he turned out to be in the end as he cries in an empty room in southern Spain, with no one to hear his muffled sobs except the cold, unfeeling walls.

November 18th, 10:15 a.m, Washington D.C, USA. 

Three days since the mission.

The agent’s smile is hollow as he shakes the president Graham’s hand, the latter patting him on the back with a grateful ‘thank you.’ Ashley beams from the side, excitedly telling her father about all the wondrous feats the man accomplished to save her. Though, to her dismay, she cannot mention anything about Luis or anyone else—Leon made her promise not to.

Later, the AUIPT’s director, Daryl Booth, grins wide as he walks Leon out of the oval office. “You did good, son. Real good. I’m sure you’ll receive a nice check after this one—probably the fattest you'll ever get… Now don't go spending it all on booze and pretty ladies, yeah?”

Booze and pretty ladies. That sure sounds like a good way to forget his sorrows, as stereotypical as it may be. But he’ll be damned if he touches a cent of that hazard pay. He intends on leaving it there to rot in his bank account until he gives it away to some good cause. Maybe an anti domestic violence association, just to rub in the irony.

“Sir, I’d like to speak to you about something if you have the time,” he mutters once they're out of earshot.

Slowing in his steps, Booth eyes him curiously with his dark eyes, before nodding. “We can meet at HQ after lunch. My one o’clock should be free.”

Time passes slowly as Leon waits in his dim office, the blind kept shut and the lights turned off. He can feel an incessant lump resting in his throat with every resounding tick of the clock on the wall. The moment it reads 12:55 p.m, he’s out of his chair and striding directly to the director’s office.

He knows he can't stall this any further—he needs to do this now while his mind is clear enough to function. Before he loses himself completely to the nightmares that have been tormenting him for the past three days, and that he knows will only get worse during his time off.

He will make things right.

Coming to a stop at the large double doors of the executive suite, the blonde’s fist hovers, hesitating for a moment, before he finally knocks. 

Booth’s response is immediate, calling out a simple ‘come on in’ for him to enter. As Leon does, he can already feel the trembling of his fists start, and he has to make a conscious effort to keep them steady, knowing that every move he might let slip will be studied by the professional before him. 

“Kennedy!” the director smiles, gesturing for him to sit. “So, what is so important that you want to talk to me rather than go home for twenty-four hours straight of sleep?”

“I will get to that later, sir,” he mutters with a polite smile. Then, he goes quiet as he settles on the comfortable chair, mentally preparing to speak out what he's here to say.

The bald man sets down his glasses, a look of intrigue on his face as he eyes him intently. “Is everything alright?” 

“Yes…” Leon pauses, darting his gaze as apprehension consumes him whole. Then with a sharp inhale, he meets Booth’s eyes head on, just to make sure his words are taken in utmost seriousness. “I’m happy I was able to complete the mission and bring Miss Graham home safely, as well as terminate the cult detaining her. Now that I have completed my duty… I would like to present my resignation.”

The director frowns deep, taken aback by the seemingly sudden decision. He doesn't answer immediately, letting the silence stretch until he huffs out a near scoff.

“Resignation? No, Kennedy… You’re burnt out,” he concludes. “You need a break, not to quit.”

Leon expected the push back—he knows he’s not someone the agency is willing to let go of easily. He offers a tight-lipped smile, trying to conceal the sarcasm that's threatening to seep into his tone.

“With all due respect, sir, I think I’m a bit past that.”

“Elaborate.”

Thankfully, he planned this ahead. He can simply provide a half-truth.

“I have fought BOWs before, sir, but they didn't talk…” he pauses for dramatic effect before he continues. “These ones… they felt human. It made me question a lot of things.”

Booth gives an imperceptible nod, as if agreeing but not fully convinced. “You had the added pressure of extracting an extremely valuable asset. That is not something that happens often, you know that.”

Instead of arguing further, the agent chooses silence. Anyone in his position should be expected to want to leave, especially after the things that happened—or the things he’s done.

“Listen, son,” the middle aged man finally speaks when he receives no response. “I won’t lie and say I know what it's like out there. These threats… they're still very new, and you are one of the few who got to familiarize with them the most—it's no regular war… But I can't let you make a rash decision mere days after such a mission.”

Silence again. He won't go around in unnecessary circles until the director says what he really has in mind. And sure enough, it was only a matter of time.

“I hope you understand that the president has expectations,” Booth mutters pointedly, his dark lips pursed sternly.

Calmly nodding, Leon keeps his poker face intact. “I understand.” He doesn't budge.

The other looks like he wants to snap, but he clearly realizes this isn't the kind of situation where he can force his way in. It’s predictable, the way he tries to convince him to stay with barely concealed defensiveness.

“You have two weeks off,” Booth puts his glasses back on and opens a random file on the desk, as if already adjourning the meeting to move on to more important tasks. “You can think it through during that time.”

Instead of preparing to leave, Leon leans back in his chair, stubbornness radiating off him in borderline insubordination.

“There isn't much else for me to think about, sir. I apologize, but I’ve made my decision.”

That was the most insincere apology he ever made. He just can't bring himself to care much for a job he was forced into to protect a little girl that was later hurt anyways. Sherry’s safety has been the sole reason for joining STRATCOM in their ultra-secret unit. One whose existence isn't made public to allow the government to deny its involvement in Raccoon City. 

And now, after gruesome missions where he has to continuously relive that nightmare—with many more to come, he is sure—he feels particularly bitter over the way he’s been changed. He can criticize his rookie self all he wants for being too naive and trusting, but one thing’s for sure; the old him would never harm an innocent soul. 

“Alright, lay it out,” Booth suddenly exclaims, throwing his hands in surrender. “What do you want? A raise? Time off? I can get you more rest between assignments.”

“Sir…” Leon sighs in exasperation.

“Kennedy, no,” the director tuts, unwilling to let go. “You know quitting isn't gonna fix it. At least go through your mandatory therapy sessions first. They’re supposed to start post recovery but we can do them earlier if it helps.”

“Sir,” the agent repeats more firmly.

Booth’s demeanor slowly morphs from stern to solemn, and he finally utters the unspoken truth that was hanging silently over their heads the entire time.

“You can't quit, Kennedy,” he murmurs, his tone almost apologetic.

And there it is. The ultimate reality of his situation. The dark eyed man does not have to explain to him why he can't resign, the threats he was given six years ago are enough to remember for a lifetime.

But Leon knew this from the start, and his goal wasn't to convince Booth, but rather to scare him enough he’s willing to negotiate. 

“Then…” he starts, feigning contemplation before making his one true demand, “I want to travel.”

“Travel?”

“I want to go back to Spain.” He doesn't blink. “For closure.”

Booth exhales sharply, rejection sitting at the tip of his tongue but he visibly swallows it down for the sake of keeping the president's new favorite agent satisfied. 

Still, just like the blonde, he also pretends to think about it first. “I don't know, Kennedy… I can't just allow you back into an AO. Especially not if you're demonstrating signs of mental… difficulties.”

Leon’s jaw twitches, but he doesn't falter. He’s ready to perform the theatrics necessary to get what he wants. 

“I’ll communicate.”

“That's not even a question,” Booth huffs. “You have to.”

“I’ll keep you updated on my whereabouts—no hiding.”

That seems to silence the man for a moment, before his curiosity gets the better of him. “Why Spain?”

The younger man’s hands clench and unclench in his lap, making an effort to keep his expression schooled. “Like I said… Closure.”

“I’m not sure I’m buying it,” the other purses his lips, suspicion oozing from his face.

“Have I ever given you reason to doubt me?” Leon lifts an eyebrow with the smallest of smiles.

Booth sighs, knowing he’s lost the argument. “I can't say you have…”

Nodding, the agent offers a plausible explanation, just to drive his cause home. “I just need to spend time in Spain where I am not being chased by chainsaw killers... I want to fix the negative associations I have with the place—let's put it that way.”

Another silent stare off, before finally, finally the long awaited concession arrives. “Fine. But you are to communicate every day—no exceptions. I want at least two meetings with local dispatched agents during your stay, as well as with a psychotherapist. And your resignation request is denied.”

With emphasis on the last word, Booth leans forward with his hands interlaced on his desk, just to make sure his next words land as strongly as intended.

“You have two weeks, Kennedy. After that, I need you back in D.C, in your office. And no more mentions of this again. Are we clear?”

The message is obvious: no one must find out about his attempt at quitting. Especially not the head of state. Leon is more than happy to keep the secret as long as he gets to be free for the next two weeks.

Well, as much freedom as a man like him is afforded anyways.

“Clear, sir,” he nods in confirmation, a concealed exhilaration blooming in his chest.

November 20th, 9:41 a.m, Santander, Spain.

Five days since the mission.

The cold Spanish air fills the agent’s lungs as he walks out of the airport, readjusting the sports cap on his head, then, with focused eyes hiding behind sunglasses he hails for a taxi. His bomber jacket hisses with every movement as he gets into the car, a single duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

He gives the driver an address, his plans having already been meticulously arranged before he even bought the plane ticket. 

It’s simple. He needs to check on her. He’s regretted letting her go from the moment she walked away with that criminal, Luis Serra, and now he will finally make things right. No man can be trusted in the company of a vulnerable girl, let alone one like the scientist who clearly has ulterior motives. He knows it, he just can't prove it yet.

Finding the man’s address was surprisingly easy when he already knew which city where to look. It took a few calls in the agent’s heavily accented Spanish, but he eventually got the building and apartment number overlooking Calle San Fernando. 

Leon’s leg bounces in the cab—he really needs to work on that—as the streets pass in a blur outside the window. Soon, he can finally do what he was meant to do from the start; watch over the girl that got stranded in this world because of him. Every day, he remembers the way she landed on top of him, knocking the air out of his lungs, and how she's been a constant in his mind ever since. 

At first, he was wary, unsure if she's a danger, though her appearance was anything but intimidating. Big eyes, sweet voice, and a soft body—he quickly started to enjoy her company despite the nonsense she kept on repeating. Except he quickly came to learn it was no nonsense at all. She knew him, intimately, and he punished her for it.

Now, she's in a foreign country, with a stranger she’s barely met, and Leon was the one that allowed for that to happen. Out of guilt. Out of shame. Because he could not force her to come with him when she stood her ground and tensed her shoulders… He can't let that happen again.

She can hate him all she wants—she should—but he won't let that get in the way of protecting her. Because if her words are anything to go by, then she doesn't yet understand the situation she's in. He remembers her saying her world is devoid of monsters and sentient bioweapons, so how can she be trusted to have good judgment when it comes to the people that have made these weapons?

He knows this type. Crazed scientists and greedy organizations. They’re cruel and hold no regard for human life, and that Serra motherfucker is no different. Leon did more research on him, and it turns out there's rumors linking him to the creation of the Nemesis, one of the deadliest creatures manufactured by Umbrella. As if his work with Los Illuminados wasn't enough.

The only reason he didn't snitch on the bastard yet is because he doesn't want to scare her. He first needs to assess the situation and convince her to come with him. Only then will he blow the whistle on the Spaniard for his involvement with the cult. He won't get away scot-free like he did with his previous employment.

The taxi stops once it reaches its destination, with the agent handing the driver a bill and stepping out onto the sidewalk. He looks up at the building before him, an old motel that he wouldn't stay in if not for necessity. It just so happens to be in the perfect location.

As if to make sure, he turns around and faces the opposite row of buildings on the other side of the road, and sure enough, there stands the apartment complex where the biologist resides. This is perfect. The idiot just happens to live right across a bed-and-breakfast.

Without wasting time, he makes his way inside to quickly check in, keeping his movements steady even as he feels a burst of anticipation. The moment he's in the room, his eyes survey the place to ensure it's adequate for the long hours he intends to spend in it.

Two twin beds, an ugly rug, and a tiny tv—nothing ground-breaking. But he's more interested in the large window than anything else as he sets his duffel bag down on the chair in the corner.

He pulls aside the blinds, scanning the view of the large two-way street separated by a park in the middle. Right across, he can see the windows of the second level, matching the address he has now memorized by heart. 

Of course, he’s not surprised to see the reflective glass that prevents onlookers from spying—a common feature in European construction. But it does not discourage him. He's content enough observing the building’s entrance for comings and goings for now.

Satisfied with his location, he walks back to his bag to pull out gear—binoculars, and a notepad—before taking the chair and placing it right in front of the window. He sits, his back straight like he's on watch during a critical operation, and brings the spyglasses up to his eyes without hesitation.

Then, he waits. For this, he has all the time in the world.

November 21th, 6:53 p.m, Santander, Spain.

Six days since the mission.

Leon has never considered himself to be particularly impatient, but fuck, he’s been watching that damn building for over twenty-four hours, and there hasn't been a single sight of her yet.

He did see Luis. The fucker comes out to smoke every chance he gets, leaning on the wall and flicking his light in the picture of nonchalance. 

Just what the hell is he doing to her in there?

Surely, she should have come out by now. He knows her leg is injured, but he knows it wasn't bad enough to be broken, so she should still be walking like the last time he saw her. A grocery trip, a coffee run, a fucking walk to breathe some damn air—anything to get her out of the apartment. But no, the only one that makes an appearance again and again, is the Spaniard with his cocky stride.   

He must think he’s got it all figured out. Did heinous crimes and got away with them, just to now play house with a pretty girl too naive to realize his intentions. Fuck, what the agent wouldn't give to be in his place. Just to get her to look at him like a person again rather than a monster.

For all Leon knows, she might not even be alive in there anymore. Men are capable of the unspeakable—he would know. Though, he doesn't let the panic settle once he reminds himself of the two bocadillos the Spaniard brought upstairs hours prior. She must be alive enough to eat.

His spiralling thoughts are suddenly interrupted when his cell rings, answering the call without even checking the name.

“Hunnigan,” he mutters with boredom.

“Agent Kennedy, I’m calling for your daily checkup… How is your vacation going?”

From her tone alone, he can tell she is not alone in this call. Ingrid may be professional, but he considers her a friend, and he knows she wouldn't sound so courteous if she wasn't being watched.

Ah, Dylan Booth.

“I’m still recuperating,” Leon sighs, never lowering the binoculars as he speaks. “Haven't done much sightseeing yet.”

“It’s good that you’re resting… May I just verify; your location is unchanged since our last communication, correct?”

“Yep,” he pops the ‘p’ in barely concealed irritation. “Still in Santander. Still in my motel. I’m sure you can trace my call and double check.”

A silence stretches for a moment, and he picks up on hushed murmurs, as if the voices are debating doing exactly what he just suggested. After a minute, Hunnigan finally speaks again.

“There's no need for that, thank you, Kennedy. I will call you back tomorrow. Have a good one.”

“Take care, Ingrid.”

Shoving the phone back in his pocket, he holds the field glasses with both hands as he exhales sharply through his nose. It’s ridiculous, having to provide daily confirmations that he isn't a mad agent going rogue, as Booth undoubtedly fears. He hopes that for now, as he continues giving them what they want with transparency, they won't come looking for him. So long as he's being a good pup, they won't have to tighten the leash.

Movement catches his attention through the magnified view before him, and he spots Luis returning home after a short trip. In his hands, a transparent plastic bag that Leon focuses on, squinting in concentration to make out its contents.

He notices a box of menstrual pads, their branding unmistakable, and fuck, if that's not confirmation that she's in there. It irritates him to no end that the Spaniard is probably pretending to be sweet and caring, buying her things and hosting her like some kind of perfect gentleman. What a fucking joke.

The man in question pauses in his steps, leaning back against the wall for yet another cigarette break that has the agent rolling his eyes in pure contempt. He can't believe the guy. 

Standing in his usual spot, Luis appears to be searching for the pack of smokes in the plastic bag, rummaging with a frown when he can't find it fast. He begins taking items out and tucking them under his arm for a better reach, and that's when Leon’s heart stutters in his chest at the sight of bright pink panties.

He bought her panties. 

The pervert bought her underwear like some kind of creep. Why the hell didn’t he get her to come with him to pick them herself? He must've wanted to choose which ones she wears, and he settled on pink because he's a freak.

Leon has to do everything he can to stay calm, keeping his eyes trained on the bag’s contents, internally praying he won't see anything worse like lingerie, or God forbid condoms. His nerves stay on edge until the Spaniard finishes, stubbing out the cigarette on a nearby bin before discarding it.

He enters the building, not a single clue of the ice blues watching him like a hawk. It’s becoming harder and harder to stay hiding in the shadows.

November 22nd, 3:17 p.m, Santander, Spain.

Seven days since the mission.

Leon is feeling himself steadily lose it with every passing hour where the Spaniard doesn't return. He has left her in there, alone, the entire fucking day after leaving in the early morning in a suit, and the agent doesn't know what to do anymore.

Luis should know that she isn't in the right headspace to be left to her own devices, it's so incredibly obvious, the agent is in disbelief. How is she meant to cope by herself? After her entire life was turned upside down, she was hurt by his very own monstrous hands, and is now abandoned all alone with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company.

She is fragile no matter her strength, he knows that. Because whenever he puts himself in her place, he wonders how she didn't attempt to stab him in the dick the moment she was able to. The pain and humiliation he inflicted on her are simply too much to carry all by herself.

He checks the notepad with timed entries and exits. Checks the time, again and again, until he can't do it anymore and he chucks away the binoculars that by now make his head hurt. It doesn't help that has barely slept or eaten anything since entering this motel, his diet consisting of vending machine snacks and endless cups of instant coffee. 

The good thing, however, is he hasn't bought alcohol yet. Not when he's supposed to be sober and focused on his mission. But the problem is he feels less clearheaded by the minute, like the adrenaline of stalking—he’ll at least call it what it is—is making his senses dull. 

Maybe he should go check on her. 

No, that would be incredibly stupid, and undo every effort he has put in to regain her trust since the belt. If he wants to convince her to come with him, he has to do things the right way. Leave her a note, and ask her to meet him somewhere public and safe so she knows he has no ill intentions. From there he can talk to her, explain why she would be safer with him, and why he will never lay his hands on her again.

God, even in his head it sounds absolutely moronic. Why would she ever trust him again after what he did? He doesn't even deserve to be in the same room as her, let alone gain her confidence.

But then he thinks of Luis again. The man that has become synonymous with splitting migraines. He gets to see her, talk to her, possibly touch her, and that makes Leon so green with envy, he feels nausea twist in his gut from the venomous feeling.

She's not safe with him. Even if he doesn't do anything bad to her, one day the ghosts from his past will come knocking at his door, and then what? She will be left with nothing—no one to fend for her, no one to house her. Or worse, she could be taken by some kind of organization, or even the government, and then God knows what they will do to her once they find out where she's from.

Leon had to witness in silence as they broke their promise to protect Sherry, a poor, orphaned little girl. He can't even imagine what they would do to an undocumented young woman of her background. They will see her as an alien and treat her worse than a lab rat—the thought makes his blood run cold.

He needs to get to her first. If he can just talk to her, he’ll arrange for something—an alias, a passport, a hideout. Anything to keep her safe. He can keep her safe. He can fix things. If he can just talk to her, he can make it right.

He stands before he knows it.

The satisfying click of the lockpick in his hands rings in the agent's ears. The Spanish bastard really ought to invest in better security if he intends on keeping wrongdoers at bay. 

Leon looks left and right, dressed in a simple navy t-shirt and his black cap. He pushes the door open with a silent creak, peering inside the silent, dim apartment. The television is turned off, the clock ticking on the wall quietly, no one in sight yet. The place is darkened due to the rolled down shutters, save for the thin streaks of light peering through the slates.

He closes the door quietly, then removes his hat and places it on the kitchen counter, as if needing to see better while his eyes scan his surroundings. There's nothing special about the flat—she would like his in D.C. far better, he is sure.

Pushing away the unhinged thought, he feels himself grow steadily more concerned when he doesn't see her anywhere. Until, he hears running water in the bathroom, and a sigh of relief leaves him. 

She's there. She's alive. He can probably leave now and resume his initial scheme of slowly coaxing her into a conversation, but he knows that he won't. That plan went out the window the minute he left his room. He's going to see her now and talk to her, and she will listen because he will make it clear he’s not intending on harming her again. Never, ever again.

He just needs to be calm, and if she panics, he can hold her in place and make her understand—this world is not safe for her, and he's the one best equipped to protect her. 

The bathroom door swings open as he stands at the end of the hallway, his heart thundering in his chest in anticipation, nervousness, dread, and, the one feeling he has tried to ignore the most. Yearning.

She comes out, barefoot, dressed in a white top and black leggings. So simple. So perfect. He can't see her face yet, but he can see her soft form, her long hair, and her silent walk. He feels like his chest might cave in from his labored breathing, heat coiling in his gut with every sway of her hips. It’s like he's never seen a woman before, and it's only now as he stands in the middle of a stranger’s apartment, in the midst of stalking the girl he brutalized that he truly realizes. He has officially lost it.

Her eyes catch his when she walks past the full-length mirror, her breath audibly hitching from shock. But he barely registers her terror, his entire body thrumming from the mix of excitement, relief, and deep aching at finally seeing her face again. 

She turns slowly, trembling in fear while he resists the urge to step closer. Then, when their gazes meet directly with no barrier, an entire week since they parted ways, Leon knows she could ask him to jump out the window and he would without question. The one girl who knows him. The one girl who never lied.

November 22nd, 4:48 p.m, Santander, Spain.

Seven days since Nora.

Next chapter coming soon.

are you guys ready for shit to hit the fan?