how can I make it ok?

It’s been a long time since you last spoke to Leon Kennedy. 

Your relationship didn’t end on the best of terms; you know that now, with the benefit of years of hindsight and personal growth and a lot of therapy. You don’t think of it that often- your job keeps you too busy for too much introspection- but you know you were hurt, and you know you hurt him. He hadn’t done anything to deserve you walking out on a random evening and never returning. The guilt, though buried deep, is there, nestled between your ribcage and your heart. You were cruel, you were unfair to him. You’re ready to admit to that, and to the mistakes you made. 

But you’ve moved on. There’s nothing you can do to undo what you said, what you did. By the time you’d healed enough to accept and acknowledge what you’d done, years had passed and his number had long been deleted from your phone. 

The helicopter you’re in jerks, abruptly cutting you off from your thought process. You start, grabbing onto the straps holding you down into your seat. Outside the window, there’s nothing but desolate grey- a city razed off the map thirty years ago. Though you’d never been by the time Raccoon City fell, you’d seen it all happen on the TV; later, after you joined the BSAA, you’d watched repeated missions there. And, of course, you’d heard Leon talk about it. The way his voice hitched at times when answering your questions would forever remain stuck in your head- the sadness that lingered in the blue of his eyes, the twitch in his fingers. 

“First time here?” 

You turn. A member of your team, dressed in the same BSAA gear as you are, sits across from you with his arms crossed. He’s meant to be running this operation. 

“Yeah,” you answer. “Didn’t expect it to be so…” you gesture vaguely, and he chuckles. 

“I know the feeling. Just keep your head on, follow my lead, and we’ll be out before you have time to say raccoon. No sight-seeing.” 

You nod, gnaw on your lower lip. You’re an experienced field agent by now; you can more than handle yourself. Something about this city unsettles you, though. You grip your gun a little tighter as the helicopter lands in an old BSAA camp. 

The city is eerily quiet. Your team leader, the man who’d spoken to you a moment ago (Belmore, you learn his name is) is in front, boots kicking up dust. There’s only four of you- the BSAA felt the smaller the op, the easier. 

You can’t help but think of Leon as you walk down the desolate street. You wonder if he’d recognise the shop you walk past, how much of this shadow of his home still holds familiarity. When you were both young and in love, when you’d thought you might marry him one day, you’d always wanted to take him to your childhood home, point out all the places you’d known and loved. Raccoon wasn’t that to him, but you think it might be the closest he ever had to home. 

“Seems quiet,” Bogomolova, one of your team members, murmurs to Belmore. 

“Oh, you’ve jinxed it!” Another, Tucker, exclaims. You all have a moment to chuckle before the ground begins to shake. 

“You’ve got to be shitting-“

All at once, the world seems to collapse around you. You’re projected back by a gigantic hairy leg, the wind knocked out of you as your back slams into the crumbling wall of a shop. You cry out. You can’t quite comprehend what you’re seeing- a gigantic spider, bigger than your whole team combined, tearing Tucker apart. Bogomolova and Belmore are running into a building opposite where you kneel, gasping for air. 

“Fuck,” you manage through gritted teeth, pulling yourself to your feet. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Your lungs burn with every shaky step you take away from the monster. It doesn’t seem to have noticed you yet, but you’re sure it’ll come anytime now. 

Just as it turns, beady eyes latching onto you, you duck through a doorway and painstakingly push the door shut. It won’t do much, but you’re under cover now. 

You don’t pause to see where you are. You stumble on, trying to catch your breath. There’s a back door- you kick that open and make your way down an unfamiliar alleyway. Everything is tinged with sepia; there’s something about Raccoon City that feels like an illusion, more of a dream than reality. 

For a moment, you think you might be safe. You collapse, breathing heavily, on a fire escape. The pain in your chest has only subsided ever so slightly, but your head has stopped spinning. None of your ribs feel broken, though you can’t be sure.

“Motherfucker,” you mutter. There’s no time to rest, yet all you want to do is lie down and close your eyes. Not even five minutes into this mission, and you’re already spent. 

Somewhere close- too close for your liking- you hear it again. The spider, screeching, followed by multiple crashes and a sound like a building collapsing. You spring to your feet and grab your knife (you dropped your gun when the fucker smacked you). 

You should run in the opposite direction, you think. You should just turn around and go, to the extraction point, or follow the direction your remaining team members went. 

Or you could follow the spider. 

“Stupid,” you mutter as you start to jog. “Stupid, stupid, idiot, fucking idiot.” It could be chasing your team members- if you learned that they’d died because you failed to find them, you’d blame yourself forever. “Stupid,” you manage one last time. 

You follow piles of debris, walls that have clearly been smashed through by something big. You fight off smaller white spiders, killing each one with muttered curses and exclamations of disgust. 

Finally, though, you find it. An apartment building has collapsed into itself, creating what almost looks like an arena. You stand precariously on a ledge overlooking the whole thing; and below you, you can see the fat fuck itself. An enormous spider, with glittering eyes and screeches that leave your ears ringing. It’s fighting someone- not one of your team members, they’re not wearing the BSAA’s tactical gear. 

“What the fuck am I doing?” You mutter to yourself. You tighten your grip on your knife and take a deep breath. Before you have time to rethink it, you jump. It’s not far down; you land on the spider’s hairy back, and instantly sink your knife into it. Your feet begin to slip and the spider screams, rearing upwards. You cling on to the knife, kick it in the side. Once you’ve found purchase once more, you pull out the knife, then stab it down, again and again and again. Somewhere to your left, gunshots echo around the small space. 

Finally, the spider lets out one last deathly screech and collapses. 

You pull out the knife, breathing heavily, and let yourself slide down onto the dusty floor. Gooey blood coats your hands, staining your clothes. You spit onto the ground and slump against a wall. 

“I missed that Raccoon City hospitality,” the other says. 

You freeze. 

You know that voice. You know that tendency towards stupid jokes. 

You spin. Your eyes meet his, and once again, the wind is knocked out of you- though this time, for entirely different reasons. 

Leon Kennedy stands before you, breathing heavily, an axe held in one hand. His hair is darker, streaked through with white. His eyes are tired, lined with years of fighting. His face is sharper, his shoulders wider. But there’s no denying it- it’s him. 

“Oh my God,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Leon?”

His gaze drags over you. He recognises you too- you can tell by the way his eyebrows furrow ever so slightly, the twitch in his fingers as he puts away the axe. There’s no anger in those blue eyes, though you worry that you can no longer read him the way you used to. 

He says your name, once, slow. His voice has changed, too. It’s deeper, a little harsher in places, but it softens the way it always did when he talked to you. It makes your heart seize. 

“You look… different.” You blink, push away the thousand thoughts crowding your mind. “What- what are you doing here?” You’re starting to feel like maybe the years of therapy didn’t do all that much- maybe it was being away from him that made you change. Your heart hammers in your chest, just like it did all those years ago (though there’s an edge to it now, a razor blade of guilt that grazes your lungs). 

As soon as the words leave your lips, you notice it. What you had initially thought was just age making his movements less fluid is something else- a rot creeping past the collar of his shirt, up his arm. 

“Are you okay?” Recklessly, you step forward. You stop an inch short of his arm, fingers outstretched, and pull your hand back, swallowing the acid rising in your throat. 

You’d heard of the deaths; the Raccoon City survivors found covered in sickness, six of them so far. You’d just hoped it was a coincidence. 

And, even if you’d worried about Leon, you didn’t have his number. 

“It’s nothing,” he says, hurriedly. You recognise that too, the desperate desire to keep you from worrying. 

“Bullshit.” A pause. “Leon, what are you doing here?” 

He hesitates. You used to tell each other everything, but now, his gaze catches on the BSAA patch on your sleeve. You wonder, briefly, if he doesn’t trust you anymore. You wouldn’t blame him. 

“I’m looking for an FBI agent,” he says. “Her name is Grace Ashcroft.” In quick, succinct terms, he tells you where he’s been, what’s been happening in the last twenty-four hours. You listen, nodding along. For just a moment, it feels like nothing’s changed. You can almost ignore the awkwardness that hangs between the two of you, thick enough to cut with a knife. 

“Why are you here?” He asks. He indicates your gear. “Didn’t know the BSAA was getting involved.” 

“This was meant to be a recon mission,” you say, “just four of us. There’s some old BSAA camps here. We thought there might be answers to the deaths.” 

Leon nods. He doesn’t say anything, though; the silence stretches, thick and loaded, between the two of you. 

“How’ve you been?” He says, after what feels like hours, with a little smile that pulls somewhere deep in your chest. You bark out a laugh. 

“I’ve been… okay,” you say. “You?’ 

“Okay, yeah. Okay.” 

Oh god. What are you getting yourself into? 

“There’s a detonator,” you add, to break the awful silence. “If we find the parts, we can set it off, get through that gate and find your girl.” 

His eyebrow quirks, ever so slightly. God, isn’t it all too familiar? It’s like nothing changed, if you close your eyes. 

“We?” 

You nod- you’re doing an awful lot of that. “I’ll help.” You swallow. “It’s the least I can do.” 

For a moment, he looks torn. But you don’t have time to dive into the nuances of the conversation you just had; you don’t have time for do you regret its and what ifs. He knows you’re capable, and more importantly, he knows he needs your help. 

So he accepts.  

Working with Leon is surprisingly easy. Though neither of you will say it, it’s nice to have company in this ghost of a city- especially when pale zombies start clawing their way out of the ground. Leon offers you his gun, and gratefully, you take it, trying to ignore your fingers brushing his gloved ones and the way your heart jumps. As time passes, though, the silence between you gets heavier- more loaded, full of words that you’re both thinking but that neither of you will say. You wonder if you’re imagining the way he keeps reaching for you, fingers hovering inches from your back whenever you have to climb over something. You both know there’s a line there; what you don’t know is if it will be crossed, and if it is, who will be the one to do so. 

“So,” you say to break the silence as you wander through the sewers. “This Grace. Is she… are you…” 

It’s an awkward question to ask, but one that’s been weighing on you nonetheless. Though you don’t know why- you’re over him. 

“Oh, no. She got involved in this bullshit because this Victor Gideon thinks she’s important, somehow.” There’s more there; guilt, an extra weight to his words. 

“So you’re…” single? For fuck’s sake, you sound depraved. But you’re over him, so there’s no hidden intention behind the question, right? 

“Yeah.” 

You stumble over a piece of fallen debris and mutter a quick apology. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking joking me.” 

You’d been reluctant already when Leon had mentioned that you’d have to go through a building half collapsed across a yawning hole in the ground. Now, standing on a ledge with nothing but glass between you and death, you’re regretting every life choice that lead you here. 

“It’s okay,” he says to you, his voice soft. “I’ll hold onto you. If we move slowly, we won’t fall.” 

Slowly, you begin to inch forwards. You can take this slowly, and that’s damn well the plan. There’s no nice way to die in your line of work, but you think plummeting to your death is one of the worse ones. 

Suddenly, the floor (wall?) beneath your feet begins to crumble. You let out a shriek as it gives way. Behind you, you hear Leon curse. He pushes off, and you’re both falling. He grabs onto you just as you both hit the glass. For a moment, you lie there, panting; maybe you’ll be okay, maybe this glass is stronger- 

It begins to splinter beneath you. Leon swears again and rolls onto the next sheet of glass; you, however, don’t have time to follow. 

You scream as it shatters beneath you. 

You scrabble blindly. Leon catches your wrist, grunting; briefly, you are suspended like that, feet swinging wildly in nothingness. You reach up, digging your nails into his arm for purchase. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls you up, letting out a groan as he hauls you the last bit. You land flat on top of him, his hand instantly landing on your back. Your heart thumps wildly as you let out a long sigh of relief into his shoulder. 

“You’re safe,” he breathes. Only then do you realise in what position you’re in- the closeness, his heartbeat matching yours. 

You let out a hurried apology and scramble to your feet. 

After that, the tension is thicker than one of the spider’s legs. You don’t exchange a single word with him until you get the detonator part, at which point you both have to faff around for a few minutes trying to put it back together. When your hand brushes his forearm, both of you twitch as if shocked by lightning. 

The walk back to the detonator is far less eventful than the journey to find the parts. Leon stays close by, hand hovering by your back once again before every jump, every drop. 

You get unlucky on the last drop. You must have landed wrong; your ankle twists, something cracks, and pain shoots up your leg. You stumble instantly to your knees, letting out an exclamation of pain and surprise. 

Instantly, Leon is by your side. His hand lands between your shoulder blades and carefully he helps you into a sitting position; his other hand goes to hover over your legs. 

“Left one,” you hiss through gritted teeth. “Ah, motherfuck.”

“Does it hurt?” He asks. He doesn’t quite touch you, but you can picture the warmth of his skin, the softness of his touch, as if you had last felt it yesterday. 

“Yeah.” You swallow. “But I can still walk, I can- I can come.” 

“No, you can’t.” He says it with a hardness you had only heard rarely when you two were together- a tone he only used when he was blaming himself for something, when he wanted desperately to protect you. 

“I’m fine, Leon-“

“You’re staying right here.” He’s already pulling the strap of his shotgun over his head, pressing it into your hands before reaching to his belt for ammo. 

“I don’t need to. C’mon, I’m fine!” Something akin to anger flares up in your chest. “I can take care of myself, you know? I don’t need you- babying me over a bruised ankle!” 

“You’re not fine!” His eyes meet yours, blazing with something unreadable. “You’re hurt, and you’re staying here.” 

You scoff. “You know, you haven’t changed one bit.” 

He doesn’t answer. Instantly, you know you’ve fucked up- let your mouth get ahead of your heart, and hurt someone you loved (love). 

“I’m sorry,” you say. He doesn’t look at you, though his hand stays resting on your knee. “I’m sorry, Leon, shouldn’t have said that. I just…” you trail off. Grace is in danger- is this really the time to be spilling your guts? You’re not dying, you’ve still got time to talk to him after. 

But I don’t have his number anymore, you think, and it’s the voice of a much younger version of yourself that whispers it from the recesses of your mind. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice drops, quieter, more vulnerable. “I am, Leon. I’m sorry I hurt you. I…” you shrug, gesture uselessly with your hands. He’s looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time, eyes wide, throat bobbing ever so slightly as he swallows. 

“We can talk about this later. But I… I don’t have your number.” You dig your teeth into your lower lip, gnaw on the torn skin there. 

He nods. 

“We’ll talk,” he says. He squeezes your knee. “I promise.” 

“You promise?” 

You’re getting sick of these long silences. He tips his head down, touching his forehead to yours. You close your eyes, just for a moment. Like nothing ever changed. 

Only a few minutes after he’s set off the detonator and rode through on a stolen BSAA motorbike (not really stolen, you provided the key to the container), Bogomolova and Belmore find you. They’re scratched up, but they’re alive, desperately relieved to find you in one piece. They haul you to the extraction point; you’re careful not to put pressure on your ankle. When they try to take Leon’s shotgun from you, you protest, holding it close to your chest. Neither of them understand, but they leave you be, preoccupied with new intel from an agent (Sherry something?). Belmore puts your ankle in a splint, and Bogomolova gives you the pack that holds the change of clothes you bring everywhere with you. A frayed sweater that you’ve had for longer than you can remember, a BSAA issued pair of sweatpants. You insist that they take you to the ARK- though the name is unfamiliar, you can almost guarantee Leon will be there. 

You’re right. 

The BSAA pulls him out of the crumbling lab with a younger woman- Grace, you imagine. He’s beaten up, bloody, but the rot eating away his skin is gone, and he stands up straighter. 

The relief almost chokes you. You pull yourself to your feet and limp over, ignoring Belmore’s concerned exclamations. Leon spots you, and his eyes light up. He touches Grace’s shoulder, says something to her that she nods absentmindedly to, and then he’s walking towards you. He catches you halfway, as you pull him into a hug. You don’t think about it, you just let the relief overflow, pressing your face to the crook of his neck. 

“You’re safe,” you whisper, and you realise you’re crying. 

“I promised,” he answers. His arms are tight around your waist, mouth pressed against your temple. 

You pull away and reach up, brushing your fingertips over his cheekbone. Nothing has changed but everything has changed; he still looks at you the same way, though, and that’s the only thing you care about as you nudge your nose against his, grinning despite the tears that cloud your vision. He catches your hand in his and presses a kiss, feather-light, to your palm. 

“I’ll give you my number,” he murmurs into your skin. You’re nodding, snivelling. “I’ll call you. I’ll buy you a drink.” You laugh tearfully. 

“I’d like that. I’d like that.” 

You have a lot to apologise for, still- a lot of guilt that you think may never leave you. But this, here, is all that matters to you right now. 

“I’d kiss you, but…” he glances around. He’s probably referring to the blood he’s coughed up that still flecks his lips, or the seventy bioweapons he’s probably inhaled. 

You’ve always prided yourself on being a master at keeping your calm. 

Working in an ER, that level-headedness has been your saving grace in a multitude of high stakes situations- when any other doctor might’ve balked, might’ve had to take a moment to recover, you were there, unflinching, steady hands reaching for scalpels as you calmly voiced orders. Your feelings were entirely separate from your job, and that was your strongest quality. 

Of course, some might say you were simply repressing things. It’ll bubble up one day, an old friend warned once over drinks. Confidently, you’d reassured her; everything was under control. You knew what you were doing. 

You’re the calmest goddamn doctor in the goddamn night shift, if not in the entire department. 

That’s why it catches you so off guard when you break. 

You’re talking to a patient, sitting at the side of her cot. She has dark bags under her eyes, wrists wrapped in bandages. She told you she was fifteen years old. It’s clear to you and to the other nurses who checked in on her that she attempted to take her own life- unfortunately something you don’t see infrequently, certainly not in teenagers. 

“I don’t know why I did it,” she says, voice trembling. Her eyes are wide and wet, tears occasionally spilling past her lash line. “I just- I’m just sick of it. I don’t know, I just…” she motions with her hands, fingers curling. “I was so sick of not feeling anything.” 

Your heart twists. You dismiss it quickly- the priority is the patient here. 

“Okay,” you tell her in your softest voice- the one you reserve for the elderly or the dying. “What you’re feeling is awful, and I’m so sorry- I couldn’t imagine what you’re going through.” A pause, measured. “We’ve called the psych department to come talk to you. They’ll clear if you’re in any immediate danger, and get you any help you need.” She’s nodding as you speak, wiping her eyes. “It’s okay, honey, okay? We’re here to help. We’ll get you everything you need, I promise.” 

A knock comes at the door. You begin to stand- in a millisecond, her little hand has darted out, latching onto your wrist. 

“I won’t ever do it again,” she whispers; her breath hitches and she starts to cry fat tears. “I promise, I promise-“ 

“I know.” You put your free hand over hers. “It’s okay, lovely.” 

She nods, and lets go. 

You’ve hardly pulled the door open when her parents barrel into the room. Her sobs grow as they pull her into a hug, fingers digging into their coats as she apologises over and over and over again. 

When they’ve straightened, you tell them, in short, straightforward terms, exactly what they need to do for the wounds to heal properly, for their daughter to get the help she needs. The parents are nodding; the girl stares numbly ahead, lip quivering when you mention the psych department getting involved. Faster than you’d expected, you’re ducking out of the room and nodding to the social worker from across the room to come and do her part. 

For a moment, you just stand there. The hospital is relatively quiet this time of night, filled mostly with the occasional beeping machine and murmured command from a nurse. You rub your face, swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand. 

It comes all of a sudden. A weight on your chest, crushing your ribs into your lungs. You can hardly choke out a breath, your vision clouds, your knees almost buckle. Bright images and colours flash through your mind, words you don’t recognise playing on repeat. Maybe it’s a textbook you memorised in med school, maybe it’s a prayer your mother used to make you say before bed. You grab the wall, gasping for air, and haul yourself into an empty hospital room. You grab the curtain and yank it shut. 

Tears don’t come. You haven’t cried in what feels like decades, and you don’t cry now- you right yourself, practically fall into a sitting position on the bed, and fumble for your stethoscope, pressing it desperately to your chest. Your heartbeat hammers desperately. There must be something wrong with you- something physically wrong. You haven’t been drinking much water during this shift; you haven’t eaten since you left the house. Maybe your lack of sleep is catching up to you. Maybe- 

The curtain is pulled. You jump, stethoscope falling into your lap. Despite the lack of tears, you wipe at your face, desperate to remove any trace of- anything.

“Everything okay?” His voice is gentle as he moves towards you. “Lena saw you come in here, wanted me to check on you.”

You only manage a nod. Your voice is still trapped in your throat, and you worry that if you speak, you’ll sound as shit as you feel. 

He catches on instantly, though. Jack Abbot is nothing if not observant- it’s part of the job, Lena murmured to you once when he caught you discreetly downing a Red Bull at your desk when he was meant to be intubating someone. 

He steps forwards again, brows furrowing in concern. “Hey,” he says simply, his voice going even softer (God help you). 

“I need you to- to check. My back.” You manage to force those words out, past your rabbit-heart hammering in your chest. Abbot takes your stethoscope as you thrust it at him, refusing to make eye contact. Your breath still comes out staggered, and your hands shake as you curl them against your chest. You feel vulnerable and stupid as he sits next to you on the edge of the hospital bed, gently pressing the stethoscope’s diaphragm against your back. 

“Deep breath out for me,” he says softly. You do as he says, but your breath shakes and stutters. You gasp again, squeezing the heel of your hand against your chest. 

“There’s something wrong with me,” you say as soon as you can get the words out. Abbot shakes his head and says your name; his hand finds your knee, not squeezing too tight, but firm and warm. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says. He lowers his head to meet your gaze; you find you can’t tear your eyes away from his. There’s comfort there, understanding. 

“There is,” you still insist. 

“No, there’s not.” A pause. “I’ve seen this a million times before.” Your name, again, practically whispered. “You’re having a panic attack.” 

You begin to speak again, stuttering incoherently. You are not having a panic attack- haven’t had one since you left med school. This has to be something- something clear, something fixable. 

“It’s okay.” His hand leaves your knee- you only have a moment to mourn the warmth before he places it flat on your back. “Is this okay?” He murmurs- you nod, and he begins to trace small, slow circles between your shoulder blades. 

You’re in too much distress- still gasping for air, fingers clenching and unclenching fistfuls of your scrubs- to really think about the closeness of it all. You’ve known Jack Abbot for a long time, and you would certainly consider him a friend of yours, but this? This is new, uncharted territory. No one has seen you like this since college, and no one has touched you like this since you were a teenager. You’re not one for physical intimacy, and this is certainly the most physical contact you’ve experienced in years. 

“Deep breath in,” he instructs. It’s not harsh, the way he speaks to you. “Deep breath out. Count to seven on both, hold for four after both. Can close your eyes if it makes it easier.” 

You follow his orders, swallowing. Though it’s not an instant fix- you’re still shaky and your vision is still blurry- it definitely helps. You no longer feel like you’re drowning. He takes your hand in his free one and presses his index and middle finger to the inside of your wrist. Your heart is still beating faster than it should be; after a few minutes, though, you wonder if it’s the panic that’s making it do so or him. 

Slowly, you sit up straight. His hand falls from your back, but he keeps his fingers intertwined with yours, resting in your lap. 

“Better?” He asks. Again, you nod. 

For the second time today, you surprise yourself. What’s left of your meagre resolve crumbles, and suddenly, you’re crying; fat tears spilling down your face, pooling at the collar of the t-shirt you wear under your scrubs. You press your sleeve to the lower half of your face to catch the snot and tears and to muffle the pathetic sobs that rattle your ribcage. 

“I- I’m sorry,” you gasp between snivels, breath hitching. “Fuck. This- this doesn’t happen. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

Abbot doesn’t answer this time. You must’ve put him off, you think- not implausible, considering the fact that you’re crying so hard you’re dribbling into your sleeve. But instead of leaving, as you’d expect him to, he puts an arm around you. His hand squeezes your shoulder and you flop against his side. You don’t expect to give in this easily, but an entire lifetime of bottled up feelings has just caught up to you in the space of ten minutes. 

You keep your hand between his shoulder and your face- you don’t want to get his scrubs dirty- and he pulls you closer, chin coming to rest on the top of your head. He’s quiet, and you’re grateful for it. There’s comfort in the silence of the little room, as your heartbeat steadies. 

“You wanna go back out?” He asks softly. Enough time has passed for you to have stopped crying, but you’re still slumped against him, breathing in and out as slowly as you can, calming yourself. “You can go back home, if you want- there’s only an hour left on your shift.” 

You shake your head. “I’m okay,” you mumble, wiping your nose with your hand. You sit up, pulling away from him completely, and take your stethoscope up from where he left it behind you on the bed. You hesitate, turning to look at him. His gaze is soft, brow still furrowed in concern. 

“You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah. I can finish the shift.” A pause, dragged out by the way he’s looking at you. “I’m sorry, for- for crumbling like that. It won’t happen again.” 

He shakes his head immediately. “No, no, don’t apologise- happens to all of us. This shit gets to you, nothing wrong with it. It’s all perfectly natural.” 

“Still.” You sniff. “I didn’t mean to lose my shit like that.”

He smiles and lets out a small laugh. “You sure you’re okay to finish the shift?” When you nod, he adds, “I’ll drive you home afterwards, if you want.” 

The first time Clark Kent saves you, it’s really just a coincidence. You’d been up all night, frantically finishing an article that you’d somehow managed to leave ‘till the very last minute; and he had happened to be coming in, surprisingly early, and wordlessly read through and edited what you’d written. A relatively small gesture, but since that moment, you’ve harbored  a deep appreciation for him, trying to ignore the way your heart beat a little faster when he walked past. 

The second time is just as absurdly kind. It had been raining when you’d left the Daily Planet building one evening; and you had let out a sad, pathetic little sigh as you remembered that your umbrella was sitting in your apartment, where you’d forgotten to grab it this morning. Just as you were gearing up for a long, soggy walk home, he’d appeared, resplendent as a knight in shining armour, brandishing his own umbrella and offering to walk with you. And who were you to refuse, when he insisted so gallantly? 

And from that point, he’d walked you home more and more often, laughing and chatting like he didn’t have a care in the world. You’ve been trying to work up the courage to invite him upstairs one of these days; you swear to yourself you’ll do it, but each time you stop at the door into your building, you just dip your head, murmur thanks and bye, and you’re gone, door shutting behind you. 

The third time he saves you, it’s not quite him. At least not at first, when your vision is still blurry with smoke and dust induced tears; this is the first time you see him without his glasses on, after all, and he’s wearing a ridiculous blue-and-red caped suit you’ve only ever seen on TV or on the front page of the newspapers.

You recognise him quickly, though, when he lifts you into the air, away from the burning building you’d been in until seconds ago. Your eyes clear, and you cling on to his shoulders as you move further and further away from the ground. 

“Clark?” You yell over the howling wind, your grip on him tightening as he veers to the left. “What the fuck?”

“I’ll explain everything!” He dodges a car being projectile launched at him by whatever big bad it is he’s fighting now. “Later!”

You can’t find a suitable response, so you just squeeze your eyes closed. It’s pissing it down, thick drops of rain pelting your face as you both curve through the air, away from danger. You’re shivering by the time you reach a nearby rooftop, your damp clothes clinging to your skin. 

He puts you down gently, in the most sheltered spot he can find on short notice. You don’t miss the fact that he’s hidden you well away from the fight, on a secluded rooftop; somewhere where nothing could hit you, where no nearby building is likely to collapse on you. 

You wrap your arms around yourself, staring up at him through the sheets of rain. 

“Thank you!” You shout. He smiles that beautiful, beautiful smile, and you feel your heart hammer harder in your chest; and you know it has nothing to do with the danger you might still be in. He flies off, and you watch, unable to stop yourself from grinning. 

You wait, even though you could leave. The rain continues to pour, thunder rattling your teeth, lightning flashing ominously close. You get colder, your shivering growing more prominent; and yet you wait, huddled in your slightly covered corner, clinging on to yourself in hopes of bringing even a tiny bit of warmth. 

It takes him a little under an hour to finish whatever this villain is. And he’s back, scanning the rooftop almost as if he expects you to have left. He wouldn’t have blamed you for it in the slightest; and yet, seeing you still there, freezing cold and soaking wet but smiling, he feels his heart jump and speed up, a startled rabbit. 

He says your name as he lands on the rooftop next to you. The rain has slowed, turning to a steady drizzle; he’s remarkably dry, you suspect because most of the battle he just fought somehow took place above the clouds. He joins you in your secluded spot, flashing that dazzling smile once more. 

“You alright?” He asks, voice soft, eyes wide like a puppy. He’s eyeing you, checking you for injuries. 

“Yeah- yeah, I think so,” you answer, though you’re still shivering. “Just a little cold, up here.” 

“Oh!” His face drops and he steps forward, hands hovering millimeters from your bare arms. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll- I’ll be right back, yeah?” 

You hardly have time to nod before he’s up in the air. Within moments, he’s back, a torn off piece of that red cape tucked under his arm; it must’ve been ripped off during the fight, and is still surprisingly dry. Wordlessly, he resumes his crouched position in front of you. 

“Do you mind if I…” he trails off, helplessly holding up the cape. Confused but trusting, you nod, and he quickly reaches out, throwing it over your shivering shoulders. It’s damp, and it might’ve been quicker to just get you somewhere warm inside, but it’s also his; so you tighten it around yourself, bury your nose in a section of the singed red fabric. 

“You okay?” He reiterates, hands still resting on your shoulders. His thumbs rub soothing patterns there, like he’s absent-mindedly trying to warm you up. “Better?” 

You nod, give him a smile that makes his heart jump just as much as your own. “Yeah,” you answer softly, voice a little hoarse from the sudden proximity. 

It’s not the sudden realisation of his- other identity that makes you feel this way. It’s him, and the fact that he’s now saved you somehow three times, even if he doesn’t know it. It’s his hope, which whines so brightly through those gentle eyes as he looks at you. It’s the gentle way he rubs your arms, as if to force some heat into you; it’s the small favours he does you what feels like every day; it’s the way he has your coffee order memorised, the way he knows which is your favourite mug, leaves it on the top shelf at the office so no one else can reach it. 

It’s the way his gaze drops down to your mouth, not too subtly. 

“Walk me home?” You ask, to break the thick silence that’s suddenly fallen over both of you. He raises an eyebrow, lets out a sound between a laugh and a quick exhale, and stands, extending a soot-stained hand. You take it, and he tugs you to your feet, careful to keep the torn off piece of his cake securely wrapped around your shoulders. 

“Walk?” He asks, playfully incredulous. “Are you scared of heights?” 

Grinning, you shake your head. He sweeps you up, very superhero-like, bridal style, and suddenly you’re in the air again, clinging white-knuckled onto his arm. He takes half a second to situate himself, and then he’s off, soaring through the air and towards your apartment building. You watch the city fly past beneath you, everything glistening from the relentless rainfall. 

He lands on your balcony, setting you down carefully. You pull the spare key from under a flowerpot- you learned your lesson after accidentally locking yourself out here for seven hours before a friend could come rescue you- and let yourself and Clark- Superman- in, quickly kicking off your soaking wet shoes. 

“Come in,” you say over your shoulder; he obeys instantly, shutting the door behind him. He’s not as sopping wet as you, yet he hovers, as if waiting to be asked to leave. 

“Thank you,” you say again, turning to him as you flick the lights on. It is unmistakably him; you recognise him in the way he looks at you, though the way he holds himself has changed drastically- shoulders back, chin high, lines of his face somehow more angular in the dim lighting of your apartment. You’d always wondered what he’d look like in your space; now you know, though you can’t really tell if it’s Superman or Clark Kent standing in your living room. 

“Of course,” he answers. His voice is deeper, too; it worms its way into your head, taking root at the base of your stomach. Now you understand how no one ever recognises him. 

“So,” you say. You should probably shower, change- you’re still covered in dust and soot, your hair matted and soaking wet clinging to your face, just as your clothes stick to your skin. 

“So,” he echoes. And he’s back in his Clark Kent voice, still smiling that charming smile, still looking pretty as ever- and standing in your home. Something you’d always imagined, but never thought could actually happen. Clark Kent, standing- though rather nervous- in your living room. 

“Do you want anything?” You ask, suddenly remembering that he is a guest; one who’s just saved you from a burning building, nonetheless. “Tea, coffee- I think I should have chocolate powder somewhere-“ still wrapped in his cape, you bustle around your kitchen, damp socks leaving footprints on the tiled floor. 

“I’m okay,” he answers quickly- he’s watching you, eyeing the way your shoulders still shudder from the cold of your clothes, still sticking wetly to your skin. “Get warmed up.” 

You nod, smiling as you set down a mug. You turn and step out of the kitchen, making your way to the hallway where the doors to your room and bathroom are. As you nudge past, your hand brushes his; and suddenly, you’re turning, and you’re nose to nose to him, breathing him in in a way you’ve only imagined in your wildest dreams. 

“Clark,” you breathe, reaching up to run a featherlight fingertip across his cheekbone. He swallows, puppy-eyes wide. You hesitate, just for a moment; but his gaze flashes once more to your mouth, and you take the opportunity to kiss him. 

It’s quick, a little uneven- your lips land on the corner of his mouth, and it hardly lasts longer than a second. But you’re both blushing and grinning when you pull away, one of his hands resting on your upper arm. 

“Get warmed up,” he says softly, tugging the torn cape tighter around your shoulders. 

“Aye aye,” you answer, a little awkwardly; but he chuckles, and you duck out into the hallway, grinning to yourself as you pad into your bedroom, then into the bathroom, where you shower at record breaking speed. You leave the cape neatly folded on your bed. 

Almost as soon as you’re back in the living room, his hand has found your shoulder, coming up to rest at the nape of your neck as he draws you in. Once again, your lips meet; a little more desperate this time, teeth knocking briefly as he drags his other hand down your arm, pulling you as close as he can possibly get you. You laugh, unable to help yourself, as he practically lifts you off the floor with the sheer force of it all. He apologises, laughing too, words losing themselves as he mumbles them into your mouth. 

When he pulls away, you’re out of breath, heart hammering wildly in your chest; like there’s a woodpecker nestled in there, relentlessly drilling into your ribs. You can’t stop smiling at him, arms tight around his neck as his hands come to rest flat on your back, fingers scratching small patterns into the back of your sweater. 

“Should’ve invited you in sooner,” you say, still breathless. He barks a laugh, leaning forward to bump his forehead to yours. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “y’should’ve.” 

Scratch. Flick. The soft breath of a flame, an imperceptible crackle as a cigarette is lit. 

You can’t smoke here, he almost says. He watches the grey smoke rise as you exhale, curling above your head; almost a halo in the sunlight streaming through the high windows. 

His mind is foggy as he watches you; all he can focus on is the way your skin stretches smoothly across your knuckles, the white of your teeth as you trap your cigarette between them to take a drag, the way your throat flexes as you breathe in, out. Sunlight bathes your collarbone in gold, and he feels sinful just looking at the dip; feels sinful for the way it makes his fingers twitch and flex. There’s a thin length of rope sitting around your neck, though whatever is hanging from it is tucked under your shirt. He feels a strange hunger to reach for it; to see it, then dig his fingers deeper, explore the inside of your chest. 

It’s a physical ache to drag his gaze away, turn it instead to the crucifix that hangs on the far wall. His hands itch, and he crosses himself. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. He knows you’re watching him; can sense the burn of your gaze on the tattoo on his neck, half concealed by his collar. 

“Do you feel sinful?” You ask. 

Your voice echoes through the church. It feels like blasphemy, the way it shatters the silence- violent, almost. He would wince, if he wasn’t so used to loud noises. 

When no answer comes, you turn your head. He thinks you might be looking at the crucifix too; he wonders if, in some strange way, by looking at the same thing, you’re looking at each other. Gazes reflecting, like light on water. 

You tap the cigarette, and ash flutters to the ground. 

“Why did you come?” He asks, ignoring- countering- your question. The way you both sit- far enough from each other not to be touching, facing forwards- is reminiscent of a confessional booth. Though he burns with the knowledge that all it would take would be a single movement, a shift of his arm, for his fingers to brush the bare skin of your wrist, to feel your pulse. He wonders if your heart is beating as fast as his; wonders, if he were to find out it was, what he would do with the knowledge. Briefly, he’s jealous of the cigarette as you lift it, settling your teeth in the soft grooves created for them. 

You shrug. He knows the question itself is loaded- is he asking why you came to Chimney Rock, or why did you came to Our Lady of Perpetual Grace? Part of him is doing it on purpose, to extract as much information as possible from you. Usually, the other churchgoers instinctively trust him- they see the white on black of his shirt, and feel comfort, an inclination to sit, to bow their heads, to share in shaky voices what has been haunting them. You, however- you are different. 

For one, you’re smoking in a church. 

“Used to come here,” you say finally. Tap the cigarette, watch the ash gather on the toe of your shoe. “When I was little. All dressed up.” You turn, and he turns with you, allowing himself a single quick look at the twist of your neck, the stretch of skin. You indicate a pew, at the far left corner, near the door. “We came in a little late, so we sat there.” Another shrug, as you shift back to your original position. He stays angled towards you, unable to wrench his attention from the way your breath hovers for a moment in your throat, as if the memories were thick on your tongue. 

“You said used to,” he prompts. Not probing, no- caring. A genuine curiosity. He wants to know, so he can help. So he can satisfy the aching hollow feeling in his chest as he gazes at the string around your neck, the charm tucked out of sight. 

“God loves you,” you say simply. You swallow, throat bobbing. “But he doesn’t love you enough to save you. So I got out, ‘fore it was too late.” Before I end up like the countless others stuck in a loop in this church, you think. “I saved myself.” You’d left God behind the day you got on that coach when you were seventeen, in truth; though the cold metal of your necklace almost burns against your skin, a constant reminder of what you once were, what you will always be, somewhere. 

“When I was a boxer,” he says, slowly. “I felt lost, abandoned. I didn’t have family to go back to, friends to help me get back on my feet. My parents may have believed in God, once.” The next part is unspoken: but any trace of religion was beaten out of me in the ring, in the streets. He is still looking at you. “You may feel like He isn’t there for you. But- but I am.” He says your name, soft. Such sharp contrast to the one sermon you remember from Monsignor Wicks. 

You don’t know what to do with the butt of your cigarette; you tuck it into your pocket. 

“The church may not give you comfort, but I can try.” 

You never liked priests as a child. But you reach out anyway, place your hand flat to the wood in the space between you. Your fingers are so close to his, only a twitch would create contact. 

What ensues is more than a twitch. 

He lifts his hand, hovers above yours for a moment until you give a small nod. His palm is warm, fingertips gentle as he thumbs your pulse. He finds that it beats to match his. You feel yourself shift closer, so your knees touch. He becomes strangely aware of himself; the thump of his heart, the scrape of his breathing, the burning of his skin where he is touching you. Strangely aware of you, too. The smell of cigarettes masking a familiar perfume he can’t quite place, the hop-skitter of your breathing. 

His other hand moves on its own, finger hooking under the thin string around your neck. Again, you nod, and he tugs it free from under your shirt. The cross that hangs from it is plain, small, wooden; no details except for the tiny gold Jesus. He lets it rest in his palm, his knuckles brushing the dip of your collarbone. 

He doesn’t ask for forgiveness. 

He lets go of the necklace, instead goes to cup your face. It’s not- it’s not claustrophobic, the way the old priests used to make you feel. Your legs don’t twitch with the urge to run away. All you know is comfort- comfort in a church for a God you love but no longer believe in, comfort with a man who only promises his own presence.