Willow ʚ✩ɞ

“I think it would be best if you left.”

Those nine words filled him with remorse. He had one good thing starting to go for him, and he ruined it all with nine words. Nine. Words.

To say he was beating himself up for that would be an understatement. But, what more could he do? He made his bed, and now he had to lie in it. All he could do was suck it up and move on.

Sure, the sentiment didn’t make it any easier, but that was just his burden to carry.

Or in other words, he was moping.

Huffing and puffing, sighing and pouting. It was pathetic. Endearingly so, like a puppy.

It was clear something was wrong. At least clear to anyone who knew him well enough. Someone he let in, that knew him before his walls were put in place. Who knew the tells, knew when the stoic agent was a little more miserable than usual.

That someone was Claire Redfield.

After Raccoon, they kept in contact semi-regularly. It was comforting knowing they had someone who shared their same trauma. And for the sake of Sherry. Claire was closer to her, had more time to spend with the little girl. Another person he let down.

Claire was a smart woman, perceptive. She could tell there was something bothering him. He wasn’t one to share, was never good at putting his feelings into words. Couldn’t do therapy cause of that. Still, she wanted to do something to try and brighten his mood.

That was how he found himself in some obnoxious club. The music was too loud, the red lights were too bright. And yet, the club was still dimly lit. Somehow. It seemed as though the lights were moving in each direction; sideways, up, down. He could practically feel a migraine forming already.

He wasn’t there by himself, no. He was dragged there by Claire. Who invited her brother. Who invited Jill. And still, he was tucked in a back corner moping.

He was out of place, all stone-faced and glum. It would’ve been intimidating to the other patrons if it weren’t for the fact that most of them were far too drunk to notice or care.

As he surveyed the crowd, a subconscious habit he’d picked up over time, he noticed a familiar figure. Much like him, you kept to yourself, leaning against a wall, foot perched up against it as you snapped your finger along to the music.

He didn’t let his gaze linger, quickly dropping to the floor. He fidgeted for a moment, trying to make himself seem smaller — if that was even possible.

Still, he couldn’t resist sneaking glances at you. He hadn’t seen you since that afternoon. He knew why. He wasn’t exactly gentle with you. He knew he hurt you, but it was for the better, wasn’t it? He put an end to whatever you could’ve been, even if he was a tad bit harsh with his rejection. (He could’ve been harsher. Not that you’d successfully convince him. He already solidified himself as the cruelest man in the world in his eyes.)

He could’ve approached you. He knew that, knew he could make amends for what he did, if only for the night. But he didn’t. He couldn’t dare to do that.

You probably wanted to be alone anyway. Even if you didn’t, he was convinced you wouldn’t want HIS company. Not that he would blame you. No, never. It was his fault, the consequences of his own choices.

..Then you noticed him staring at you.

Well, it wasn’t exactly like he was staring at YOU, More like your general vicinity. He didn’t even notice, was too lost in thought to. All furrowed brows and pursed lips. Until he noticed you noticing him staring at you. He looked like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar, his gaze quickly falling to the floor before hesitantly returning to you. He didn’t have much of a choice after that, making his way over to you.

(He did, he just didn’t want to admit to himself that he wanted to approach you. Shocker, the Leon S. Kennedy actually has feelings?? Wow.)

A silence enveloped you. One that would’ve been awkward for the both of you if it wasn’t for the fact you had a bit of a buzz going on. While it didn’t make Leon any less uneasy, the fact that you weren’t as tense and uptight as he was eased some tension.

“Listen, I’m—”

“Do you want to dance?”

He wasn’t much of a dancer, but he couldn’t deny you. You could’ve batted your pretty eyes at him and demanded his beating heart on a silver platter, and he’d deliver it, no questions asked.

His hands were fixed at your sides as he awkwardly mimicked your movements, watching every step you took, the sway of your hips.

A small gasp left you as you looked up at him, a smile growing on your face as you babbled on about how the song that had begun playing was your favorite. Your enthusiasm was infectious, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as you sang along.

A hand slid up your form, landing on your back, pressing your chest against his, letting you sway them from side to side. The display was oddly intimate for a club dance floor. Not that he minded, basking in the warmth of your embrace, the scent of your shampoo invading his senses.

He couldn’t stop himself from admiring you even if he wanted to. From taking in every minuscule detail of your face; the way your nose scrunched, your eyes crinkled. You beamed pure joy, a stark contrast to the memory of the day he thought he lost you.

He couldn’t help himself, overcome by a rush of fuzzy mushiness he experienced very few times. His love life was about as thriving as a withered plant. And on the rare occasion he meets someone he likes, and they actually reciprocate his feelings, he pushes them away. For example, you.

Without thinking, he went for it. His hands, rough and calloused on your skin, cupped your cheeks, pulling you in.

His lips were slightly chapped, hesitantly meeting yours. He started to pull back, insecurity weighing on his mind for only a mere moment. The feeling of your lips following after his soothed him; the knowledge that you wanted him in the way he wanted you, you craved him in the way he craved you, even after he pushed you away, filled him with such a simple sense of relief.

He didn’t get it. Didn’t understand why you weren’t making petty jabs or behaving vindictively. Weren’t you hurt? Upset? You should be. Should be disgusted by the mere sight of him, spewing foul words at him and telling him how he’s an insecure, emotionally-stunted, shell of a man who’s too self-loathing to let himself have anything good going for him without ruining it.

Perhaps he needs to discuss some things with his therapist.

You shouldn’t be looking at him with such warmth and affection. Like he hadn’t been going out of his way to avoid even the smallest chance of running into you. It was pathetic, really. Of all the horrors he’s faced in life, his own feelings were the undoing of him. The one foe he couldn’t face; cowering like a stray dog deprived of love and affection. Left without a loving family or safe haven.

“Why..” Leon paused, contemplating his words. ‘Why don’t you hate me’, ‘why are you here? Are you here alone? Are you here with a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Something else?’, ‘Why can you even stand being around me?’ ‘Why..’

“..aren’t you mad at me?”

It wouldn’t have mattered what Leon said, he still would’ve come off as the desperate, insecure man he was.

“Well, Lenny..” you dragged out the nickname, leaning in as though you were sharing a secret so intimate it could only be shared between the two of you.

“…I.. Am having too good a time to be mad at you. For now,” you teased, the tip of your nose brushing against his, looking at him through your lashes. A large smile grew on your face, your hands making their way up, loosely intertwining with his hair. It was soft between your fingers.

He leaned into your touch, basking in the attention you so graciously presented him with. His gaze dropped to your lips, baby blues lingering on them before hesitantly meeting your eyes. A soft flush painted his features, softening them greatly. The bashful display was a different look for Leon. It suited him, though. Made him look less glum, smoothed out all the rough edges.

He looked almost peaceful, if not like a lovestruck fool.

“And I’m having a good time dancing with you. So don’t stop. Got it, big guy?” You continued, finishing what you had to say. He didn’t have time to answer your question as you pulled him closer, connecting your lips once more. A tingling sensation quickly spread across his lips, the feeling surprising, yet not unpleasant. It only made the moment more special, like the act was something greater purely because it was shared with you. There was a logical reason, because, of course there was, there’s always a logical reason for anything. He can be a romantic on the rare occasion, however. And this was one of those occasions.

His romantic streak didn’t end there. After someone bumped into him, then causing him to bump into you, the suggestion to get out of there and enjoy a good movie was accepted in a heartbeat. It was as though nothing had changed between you. One movie night turned into another, then coffee, leading to frequent dates. It was hard to stay mad at Leon for long when he was actively in your life again. Especially when he was so pathetically remorseful, practically groveling at your feet, begging for forgiveness. Not to mention the grand gestures funded by a lavish government paycheck.

A cheesy action movie played out on the screen, lighting up the dim living room of Leon’s apartment. It was late in the night, tired yawns filling the room as you leaned further into his embrace, snugly resting your head against his chest, one of his arms wrapped around your shoulders.

It was cozy. Domestic, even.

A sense of peace washed over him as he watched you try to fight sleep, eyes shutting as you drifted off momentarily before opening again, a cycle that repeated until you couldn’t anymore. It was endearing, filled him with a gross, mushy feeling of affection. It seemed as though you truly broke down his walls. Bared his soul to yourself and gave it the love and attention it needed to flourish.

Pushing your hair back, he pressed a delicate kiss to your forehead, pulling you closer to him.

“I never thought I’d be in the position to say this,” he murmured, his gaze soft as it lingered on you. “But.. I think I love you. And I think I’m willing to take a chance on this.”

“I love you too, Leon.”

I don’t know how everything would play out. Something happens, maybe he’s been forced into therapy after everything he’s seen. It’s taken a toll on him over the years, and he needs to be in peak condition to enact his duty. Physically, emotionally, and mentally.

I imagine it’d be helpful for him, even if he was in denial, hellbent on refusing the help he didn’t think he needed. Or maybe he didn’t think he deserved it. Perhaps both?

Either way he needs better coping skills. Maybe art could be one of them. Something cathartic about expressing his deep rooted feelings without words. He wasn’t much of a wordsmith anyways. Not when it came down to his emotions, at least.

Perhaps as some kind of therapeutic thing he was tasked with making a self portrait of sorts. After all, a self portrait could tell you something about the person behind the work. I don’t know, I’ve never been to therapy, so I’m mostly BSing my way through this to get to the main thing I want to talk about.

Now, I don’t see Leon as someone that often has very violent outbursts. I’m not saying they’d never happen, I just don’t think they’d often be physical. That being said..

As an artist, no matter what medium you think suits him best, he sees those little details in every piece he creates. The things that give them life, that make them real. Whether it’s capturing the little way a smile meets the eyes, the scrunch of the nose, and the wrinkles that form in a true smile or a raw heartbreak. He noticed all of those things, the beauty that makes it full of life.

And he just can’t see that in himself.

He can’t see himself as more than a pawn.

He’s been stripped of his identity, anything about him that delves beneath the surface is wrapped up in red tape and tied up with a little bow reading “classified”. That’s not to say he was an honest, open book before. But he didn’t have the stoicism (amongst other things) beaten into him yet. Metaphorically speaking, however physically can also apply.

And it frustrates him to no end.

Years of that pent up frustration finally released in one violent outburst. One violent outburst that’s unfortunately unleashed upon the piece he was working on.

And ironically enough, with it creates a self portrait that’s most accurate to his own self perception.