Rotting In Hemlock Grove

You're on hour thirteen of a sixteen-hour shift and your heart is racing, fluttering within your chest at a dangerous rate. A cold, antiseptic smell pervades your nostrils, a smell that you'd previously gotten used to in the three months you'd been working at Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. Now, though, you are suddenly focusing on the clinical odor again. But it's not just that. You're acutely aware of everything else; every little twang and creak makes your muscles tense up, and you cower further into the corner you've tucked yourself into.

As you crouch between two rolling carts, hugging your knees, you replay what you saw. 

Code Six had blared over the speakers, and it was like a blanket of chaos and trepidation settled over the center in an instant. You'd run back down the hallway to find someone—anyone. You were still new, and even though the code calls had been gone over when you were first hired, you were blanking on protocol. 

Fear does that. 

You weren't sure what had triggered the alarm, but you knew it couldn't be anything good. When you rounded the corner, one of the doctors —Dr. Hart—was doing what could only be described as eating one of the new assistants. His pale face was buried in her bloody chest cavity, and the most horrible, wet, squelching sounds filled the empty hallway as he took bites out of her, digging into her insides with his bare hands like he was trying to find a prize in a cereal box.

It could've been you. It easily could've been you. 

Keeping your eyes on the grisly sight before you, you'd backed up, one careful step at a time, feeling blindly along the wall for a handle. Finally, after what felt like ages, the cool metal bumped into your palm, and you almost breathed a sigh of relief. Keeping your eyes on the dark hallway, you pushed the door open and ducked inside. 

But now, you're alone.

The realization hits your chest like a semi, and the crushing weight punches the air out of your lungs. You'd backed yourself into a literal corner, and there was nowhere to go from here. You didn't even know where you were. Everything looked the same in this stupid facility; you had a hard enough time finding rooms when you were of sound mind. Just this morning, you somehow ended up in the first-floor laundry room when trying to find one of the supply closets to do a restock. 

Hopeless. 

You adjust your body nervously; your shoulder catches the pole of one of the rolling trays in just the right way, sending it clattering to the floor. Metal tools, syringes, and other supplies spew across the white tile. The sound is deafening. 

Fuck.

It only takes a minute. The sound of a body slamming against the window jerks you from your petrified and anticipatory thoughts. A deep, guttural gargling muffled by a thin pane of frosted glass and wood fills your ears, and you look up to see the blurry outline of Dr. Hart, slamming himself against the door over and over again. His face is smeared with the assistant's blood, and it transfers onto the glass with every hit. You press your back against the wall, trying to shrink into it and disappear. 

"….go away, go away, go away…." you whisper, panic making your voice quiver.

He doesn't. If anything, he doubles down on his efforts and hurls his body against the door again, groaning loudly. 

"GO AWAAAAAAAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!" Hot tears stream down your cheeks.

Two heavy gunshots suddenly ring out, and Dr. Hart slides away from the window, leaving a slick, messy streak of blood across the glass. The silence that follows is only disrupted by your ragged, terrified breaths. The door opens with a slow creak, and in response, you wrap your arms around your knees and tighten every muscle in your body, prepping for an oncoming demise. With a pathetic sniffle, you bury your head between your knees and hold your breath. Maybe if you don't move, if you don't breathe, they won't see you.

"Hey." A deep, gravelly voice—but a coherent one. One you don't recognize.

A black, tactical-looking boot steps closer to you, and you flinch, wrapping your arms somehow tighter around your shins. 

"Easy." 

You can't respond. Fear riddles your system, and you are frozen in place like a deer in the headlights of a quickly oncoming car. Quivering. Digging your nails into the flesh of your calves. Teeth chattering against each other even as snot drips from your nose. 

"Look at me… it's okay." 

Something in his voice pulls you from your terrified stupor; you lift your big, wet eyes to him, and open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks at you. Hard. You look back at him and wipe your tear-stained cheeks with the backs of your hands. 

"I'm Leon Kennedy. DSO. It's okay."

DSO…. your brain stutters on the thought. Why's he here?

The older man stands above you, gun lowered at his side. His dark blonde hair has fine streaks of grey in the angled cut. Age wrinkles his features slightly, but there's a determined spark in his blue eyes as he looks at you, scanning your body meticulously. He's handsome. Looks like he knows what he's doing — like he's been here before, but you don't recognize him. You don't know him in the slightest, but a blanket of safety settles over you as he approaches you.

"You okay? You get bit anywhere?"

You look yourself over apprehensively, as though you weren't sure, as though you don't remember what happened. "N-no… I… I ran. Dr. Hart… he… ate…" 

"Yeah. Looks like he has terrible bedside manner," he replies, cutting you off. "Where's the closest exit?"

"I… don't actually know." 

Leon furrows his brow before looking away from you, backing up to gaze down the dark hallway. He pauses to listen before stepping back to you. He looks at your badge, then brings his gaze back up to yours. "You work here."

"Yeah. I've only been here three months… I… I still use sticky notes to find everything…"

"Right. Guess we're learning together."

He takes one hand from his gun and extends it towards you, and twitches his fingers inward, signaling for you to use him as leverage to stand up. 

You hesitate. He does it again and nods his head once. You're on the verge of tears again, and you know he sees it, so he takes another step closer to you. Reluctantly, you unlatch one of your hands from your shin and lift it. A terrible, gut-wrenching groan echoes from down the hallway, and your attention snaps to it. His focus doesn't falter, though; it stays locked on you.

The groaning sounds closer, and Leon's fingers close around your hand, pulling you up firmly. The feeling of his warmth also pulls your attention away from the ever-approaching sound. The strength with which he does it is too much for your trembling knees, and you stumble towards him. Leon reacts—large hands grip your shoulders, steadying you. It's then that you see he can feel just how much you're actually shaking, and he steadies you, holding the meat of your shoulder, giving you something to shake against. For a moment, you're stuck looking into his bright, almost fervent eyes.

It's almost like he feels it, and the very corner of his mouth tweaks upwards slightly. "You're okay. Stay next to me."

You nod and wipe your snot and tears away on your sleeve. Leon's hand drops away from your shoulders slowly, hands trailing down your arm as he moves out the open door. You, not wanting to be separated from him for even a minute, hurry after him into the hallway. It's silent. The raspy groaning has faded behind you; whatever it was, it went a different way. 

Admittedly, you're glad that you have someone else to guide you. Everything looks the same. Leon moves in a precise, tactical way, clearing all the corners before urging you forward, and eventually, you gain some confidence in where you're going; something in your mind must've triggered recognition. 

You haven't taken but three steps to the left when Leon's hand grips the back of your lab coat, yanking you back beside him. "We've gone that way."

Your gaze drifts down the hallway, then back to him. Confidence draining from your voice, you whimper uncertainly. "No?"

He breathes a sigh. "I'm starting to see how you get lost every day."

"B-but, I think… I remember that hallway."

"Yeah," he replies, steering you firmly to his left, but somehow still gently. "…so do I. Which is why we aren't going down it again. C'mon."

The hallway you turn down instead is illuminated and reeks of iron and that same antiseptic smell from before. Leon pauses to listen, and so do you. 

An odd, disconcerting rhythm fills the hallway. 

Slap-drag, slap-drag. 

It echoes against the walls. It sounds wet and weighted, and sounds like it's coming closer. A few seconds pass, and a figure emerges, rounding the corner of the next corridor, moving heavily and lopsided, almost lurching forward instead of walking. She's wearing blood-smeared scrubs and looks seriously wounded. It doesn't take long for you to realize that there's more blood than there should be. The gait is the same as Dr. Hart's was as he lunged at the assistant. Wrong. She's missing an arm from the elbow down, muscles and tendons hanging in limp ribbons, and the source of the off-putting sound is revealed; she's dragging herself and the mangled limb along the wall, an instinctive action of steadying herself. 

"Don't look at her fa—"

It's too late. His voice penetrates your brain a second too late. You've already looked at her features, and fearful recognition contorts yours. Though the bottom half of it is covered in blood, jaw hanging off to the side like it had been forcefully broken that way, you immediately realize who you're looking at. 

"O-oh my god," you breathe, still whispering. "I know her. That's Ella, sh-she's an RN like me." 

As though the utterance of her name triggered something—of whatever was left in her infected, addled brain— her head snaps up towards you two. Clouded, milky eyes dart in your direction, and a wet, gurgling moan drops from her mouth as she lurches forward. A little too quickly. 

"Looks like her shift is over." He says, low, raising his gun. 

You grip Leon's shoulder tightly, lips popping apart in a silent gasp. You want to tell him to stop, that she's a good person, but as he aims his gun and sets his shoulders, nothing comes out. You, regrettably, know what comes next. Your gaze drops to the floor, your head resting against his shoulder. The feeling is more pacifying than he probably knows, but as the sound of a single shot rings out, you still shake uncontrollably. 

BANG

Your entire body flinches, and your ears ring like bells. You bury your face in the dark leather, inhaling the smell of it and him. Tears well up in your eyes. She was your coworker. She was sweet and kind. And now she was dead. 

"Come on, we have to keep moving." 

The silence hangs heavy between you two, and Leon shifts his shoulders as he moves, ducking around another corner. You cast one final glance at the blood-spattered corpse of your coworker; there's a messy, gaping hole right between her clouded eyes. You run after him, your shoes pattering against the linoleum. Your eyes fall to his backside as he walks, and you take note of the hand axe that is strapped to his lower back. Somewhere, deep in your brain, you take note of the curve of his back and the muscle of his ass, too. 

"Leon?" You ask. 

He slows his gait slightly, cocking his head to the side to listen to you.

"There's a service elevator somewhere. The janitors use it." 

He smirks ever so slightly. "Somewhere is helpful." 

Your brows pinch together, insecure, and you wring your hands nervously, feeling useless. "I-I'm sorry."

He notices this and pivots, angling his body towards you. One hand comes down on your shoulder, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze. "Relax." 

Leon turns back around, clearing the corner again. 

By the time you hear the gurgling behind you, it's too late. Someone's hands latch onto your shoulders, yanking you sloppily backwards away from the corner. You let out a deafening scream, struggling forward, trying to keep your exposed neck away from the infected's mouth. You can't even see who it is, but maybe that's for the better. Leon pivots, fast as lightning, and aims his gun. He moves back and forth with you, trying to get a clear shot. He exhales a frustrated, steadying breath. 

Your screams are constant as you try to dislodge your attacker. Their hands clamp down on you tighter, pulling you ferociously. Your arms flail forward, reaching for Leon desperately, and his fingers wrap around your wrist, acting as an anchor. A shot fires. Your ears start ringing again. Another shot, and finally, the grasp on your shoulders starts to fall away. Not fast enough, because Leon pulls you against him hard, letting the zombie fall forward at your feet with a sickening thud. 

The warm, hard planes of his muscled chest through his shirt are the most comforting things you've felt all night. At first, you don't even realize you're moving up his body, wrapping your hands around his neck. It's wholly driven by instinct and a misplaced sense of closeness with him—you're responding to your life being saved for a third time. And maybe the fact that he's really handsome. Maybe.

You stand on your tiptoes, and press your mouth against his. Though he doesn't respond right away, his lips are warm, and his stubble prickles against your chin, sending a chill down your spine. You lean into the kiss, and feel them twitch forward, brushing against yours with an intimate closeness—a whispering note of a man who wants to indulge in kissing you back—before he wraps an arm around your waist from behind, and pulls you gently backwards. The action is intimate, but there's another intention buried underneath. 

"Hold that thought," he says, low and raspy. There's a promise in his tone, and it makes your stomach muscles clench harder with want. You want to shake your head and go back for seconds, but the way that his forehead wrinkles with concern halts you. "Your arm," he says then, looking down at your left. "Let me see it." 

"Huh?"

You look down at your arm then, and all the warmth drains from your face. Just below the shoulder, there's a large, blackish blood stain tainting the stark white of your lab coat. Your stomach sinks with fear; you aren't sure if it's your blood that's seeping through, and the thought petrifies you. For a moment, you're frozen. Leon reaches for you, but before his hand gets to you, you snap back, swallowing hard.

What would you do if you had been bitten? Your brain conjures up the worst possible images it can. Torn, throbbing skin. Skin separating from muscle. Infected, bursting pustules. Sickly black veins spidering up and down your arm. 

"Sh-should I take everything off? Wha-what do I do?" The question is genuine. Your fingers close around the bottom hem of your sweater and thermal shirt underneath, lifting them up just enough to expose your stomach. Leon's blue eyes flick down to the skin for a moment, then back up to your face. 

He shakes his head reassuringly. "Lift your sleeve." 

You drop the clothing back down your stomach and hesitate again, not quite ready to find out if you'd been bitten. You roll your lips inward and bite down, focusing on the dull pain the action brings instead of what's about to be revealed.

Your fingers close around the edge of your lab coat sleeve, pulling it slowly up your arm. The fabric gathers and tightens around your bicep, but eventually, the spot where the bite should be is revealed. There's redness, but no broken skin. The infected hadn't bitten hard enough to puncture all the layers, and you're suddenly thankful that it was a freezing, raining night. Besides that, the center was always kept frigidly cold, anyway. You'd chosen to dress warmly that night, and it had possibly just saved your life. Again. At this point, it's becoming a problem, and you're altogether embarrassed by it. 

Leon is perceptive. You can tell that much just from the concerned, dialed-in way he looks at you. He can read you like an open book. 

Embarrassing. 

"C'mon. Stay close." Leon looks down at his left palm for a second, and you strain to see what he's looking at, but he quickly closes his fist tightly. As he begins moving forward again, he talks. But not to you.

"Sherry," he says suddenly, replying to something you didn't hear. "Yeah. Thanks for that."

A beat. "He must've triggered an outbreak. The center is overrun with infected staff. I found a survivor." Another pause. You craned your neck to see if he was talking into a radio, but saw nothing. It must be an earpiece. He did say he was DSO; they wouldn't send their agents in unmiked. "She's fine."

He looks back at you for a fleeting second before returning forward, his gun aimed at the oncoming hallway. Leon motions for you to stay close.

"Do me a favor, would you?" 

A pause. The only sound is the steady steps of both of your feet as you move down the hall.

"Send another agent to pull her out. I'll head to the main exit now, but I don't want her getting hurt." The statement was weighted, and though he wasn't begging with this Sherry woman, you could tell it was a plea. A plea to save her, because I couldn't save the others. Just by looking at him, you could tell he'd had a long career of as many defeats, of heartbreaks, and failures as he had triumphs.

Your chest seized for three reasons: one, he didn't want you getting hurt, which was incredibly endearing. Two, he was going to stay? That thought wasn't as appealing and made your stomach roil with anxiety. The third was more insecurity-driven; you were probably slowing him down. 

Several minutes pass without either of you saying much. His steps are hurried, and you're constantly picking up your own pace to keep up with him. 

Should I apologize?

His voice shatters your thoughts; he's asking for an ETA and confirming details that sound muddled to you. You're exhausted from the repeated adrenaline dumps. As you exit into a larger hallway, Leon scans the area before turning to you. 

"Listen. The agent will take you to the nearest hospital..." 

"Mercy General," you finish, on autopilot. 

He nods, agreeing. "Once you're cleared…"

Leon rounds a corner, and you genuinely do recognize this area. It's the entrance. You heave a breath. 

"…you can go home."

Home, you think. Home, where your bed and cozy blankets are, and where infected staff members aren't. Home, where you can schedule appropriate and needed therapy sessions for what you've just experienced. Home, though… where Leon won't be. 

"Yeah," you murmur, a very obvious melange of relief and disappointment. Leon looks at you. Hard. As he did before, but this time, there's something heavier in his ocean-blue gaze. Something you want to ask about, something you want to reach in and pull out. Instead, he gives your upper arm a comforting squeeze and moves past you to pull the front door open in one fluid motion.

His honey-thick voice mixed with the sound of the rain outside is heavenly. "You'll be okay. The only thing you should be worrying about right now is what you're having for dinner." 

You offer him a half-smile, even though your heart isn't in it. He urges you out into the rain. "C'mon. I'll walk you to the car." 

As you begin descending the steps, he pulls the door shut behind him—a safety precaution, no doubt. He's not letting anything inside out. 

"This is Agent Donovan."

You shake his hand, politely. He opens the back door, and with a final look to Leon, you slip inside. The inside of the agent's car is warm and dry; a stark contrast from the outside. You immediately scoot over to the window and press your nose against it. Silhouetted against the massive structure of the care center and the rain, Leon talks with the other agent for a moment. He pats his shoulder hard before walking back inside Rhodes Hill like it's just another day at the office, and you imagine, for him, it is. 

The driver's side door opens and the man slides in, pulling the door shut with him. 

"I'll be taking you to Mercy General," the agent starts, his voice curt and professional. He's not as warm as Leon was. "Buckled in?" 

You make eye contact and nod as you secure yourself with a click.

The ride is filled with a practiced professional quietness. He knows you probably don't want to talk about it, and he wouldn't be at liberty to answer any of your questions. Eventually, you zone out to the sound of the rain and thwip thwipof the wiper blades. 

The rest of the ride was a blur, and so was actually getting inside the hospital. The Agent did most of the talking, and his words were met with lots of nodding—looked like they expected you. 

From one fluorescent prison to another… 

"Ma'am?" 

You blink, and focus on the DSO agent before turning to the nurse. "Sorry. What?" 

"Your ID. I need to see some identification."

Your hand moves to retrieve your ID, but you remember with a wave of panic—all your belongings are back at Rhodes Hill. As you pat your coat pockets frantically, anxious thoughts of how you'll get home fill your mind. Thankfully, your keys jingle in the right one, and the weight of your phone flops against the pocket on your left. You heave a sigh of relief.

You reach for the Rhodes Hill badge at your breast pocket and pull it forward on the reel. "This is all I've got, unfortunately. Everything is back at the care center." 

The nurse looks at the badge, nods, and jots down your name. "Follow me."

"I'll wait for you in the car." 

"Thank you," you reply before heading after the nurse.

~

Three and a half hours later, you're telling Agent Donovan to have a good night, and unlocking the door to your apartment, which is just outside of Wrenwood city limits. 

At the hospital, they decontaminated you with a freezing chemical shower. Took a staggering amount of blood. Ran tests. Concluded that you weren't infected in any way, shape, or form, and sent you on your way with a stack of discharge papers and a number to call if any peculiar symptoms started to manifest within the next few days. 

Spoiler alert: they don't.

Instead of suffering from biohazard exposure symptoms, the next few days were spent in your pajamas, scouring job sites and calling facilities in an attempt to find a new job because it's safe to say that you won't be going back to Rhodes Hill. The nightmares are vivid, though, and horrifying. They wake you up every night. Definitely something that requires some good, old, outpatient therapy.

Around 5:00 PM on a Friday, your phone rings. You run from the kitchen to the living room and lean over the coffee table, looking at the illuminated screen. It's a number you don't have saved as a contact, one you don't recognize. Thinking it might be a possible lead on employment, you slide your thumb across the screen and bring the phone to your ear. "Hello?" 

"Hey," a gravelly, warm voice says. "How you holdin' up?" 

"Leon," you breathe, recognizing the tone immediately. His name tastes sweet on your tongue, like honeycomb, and you hope that he can't hear the desperation in your voice. "I'm… okay. How are you?" 

A chuckle. "I've had worse days."

"I'll bet you have." 

You don't even question how he got your number yet, and instead plop down on the sofa and lean your head back. "I'm so glad you're calling me." You pause to wrinkle your nose in a cringe, realizing how pitifully desperate that sounds. "I mean, I'm glad you're okay. I was worried." 

The conversation lulls, and Leon picks up the slack by abruptly asking if you want to grab a drink tonight. Your stomach does a flip, and you pace yourself, taking a moment to answer before agreeing. 

You give him the address of a small but cozy bar near your place, on Juniper Street. After agreeing on a time, you hang up and let the phone drop from your hand like it weighs a million pounds. The butterflies in your chest are beating their wings against your ribcage, and you kick your feet excitedly. There's nothing that said this was a date or anything like it, but you can't help but jitter at the concept of seeing Leon again. Better yet, seeing him in an environment where you both aren't, quite literally, fighting for your lives.

~

"You're already here," he says, palming the middle of your back. It's a polite move to go for the mid-back, but the size and warmth of his palm feels deeply intimate to you. "I hope I'm worth waiting for."

You swivel the stool to meet him, your eyes glimmering. You want to tell him that you would've waited all night to see his face again, but again… the desperation is embarrassing. "It's okay, I haven't been here long." 

You follow him as he moves to your side, settling onto the stool, his movements heavy with fatigue.

The bartender comes back over, rubbing a white cloth over the side of a glass. "What can I get you two?" 

Instinctively, you look to Leon. 

"Bourbon." 

The bartender turns to you, expectantly. "And you?" 

"I'll have the same. Top shelf stuff. I'm paying." 

Your eyes flit to Leon; his brows are high on his forehead, and the smallest smirk plays over his lips. "You're paying, huh? I'll have to fight you on that later."

Later, you think, aroused. You wave the comment away and rest your head in your hand. "As a thank you… y'know, for saving my life, what, three times?" 

Leon shifts his neck. "All part of the job." 

"You know… I was thinking. How'd you get my number?" 

He looks off to the side before catching your gaze again. "Had a friend do a little digging on Rhodes Hill staff. Had to follow up, make sure you were okay." 

You don't have to be a genius to hear how falsely uninterested that sounds. You hold back a smile. "Oh, is that what this is—just following up?" 

"Could be." 

"Could be?" 

He barely nods, but you pick up on it. Your body unconsciously leans forward slightly, bringing yourself a centimeter closer to him. His usually dry wit is laced with a tease, almost like he was leaving the true intention of this meetup to you. Fuck. Leon's eyes hold yours with an iron grip, and the butterflies hammer away at your ribs again. He's so good at it. All of it. 

The bartender returns with your glasses and sets them carefully in front of you. The deep amber liquid sways inside the ornate, crystal glasses. "Enjoy."

You take your glass first, clink it against the side of Leon's and take an embarrassingly large sip, eager to let the bourbon numb the noise in your head. After swallowing, you look at him with a sheepish glance and dab the corners of your mouth with your fingertip. "I guess you're handling this better than me." 

"Yeah, well, that wasn't my first rodeo." Leon reaches for his glass, but doesn't lift it yet; he just swirls the amber liquid around in the bottom of the glass. You wonder when 'his first rodeo' was and debate asking about it. 

Instead, you take another sip, savouring the burning feeling. For a moment, neither of you says anything, opting to just stare at each other, studying every inch of each other's faces. You passively wonder what he looked like younger—you can still see that bright glimmer of youth in his tired eyes—but quickly decide that the age looks really good on him. You'd always had a penchant for older men, anyway. 

"So. Is it a normal trauma response to kiss someone in the middle of a bio-engineered outbreak, or should I apologize for whatever happened back at the center?" 

For a few seconds more, Leon doesn't say anything. The stoic DSO agent seems to falter, but the weakness is quickly replaced with a deep, vibrating chuckle from him. You relax against the edge of the bar, running your finger along the rim of your glass. 

"I gotta' be honest with you. Most people scream and run. Kissing is definitely taking initiative." 

After a sip, he sets his glass back down on the table. The little thud sound is so mundane, but it's comforting after hearing nothing but gunshots and inhuman screams and gurgles. 

"As for the second part of that, no." 

"No?" 

He shakes his head once. "No. I'm not a guy who's gonna' make a woman apologize to me. Especially not for kissing me." 

"Such a gentleman." 

He shrugs.

You think for a moment. Chew on the inside of your cheek, and finally, blurt out what's on your mind.

"I think you called me because you couldn't stop thinking about me."

"Is it that obvious?" He laughs, and there's a barely detectable shiver of nervousness between his breaths. "I guess I'm not as subtle as I thought." 

He finally takes a bigger drink. You watch as his Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. Before you realize it's happening, you're leaning forward again, bracing yourself on his thigh, just above his knee. Leon looks down at your hand, almost surprised. Darts his eyes back up to you. 

"Feelin' that bourbon, huh?" 

"Shut up," you snap, though there's no malice in it. "I'm fine." 

"You are." 

Your brows fly up on your forehead, pupils dilating with adoration. Did he just call you fine? God, what a dork. A very handsome dork. 

"Are you flirting with me, Mr. Kennedy?"

The alcohol made you brazen, clearly. 

"Is it working?" 

You huff out a breath and bring your finger up between you two, waving it slightly. "Careful, I might kiss you again if you keep it up." 

"Oh no, not another one." He takes a large, controlled sip of his drink, looking at you over the rim.

You make a face at him that makes him chuckle as soon as he puts his glass down.

Any other time, a guy like Leon would've made you roll your eyes. The one-liners, the corniness, the self-assured attitude that conceals a genuinely awkward persona. Your eyes glaze over as they fall to his lips, blatantly daydreaming about what they'd feel like pressed against yours. What was it about him that defied all that? Trauma bonding? His painfully good looks? 

"Stay with me, sweetheart" he says suddenly. 

His words yank you back to reality, your eyes refocusing on his face, and your ears turn back on. A couple is laughing a few stools down, and the chatter of the rest of the patrons fills your personal bubble. As much as you don't want to, you look around you. Nobody is aware of you two, not even the bartender, who is wiping down the bar a few inches away. You turn your attention back to Leon, and swallow hard. 

"I held that thought, by the way." 

Leon looks like he's about to ask what you meant, but you don't let him get the words out. You bridge the gap until your ass lifts off the stool, climbing your hands up both his thighs. With your mouth against his, your lips closing around his bottom lip, tasting faintly of bourbon. The stool's legs tip forward, and Leon feels this, steadying you, gently leveling you back out. It breaks the kiss, but Leon doesn't pull away as he did at the Center. Instead, he lingers in your space, eyes sweeping over your face. 

"Oh," he breathes against your mouth. "That thought."

For a minute, he stays like that. Just existing, breathing in your breaths and exhaling his own into your mouth. You suck in a deep breath, like you were pulling his essence from his lungs. You kiss him again, open-mouthed, and let your tongue graze his. You feel him set himself, withholding something. You pull back. Your brows furrow, your eyes narrowing fractionally. 

"I know my timing is as bad as my sense of direction, but… but you're going to hurt my feelings if you stop kissing me again… that's twice now."

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the bartender moving away from your area, a smirk on his face. Leon responds by standing up. Instead of doing what your insecurity tells you he's going to do, he bends down and whispers, his breath hot in your ear. "Not to sound cliché, but… your place, or mine?" 

Like he did when he first found you, his hand extends to yours, asking you to take it. This time, you do, with much less hesitation. Naturally, because the only threat around you is having an audience. 

There's a newfound urgency in Leon's gait as he walks you through the bar and outside.

As soon as the cool night air hits your face, you turn to him, almost sheepishly. "Wherever we decide, you'll have to take me there. I walked. My place is just down the street." 

"You walked? And didn't get lost?" 

Your head snaps in his direction, and your fist lifts to punch him lightly in the arm. "It's a straight shot, not a confusing maze of hallways that all look the same." 

He chuckles before leading you to the passenger side of the sleek, black Porsche that's parked at the sidewalk. "Yours, then. Easy access." 

Without another word, he reaches in the pocket of his dark jacket and unlocks it, pulling open the door with his free hand. The inside is as sleek as the outside, and smells like him. Clean, but with a hint of an expensive cologne. 

When Leon joins you, you straighten up, your hands in your lap. He starts the car wordlessly, the engine purring. Instead of returning his right hand to his steering wheel as he drives, it glides through the air until it comes to yours, in your lap. His warm fingertips graze your nails, then slide upwards to your knuckles. He brushes across them, and an electric shiver dances up your spine. You can do little to hide it, and as soon as you straighten up, Leon notices it out of the corner of his eye. Smirks again. He glides his hand to your thigh, his thumb massaging circles on the outside of it. 

Your head hits the cushion of the headrest. "Leon…" you whimper. Your stomach is tightening, and a telling warmth is settling between your legs, but the scenery flying by the window demands your attention. 

"What?" His hand snakes further in between your thighs, the tips of his fingers squishing between the soft flesh.

"M-my apartment…" You breathe out a sigh. "…right there. On your left."

~ 

Leon barely gets through the door of your apartment before you're yanking him in by his belt and kissing him again. You kiss him with something that breathes hunger and impatience, something that demands sating. The undisclosed tension between you two has finally bubbled over like a forgotten pot of water on the stove. You're thankful that this time, he doesn't push you back and instead leans into the kiss, his hands on your waist. You take the initiative to jump slightly, hoisting yourself up into his arms. 

Leon catches you effortlessly, the broad muscles in his arms barely straining with the addition of your weight. It nearly chokes a breath from your lungs, feeling the unbridled strength around you. Keeping the kiss going, and even deepening it, you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the core of his stomach clench against your hot center. He pins your back against the front door.

He breaks the kiss to murmur against the column of your neck. "You know…"

You reach down, yanking his face back to yours. "You talk so much." 

He lets out an awkward chuckle, like he's uneasy, and like you've just embarrassed him. Backpedaling, you pepper short, hot kisses along the seam of his lips. "I like it. I like your voice, you can talk me through it, I just…" Another kiss.

Leon's mouth captures yours in a searing kiss, his tongue sweeping along your bottom lip and the inside of your mouth with a precise hunger that makes your core clench violently. "Who's talking now? Huh?" 

"Smart ass." 

He laughs through his nose, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk that de-ages him by twenty or so years. It's a smirk of a twenty-something guy, full of cum and confidence, that's about to get the big release. The look in his ice-blue eyes sends an electric shockwave down your spine. 

"Leoooon," you whimper, bouncing your body impatiently against his.

"Alright, alright." He says, setting you down thoughtfully. The lack of contact is unwelcome, but you know it's because you need to move this away from the door and into the bedroom—somewhere he doesn't know. Somewhere you need to show him. 

Your grip tightens on his hand, pulling him down the hall like an excited child. The room at the end of the hall is dark, save for the yellow city light that's filtering in from the window. You crush your lips against his again, inhaling a deep breath of him. The action pushes him against your dresser, rattling the items on top of it. Something feels like it snaps in Leon; a rubber band that was pulled too taut. He grips your face in his hands, caging you in, and groans into your mouth. He bends slightly, grabbing the hem of your dress, and pulls it ceremoniously up your body, until he gets to your breasts. His hands cup them through the lace bra, thumb grazing over the stiff peaks of your nipples. He breaks the kiss to pull the dress over your head.

Gazing into his eyes for a second, you dive back in for another kiss before blindly undoing his belt and sliding the zipper down. The second you aren't kissing him is a second too long, so you hurriedly push the pants down over his hips. 

Leon speeds up the process by pulling the dark shirt over his head and discarding it somewhere on your floor. He shuffles back against your dresser at your body's encouragement. Your fingertips graze over every inch of exposed skin, exploratory and hungry. 

"Huh." He rasps, looking down at your hands. "Guess I'm ready for my physical, nurse." 

The flirty little quip goes unresponded to; you're too enraptured to even acknowledge it. You knew he was strong; you'd felt it in multiple instances, but the way he looks has your brain short-circuiting. Fat, healthy veins wind up his large forearms to the edge of his biceps. 

Now it was your turn for a one-liner. "You know what they say about big veins…" 

Your middle finger follows one up to the crook of his arm. He hums, wordlessly asking for clarification. 

"Good blood flow." 

You both get what you're referencing, and Leon breathes out a short, knowing chuckle.

Your fingers continue their exploration; his torso is riddled with thick, corded planes of muscle. All hard lines and deep ridges, and a peppering of chest hair across his pecs. He's a picture of physical health, and looks like he should be modeling underwear instead of standing in your humble, little bedroom. Speaking of underwear and good blood flow… 

The dark ones he's wearing are doing little to hide his growing erection. Your eyes graze it, devouring the erotic outline. Suddenly, with both hands, you grip his rounded shoulders and spin him around, and push him down onto the mattress, which bounces with his weight. He scoots back a little further onto the bed, allowing you space to straddle him. 

And you do. 

You stay like that, on top of him, for a few minutes as each other's tongues taste every inch of your mouths. Your hands wrap around his neck, sliding up into the soft hair at the nape. Leon maneuvers his hand between your bodies to find your cunt. The lace underwear is saturated with arousal, the gusset of it sliding wetly against your folds. Leon's fingers twitch to life, excited by the discovery, and his thumb grazes your swollen clit. He dips them down to your opening, gathering arousal on the pads of his fingers before returning to the sensitive bundle of nerves. You let out a shrill moan, collapsing into the curve of his neck and shoulder. 

"I want to hear what you want," he rasps against the shell of your ear. 

Instead of words, an incoherent and humiliating babble of sounds and stuttering falls from your lips.

"Yeah? Sounds complicated. I can work with that."

Still attached at the lips, Leon wraps one arm around you and pivots, pinning you against the mattress with his weight. Feeling the muscled, heavy reality of his body on top of yours is very sobering.

You grip the elastic waist of his briefs and pull them down, roughly exposing his aching cock. Though it's dark and between your bodies, your eyes flit down to the visual. The blushing tip is leaking, stringing precum from the slit to your bare stomach. Bravely starting at the base, you run a single finger along one of the thick veins that stretch along his shaft, following it until you get to the tip. Your thumb swipes over the slit, smearing the precum along the head. Leon's breathing immediately changes; once steady, now ragged and uneven. You wrap your fingers around his cock somewhere in the middle, giving him a gentle squeeze, just feeling the swelling throb against your palm. His hips twitch forward involuntarily, seeking friction. They buck his cock into your slick fist, the precum dribbling over your fingers.

He lets out something that sounds like a whimper, and you can't help but smile. "Oh yeah, Leon?" 

He glowers at you through half-lidded eyes, desperately trying to look angry, but with your hand on his dick, he's rendered useless. Your hand moves gradually, teasingly, feeling each bump and ridge of the veins and the squishy, leaking tip. You crane your neck forward to kiss him.

"You make me crazy," You whisper against his mouth. 

"Feeling's mutual." 

You use that as permission to pick up the pace in jerking him off. The precum leaks faster, and you drag your fist over it, smearing it down the length of him. After a few minutes, his large, strong hand finds your wrist.

"S-stop," he groans. "Fuck."

Worried that you were doing something wrong, your motions slow, and you look up into his eyes. His expression looks pained, teeth clenched, breathing rushing out through them. He's not unhappy. He's close. 

"Need to feel you." 

Taking himself into his hand, he presses the velvet soft head against your opening. She gives in willingly, slick with everything he's done to you so far. 

"God damnit," he hisses sharply. His hips don't move, frozen in the sensation. His head snaps backwards, his gaze upwards. For a moment, he stays like that, but you feel his cock twitch against you. 

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothing. You're just so…" When he looks back down at you, his eyes are blown wide, the icy blue almost swallowed entirely by the dark pupils. He looks like he's barely holding back, but all those years of control keep him at bay. He inhales a deep breath and squints, the crow's feet at the corners deepening. "Warm. Wet." 

You wiggle your hips happily, and Leon's lower abdomen clenches tight, chiseled muscles flexing responsively. You hungrily rake your hands over his taut, warm skin and bite down on the pillowy cushion of your bottom lip, staring up into his gaze with a determined glimmer. 

"Fuck me, Leon."

"Don't have to ask me twice. Actually…" he pauses, that dry wit still present. "Say it again." 

Your chest heaves as you lift your torso enough to wrap your hands around his neck and yank him back down to you. Your words are drawn out and dripping with a sickeningly wanton intent. "Fuck…. me….. Leon."

Leon's hips begin to move, slipping his cock inside. The girth of it is staggering, and presses against you in all the right ways. He moves slowly at first, feeling every clench and pull that your cunt gives, like she's trying to swallow it whole. His hands come down on your hips, gripping them tightly, using them as leverage for his quickening thrusts. His jaw hangs slack, his tired gaze replaced by a carnal ferocity that has you leaking out onto him. Every slide of his cock feels like molten lava. He doesn't say anything, too focused on the task at hand. Between thrusts, you titter and press your head back into the pillow. 

"What, no quips now?" 

"I…." he stammers, keeping his rhythm with his hips. His dirty-blonde hair is sweaty and piecey now, swaying back and forth with his harsh movements. He's fucking into you like his life depends on it. The visual is mindblowing, and you want to pinch yourself to see if you're dreaming. You let out a whimper and bring your legs up around his hips. The small adjustment gives him more depth, and he lets out a deep groan.

"Fuck," he rasps as he angles his hips into you. "Fuck."

You reach up behind you, gripping the pillow hard. You let out a particularly satisfied sound, and Leon grunts.

"That feel good?" 

You nod, breathlessly. Your lids flutter, to which Leon responds by gripping your chin softly. "Eyes on me."

The words make your cunt clench around him hard, and he feels that. You see his abdomen clench, and his left hand presses into your hips, angling your pelvis just enough to allow his thrusts to deepen further, the head of his cock hitting your cervix.

Your modest bedroom is filled with lewd noises; the wet slapping of skin, feverish breaths, and moans. 

"Fuck, Leon… fuck!" Your eyes are locked on his, following his earlier demands. He stares back at you, watching every micro-expression you make, watching the desperate way that you cling to coherence as he fucks into you.

He hits a pace that's particularly bullying, and you can't help it when your eyes roll back in your head. Your climax rushes towards you, and you grip his forearms tightly. Tight enough to leave crescent-shaped indentations on the skin.

"Leon, you're gonna' make me…. I'm gonna'…." 

"There it is," he says through gritted teeth. He doubles down and braces himself on his forearms, resting them on either side of your head. With a final push of energy, Leon's hips buck hard and send you over the edge. Your vision goes fuzzy around the edges, and everything is white hot as you clench around him in rhythmic pulses. He follows—quickly and loudly. His back arches, burying his cock as deep as it can go. Every pulse of his own orgasm fills you, and what leaks out the side, he pumps back in. 

As both your orgasms fade, Leon lowers himself down on top of you carefully, still supporting his weight enough to not crush you. But the distance is closed, and it's intimate. Loving. Hazy with post-coital romance.

"Funny," he says, still breathless from your coupling. 

You quirk a brow, looking up at him with expectant eyes. "Funny?" 

He nods. "Yeah. Guess I was good for something besides directions."

You feign offence and slap his bicep, skin against bare skin. 

"Feisty. I can get used to that." 

He dips down, pressing a single kiss against your half-open mouth. The bourbon is long gone, but you're still brazen when you ask Leon if he'll stay the night.

Falling asleep in his arms needs no validation; it's exactly where you're supposed to be.