Moth Mortuary

«LEON!» You must be out for his sleep, you devious minx, plagued by that particular brand of insomnia that tastes of youth rather than trauma. It’s not that bad, though, and he would have never met you if you had not decided to blast what he has now grown familiar with as the “Lacuna Coil” one random Saturday morning — evening — two years ago. «Jesus, WHAT?» Silence rings in the apartment while he waits for your answer, sheets knotted around his ankles, light pooling from the window. «LEON!» Jesus Christ, you can’t hear him. «Coming…» he mutters then, not even bothering to make his voice louder, you wouldn’t have heard him anyway, just groaning as he gets up, and slipping into his slippers — blue with the word GAMER written in bold font because of a dumb inside joke he no longer remembers — slowly but surely making his way toward the now kitchen in your Frankenstein of an apartment. «LEO—»

«I’m here, I’m here, princess.» «Ah, sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up but…» There you are, flour dusted on your cheek, hands full of a weird-looking dough he hopes the high temperature you usually cook everything with — «To speed things up.» — will kill rather than cook and marmalade on the corner of your lips. The picture of tranquillity. «I’m in desperate need of a new pair of hands.» Yup. You definitely do. A huff escapes his lips. It’s not unusual to find you in weird predicaments; hell, he had found you perched on the fridge once because the stool he had told you not to use to climb to tall places had slipped from under your foot one evening coming back from work. «On it.» It truly isn’t anything new. «Why the hell are you cooking at…» his eyes dart to the clock, one pm, okay, not bad for your standards. «One, sorry, babe.» His lazy steps close in, hands finding their place on your waist and lips their own on the crown of your head. A soft kiss and a gentle inhale of your perfume. «It’s alright, I had to wake up at some point.» He murmurs in your hair, soft enough to think about falling asleep once more, using you as a pillow. Your giggle comes out squished and as lazy as his movements. You mustn’t have been at it for too long if you still smell of sleep and your sheets’ detergent. «It’s for Sherry, you remember right? Today it’s her birthday.» Ah, yes. Sherry. You had gone shopping for her birthday present at the beginning of the week, on a day off you had managed to get in perfect sync with his own, another act of love he had filed away under “Normalcy, get used to this amount of care.” The meeting — happened after much pestering from the blonde woman — had been… lovely for sure, you’re such a kind soul, but you’re also a firecracker, and Sherry, Leon sometimes thinks, has passed way too much time with him and has absorbed his ways. What has come out of it has truly been hilarious, even if Sherry had been a bit older than you and by proxy, that meant you had been younger than him as well. You had taken the knowledge like a champ, though. Sherry had smacked him and called him an old pervert, then everything had quietened down, and you two had fallen head over heels for each other’s company, leaving said old man in the dust of your newfound friendship.

In private, later, she had approved, squeezing him in a hug and saying the only thing that would have been able to put his mind at ease. “She loves you so much, I can see it in the way she looks at you. I’ve never seen you happier.” That’s because he has never been. Another kiss falls under your ear at the memory, his back protesting for the sudden bend this early after waking up, but it’s worth it. «You’re lovely; what do you want me to do?» «First of all, wash your hands. I know exactly where they’d been last night.» Oops, yeah, you got a point. His hands squeeze, a light tap on the swell of your ass, then a sidestep to the sink. «Yes, ma’am.»

The cake gets finished in an hour, even if the recipe calls for two and a half, Leon taste-tests it when your back is turned, just to be sure after a T-Virus infection, you are not the thing that puts the two Raccoon City survivors six feet under, but truth be told, it actually tastes good. The power of love he assumes.

The frosting reads “You’re the Sherry on the cake” Leon thinks you, too, are starting to spend too much time in his company and by 2:15, the house smells faintly of cherry marmalade, and you’re done.

[ 4:30 pm, right outside the building ] «Ah-ah. I’m driving.» Now he gets why you did not protest letting him carry both the present and the cake down the stairs. Your eyebrows scrunch up; he can’t wait for the wrinkle to form up in that area, if not for the warm feeling of having spent a lifetime with you, for the teasing potential for future stress-related puns. «You drive like a madman, and it has been so long since I last drove.» You’re so dramatic, you drove last week. «You wanted me sober? Stone cold since 2026, baby, hop in.» Your back falls to the driver’s door, eyebrow arched, and arms crossed. «Counteroffer. I drive us there, you drive us back.» Nice try. «So you can get hammered with that debauched Sherry and have a DD?» A wicked grin splits your lips, eyes narrowing predatorily. You go for the keys, in the pocket of his pants, deft hands slithering in. «A Daddy?» you deadpan. It’s in moments like this that Leon thanks his military training, «A Designated Driver, you smart-ass.»

At the end, he gets in the car in the driver's seat, a feat truly. You don’t even sulk, you just take the phone charger and start pulling the hard metal playlist. He’s in for one hell of a drive. Too bad you included old Rock in the chaotic playlist nestled in between ear-busting noise, that he can sing along to because it predates you and, quite frankly, him too.

You pull up to Sherry’s house on the note of “You give love a bad name” by Bon Jovi, singing along and waiting in the car, only to finish the lyrics. Between giggles and a fake-bad singing voice, he knows you are pulling just to humour him.

Sherry gets to you from the low gate, more symbolic than anything. «You done scaring the dogs?» The dogs don’t look scared, though. Running full speed to your side of the car and jumping at you the second you put your foot outside. Leon, to them at least, must be a second choice, letting him exit the car with little more than a “Woof” thrown in his direction. Letting their owner do the greetings. «I’m so glad you had the day off, Leon.» Sherry’s hug is soft and warm, pulling Leon into a tight squeeze. «Me too.» His arms pull her in tight, a peck on her cheek and a huff in response to her giggle. «Thank the lady, though, she reminded me like a thousand times.» A glance in your direction, and Leon captures the last ember of a scene in which Rambo, Sherry’s overzealous Border collie, lunges at a thrown rock he must have brought to you pre-emptively, as you wipe slobber on your pants and move in their direction. Your eyes shine bright as you track the dogs’ movements with a joy that borders on infectious. «Happy birthday, birthday-girl!» The pitch in conversation rises significantly, hugs, laughter, a scratch behind Loki’s ear and Rambo's insistence on not being left behind. Leon finally gets acknowledged by the dogs, unable to draw either Sherry’s or your attention to them.

The dogs hear it first, getting out from under Leon’s hands and righting their ears, then the low rumble of a bike spikes in intensity and from the end of the road a single big headlight appears in the distance. Sherry’s smile spreads wide. «She made it!» Clair Redfield dismounts her Harley-Davidson in one sweep motion, flaming hot frame and the signature matching red leather jacket on her shoulders. Leon hasn’t seen her since the Harvardville incident, roughly twenty years ago. They kept in contact, sure, but the sudden reunion tug at his heartstrings. The helmet lifts, and suddenly they’re back at the outskirts of Raccoon City. Sherry is twelve and Leon is still — somewhat — a cop. «Surprise, old man!»

There are twenty years of force in the hug Leon constricts her in, gripping at the leather jacket. «I’m so happy to see you.» Clair laughs, with the same fresh laugh she had when Leon had met her. «I had to meet the woman who puts up with you.» «Oh, you’ll love her. She’s very vocal about her opinion on the government.»

And love you she does, in between a shared story Leon recalls differently, a few low songs mumbled with a laugh and a kiss Leon plucks from your lips.

It’s late into the evening when Sherry pulls him aside. In the modern kitchen that resembles so much the one in Leon’s old apartment, sharp edges, perfectly straight angles, a butcher block at least a meter long. Wine sloshes gently in her glass, a lazy movement while she leans on her countertop. «You’re all set? Do you need anything else?» «No, next week I’ll do it.» Sherry hums slowly, half thinking, half just losing herself in her own thoughts. «Thanks.» Leon has never been good with gratitude. «For what?» «For taking care of me back then. For standing up for a complete stranger.» «It led me to this…» From the living room, Clair’s laugh booms loud and fresh, followed by yours and Rocky’s howling in response to the sudden sound. «I wouldn’t have it any other way.» It’s true, he really wouldn’t. «Well, I did the bulk of it. You just have to show yourself up, and the rest will be handled.» Something hangs in the air, then Sherry puts her glass down and hugs him tightly. «I’m proud of you.» A huff falls from his lips, and Leon truly is the worst with affection-stuff, but he holds her back, even if he can only mumble an «okay» in response.

And it doesn’t matter he can’t bulls-eye a wind chime a mile away anymore because as soon as he enters the room back, your eyes magnetise to his, corners squeezed in joy, marbles of wet happiness that will tumble into that ugly laugh you rasp out every time you’re out of breath, and it truly doesn’t fucking matter.

Your head lolls back into the couch, lazily blinking up at him the same way Chad does, in that lethargic way you say he’s using to tell you “I love you”, and you swear by it because you’ve read it on www.feline.psychology.org. You look so at ease curled up in your spot, «Someone didn’t mention his tracksuit-only phase…» Clair giggles hysterically; your hand shakes her phone in front of him, a horribly grainy picture of the duo on its screen, Leon in that dreadful striped tracksuit you’re so keen on mocking. «All right, love, that’s enough socialisation for the two of you.» «Hell no!» Clair protests, «I have more than thirty years’ worth of horrible puns you said, I have to warn her about.»

The evening passes quickly. Between the two of you, you end up eating three slices of the cake you made, receiving the attention it deserves. Pun included. For all your scheming, you end up drinking half a glass of wine, finding the idea of stealing sips of his juice here and there way more endearing. And when the night arrives, and the last evening light dies over the hills, and goodbyes are said, you’re both back in his car. Clair’s engine roar getting thinner and thinner in the distance. «That was lovely.» The engine purrs back to life underneath you. He schemed well; he’s far too tired to drive right now, he could, if you give him the puppy-dog eyes, he will, but he won’t offer for sure. «Yeah, ’twas cool, I like Clair. She’s badass.» It’s weird, the idea of his old world merging with the new, somewhat fresh start he has finally conceded himself. With Sherry, it had been easy, so similar to him, she had liked you the second she had clocked you. The exact same way he had fallen head over heels the moment you had opened that door more than a year ago now, but with Clair, he had feared for a second, it would have been weirder, word colliding and all that. It still is. Weird, he means, god everything is with you, but it’s that type of weird he made peace with a long time ago. New-weird, different-weird. Buzzing. Your hand finds his own, forgetting the wheel you were tinkering with and pulling him back into his own mind. «I really like them. Thanks for having included me.» His fingers squeeze on instinct, leading your hand to his lips and kissing the knuckles of your interlocked fingers. «Ah! By the way, I got us stuck on dog-sitter duty next month, Sherry deserves a vacation, and I want to stay with the puppies.» «They’re seven each.» Your head turns his direction, a smile still tugging at the corner of your lips as you reverse out of the drive. «Tough luck, pretty boy.» He fights a smile back. «Tough luck, pretty girl.»

It’s unusual for him to wake up before you, but some-what of a routine is blooming between nightmares he has sparser and sparser in between and your unpredictable nature pulling him from sleep at the weirdest of hours. Still, being up and about at 11 is weird regardless, especially when the apartment is this quiet. The pan sizzles, the egg-toast he made for you rests covered by another plate on the kitchen island to still be warm when you wake up. The low buzz of his phone tugs at the hem of the serenity he’s immersed in. But it’s not his usual one. It takes him a beat to answer. «Leon Kennedy DSO.» The call is brisk, a few instructions, his firm resolve, then the loud, quiet beep of the end of the call. Leon stares at the screen for a couple of minutes.

«Are you gonna go?» Your voice is laced with sleep, raspy and heavier than usual. He can hear the worry behind your serene exterior. You have never stopped worrying. Chad rests on your arms; you’re basically gripping him, eyes lucid, your lower lip dipped where your teeth are torturing the inside of it. You look like you’re bracing for something terrible, and to see you like that, resigned to the idea you one day will lose him to yet another pointless mission, jabs something sharp and painful in his chest. And he has to tell you. «I retired.» He blurts out. Then, as if remembering only now: «A week ago,» he adds. And for good measure: «It went through yesterday. I’m no longer active on the ground from today on. I just got the confirmation.»

Your lips tighten. «What about Sherry?» «She did most of the paperwork. She’s old enough to take care of herself.»

For a second, nothing happens, then Chad mews loudly as you let him out of your embrace. The blanket you had carried over your shoulders from the bedroom falls with a thud, your steps land heavy on the newly renovated floor, and your arms coil around his neck. «Oh my God, thanks, thank you so much.» He catches you mid jump, of course, he catches you. He always will. «I love you so much.» He loves you, too.

«I kept the office job tho.» Your head falls back, a loud groan dragging out your next words, «Jesus Christ, Leon!» «You’ll kill me if I’m home 24/7!» Your laugh lifts light and carefree, the vibration on your throat under his lips. A kiss, then another. «You know what? I’ll take it.»

Super short, but I was in a soft/domestic mood. Lmk what you think <3

Prologue: The fine art of getting caught stealing

You used to stop in front of it a lot when you were a kid, the massive building of red bricks and refined windows, framed by wrought iron and Murano glass. A luxury in its existence. With a man opening the door for the elegant men and women entering the building. It was a very innocent habit; you never annoyed the guests, you never tried to enter or whatnot, and in fact, you never even stood too close, with your ratty clothes hanging off your back and the nagging feeling of being already too close to something you shouldn’t even be able to cast a glance on.

That feeling had always been a huge part of the weird fascination you developed for the Wrenwood hotel. It had stood there as long as you could remember, buzzing with life and warm chatters flittering from its stomach. You had stood at its outskirts for hours on end, hugging your knees and just sitting on the opposite side of the street. Something as pretty as the hotel had no business being placed in such a filthy city; you knew well the extent of such filth, coming home every night to a bug-ridden apartment and the deafening sound of drunken snores.

But the Wrenwood hotel had stood there despite it all. The object of your longing for years to come. Now, eight years later, standing in front of the building, you remember why you had decided — at seventeen, if your reconstructions don’t lie — to just leave and never look back. The Wrenwood Hotel had burned down one night amongst others. Now you remember. It burned to its very bones. And apparently, that must have been what had ultimately ticked you off one way. You don’t really know. These days, you only remember splotchy flashes of your childhood, be it for the trauma or the amnesia you can’t tell. Yet another missing puzzle piece you don’t know where to look for. So much for being smart. No, how had he called you? Brilliant? Never mind, that path had closed itself a long time ago.

The street surrounding the impressive building didn’t really change, at least you don’t think so; the horrible feeling of misplaced nostalgia clings to your skin like the humid air lifting from the manholes, everything is so fundamentally wrong it almost feels right. The cigarette in your mouth sizzles, ash falling onto your lap; the Civic is getting colder, one window rolled down and the engine shut off.

The rumble coming from the road you loiter on the edge of is a low and sensual purr, the sound of a work of art strolling down the street. The beautiful Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT rolling down the central lane of the busy street fucking glistens in the low rain and dim light of the evening, and if your eyes don’t deceive you, that is a customised model as well. Your nostrils flare, and your eyes shine, thick smoke coming out in puffs of nicotine. A low whistle escapes your lips. No need to feel self-conscious, the street is busy, yours is a compliment, and the owner of the little slice of heaven gracing the streets of filthy old Wrenwood will never know you occasionally act like a pervert. Except the car, albeit stuck in traffic, doesn’t move on. Suddenly and without warning, the door opens, lights flickering into life inside the cabin, and a handsome man slides out of the driver's seat in one fluid motion.

You’re very good at reading people, you’ve always been, and that particular trait has saved you from a lot of sorrows many, many times, but this one, this one is kind of a mystery. The man stands in the middle of the road at a very honourable five feet ten or something more, dirty blonde hair littered by specks of greyish strands, tousled by the sudden wind. The man looks normal, hot if you let the monkey brain part of your mind speak, with a well-defined figure under the undoubtedly pricey leather coat, but what really tips you off is what he’s doing. Frozen beside his car, he keeps looking at the hotel as if in a trance. Like you did for the past two hours. He doesn’t even look like he’s blinking, unnerving focus planted on the hotel. And then, suddenly, the spell breaks, and in a couple of firm strides and a honked horn from the vehicle he cut, he leaves, car still fixing its unblinking eyes of yellowy light.

Life's gotta be smiling down on you.

And even if the whole situation screams “Odd, odd, odd”, there is no way in heaven you are not stealing that absolute babe. You're out of your car in minutes and beside the Porsche in seconds, probably less; of the handsome owner, not even a trace.

The light still on inside the car had told you quickly that the weird man had been the only person inside, but a quick check never hurt anyone. The back door clicks open under your fingertips with an extremely satisfying sound; the insides are leather-bound, sleek, so mouthwateringly sexy and deserted— A gunshot rings out a street down from your left. The world freezes, a second follows, then a third and a fourth.

It’s a very peculiar sensation; it’s not like you’ve been exposed to many situations in which guns have been fired. You don’t expect to lock up like that, fingers gripping the handle of the door and eyes blurring, vision going stale at the edges. Screams follow, then the crashing sound of a car hitting something at an alarming speed. You wince, frozen in place. Something old settles in your stomach, rotten and discarded. Forgotten.

A loud bang cracks through the street, louder than any gun has any right to sound, and funnily enough, that spurs you into motion. You climb inside the car quickly and hurriedly, limbs trembling and pupils shaking inside their sockets, the world feels too tight and too loose all of a sudden, so you squeeze yourself into the gap at the bottom of the car, between the edge of the back seat and the back of the driver's, sitting where shoes have been, unable to give a fuck, head in your hands and ears ringing under your palms. Someone runs past the car, a thud, the door shutting close on your spine, painful and chaotic, finally cut from the noise outside. You’re shaking like a kid.

The back of your head burns, along the thick scar, your fingertips trace it, inch by inch of white ridges; a drag path of old suture. Dot, dot, line, dot, dot, line— It hurts, from the inside out, like a fire branding burning deep into your flesh, unreachable. Dot, dot, line. «Send me the coordinates.» The front door opens, a deep voice fills the cabin, a new surge of panic grips your throat tight. Dumb silence rings hollow in your head. Oh… right… You were supposed to steal the car.

You don’t think the man will chastise you, not after what the situation has turned to, and if he does, you can cry on command. You’ll put on the wettest, most pathetic, sad eyes you have in your repertoire and plead “you were so scared of the gunshot” and he will probab— Something lands with a thud on the passenger seat. A gun. No, a fucking bazooka, discarded. In the perfect trajectory where your eyes have to land. Where they have to fixate. Your eyes go wide, your voice dies in your throat, and whatever little scene you had in mind withers away. You are so fucked up.

The car roars to life, a phone pings, the gun shifts on the seat.

An arm swings past the headrest on the right, gloved hand gripping the leather gently, leather on leather, as the car backs out of the traffic lane and into the fast one, you are so cooked. A gun — a fucking shoot-out in the middle of the city — leather gloves, a custom Porsche and a generally unnerving man, you have so put yourself into the car of a mob or something.

A mob that doesn’t know you are there, though. That, in fact, doesn’t even know you exist.

The asphalt hums under the tyres, a slow roll from city traffic to rural quietness, your mind runs circles. Thank god mafia guy actually knows how to drive, a wrong turn and your useless body will probably collide with the back of his seat, but he rides smoothly, and your knee is jammed in a semblance of stability you’re quite sure you don’t actually possess.

You begin to think this might actually work out.

«Are you gonna speak or what?» Fuck. «Aren’t you bossy today. I’m gathering insights.» A voice rings clear and youthful in the car, a woman, probably younger than you, a phone blinking owlishly somewhere on the dashboard. A humourless chuckle fills the car in its quietness, «What am I getting myself into?» What are you getting yourself into, indeed… «It’s a very old building, Leon, and Gideon has had it since 2003; there is no telling what kind of experiments he might have done since.» What? Your eyes feel dry, there is a weird ring that’s stuffing your ears with wool, and you’re starting to feel nauseated. What— what the fuck is going on? The word experiments rattles through the walls of your brain. Oddly familiar. The man’s voice quips back up, the conversation falling easily regardless of the topic. «And nobody did anything?» The two seem to know each other. Her father? Mentor? Boss? Too many informations, you don’t know how to organise— Victor Gideon, a weird-looking fella, tall beyond any reasonable doubt he might not be a bioweapon himself. How do you… Your breath hitches, imperceptibly low. The name rings a very old bell. «It wasn’t on our radars—» The man cuts in, «Well, too damn bad. If Gideon is still tied to Umbrella, it can only mean the place is gonna be crawling with monsters.» Monsters!? The fricking Porsche seems less and less worth it as the conversation trickles in. It’s not if you have to die for it.

«I have to go. Keep me posted if you find anything new. Over.» The car plummets into silence as the communication cuts. The asphalt shifts into something rougher, the car humming and shifting gracefully to accommodate the new terrain. You’re slowing down.

You’re sitting in a very odd position, the very same that panic had whispered in your ear when you had first climbed into the footwell like a dog, so it’s actually kinda hard to look for clues out of the windows you can only see the sky from. And that is giving absolutely no clue where you are.

«What about you?» A gun clicks, and suddenly you’re staring down the gaping mouth of the huge gun you’ve been staring at the whole trip. «You breathe awfully quietly for a civilian.»

Stillwater Hollow, 278 miles to Raccoon City. November 15th, 2019. Seven years prior.

The light buzzes quietly, a low hum circling back into a loop and a click. You’re being recorded. You might be young and uneducated — for now, and not for long if your plan works out —, but you’re surely not stupid. «And so, you want us to believe this is of your making?» The little man, a short thing with round features and a white coat, preens from the other side of the metal table, heavy glasses filtering his judging gaze, scrutinising your work. «I do.»

You’re used to judging stares, never a gullible one yourself to begin with. «You’ll understand it’s a bit difficult to believe a dropout… so young nonetheless was ab—» «I can tell you exactly what strand of T-virus was used to make the fine specimen of a man you have next door, evaluating my performance.» The room suddenly hovers over a very deep void of silence, not yet plummeted in, not yet freed from your spell. The corner of your lips quirk up. They’re all beneath you. You’re God, and they’re nothing. «And on what genome does your little art-craft, patch-up, generical intervention sit. Quite frankly? Even you could have done better.»

The door creaks open, metal and heavy, white, pristine. The man who enters needs to fold like an origami to fit through, scaled skin, squinted eyes. He must be suffering the blinding light over his head. Your eyes shine, your fingers twitch. You itch to grab. «Miss…» There is a slight hiss to his words, a very faint and subtle sound that rattles the drum in your ears until the sound itself is reverberating in your jawbone, a very uncomfortable sensation if you must admit. But discomfort is the lightest plate on your scale. «It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor Gideon.»

«Don’t—D-Don’t shoot!» «Then start speaking.» «I—I- I got scared, there was a— a shoot-out and I, I was just scared, I’m sorry, I—» The gun clicks, your hands jitter where they grab at your knees. «As quiet as a mouse? Didn’t know breakdowns were this silent.» «You h-had the gun.» For a moment, silence rings hollow and uselessly stuffy in the car, you can see the man's eyes track your field of view and annoyance plastering on his face. «Shit. Leon Kennedy, DSO. I’m not a criminal.» And finally, finally the pistol gets holstered. And that gives you nothing.

«W-What?» «DSO, and your best bet is to stick around me.» The door clicks open, for a second, the night air freezes its way in, uninvited and sharp. The man steps out, and for a split second of pure folly, you consider climbing the seats and driving away in the night. But the second your brain gets in gear, and you actually file the idea under “plausible”, the door painfully pressing on your spine opens underneath your weight. «Unfortunately, I don’t have the time for you.» You’re not a feather; your father ceased to scoop you up into his arms a very long time ago, so you don’t really know if it should be normal for someone to manhandle you that way, but it feels wrong. No one should be able to carry a full-grown woman up from the footwell of the passenger seat and into the driver’s one without breaking a sweat. Leon Kennedy apparently can.

His gloved hands guide yours to the wheel. You must have hit your head on the ride, no, better yet, he must have shot you, and this is some sort of fucked up hell you ended up in. Then the click and the cold slot into place, and your brain catches up with the situation. He handcuffed you to the steering wheel. No frills, no heart-shaped dot over your I’s. He just fucking handcuffed you to his Porsche.

«The car is tracked; you do not want to run away with it. If I’m not back in an hour, you’ll have to, though. You will not go east. Raccoon City is a shell of abominations. What you will do is go south, then west, you’ll find yourself back in Rhodes Hill. Wait in a parking lot, doesen’t matter which one, again, the car is tracked. You will be found in the next 30 minutes or so. Explain the situation and ask for Sherry…» The man’s voice falters for a second, a moment of vulnerability amongst so many clinically delivered instructions, your ears perk up, your eyes sharpen themselves back to focus. There’s humanity underneath the leather exterior; you can glimpse shards of it. So you just have to prod. «What then…» His eyes are a very sad shade of blue, you haven’t noticed before. They’re pretty, really pretty, but incredibly melancholic. The sky over your childhood neighbourhood had once stood in the same pale blue. «Tell her Leon had indeed done something stupid.» The gun reappears, no, this one is a different one, smaller and more normal looking, the man counts his bullets, then circles his shoulder and pops his neck. «Don’t go until the clock says 1200. Have I made myself clear?» You can only nod as the filled magazine clicks into the gun.

«Good.»

Let me know what you think <3 <3

/̵͇̿̿/'̿'̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ Next chapter

"A drag path etched in the surface"

A story retracing your existence, an unknowing Umbrella researcher and the horrible mark you have left on the world. You’ve tried to make your wrongs rights but for the job there is only one man. You hate that Leon must be dragged into this, but alas, it has to be done. From the prologue: You just got too far to give up now. But where precisely is now? Well, now now you’re about to die, held captive by whom once had promised you salvation, but when all of this started, you had only been a student fallen through the cracks.

This is a very angsty story, whose main tags are probably "Reader Haunts the Narrative" and "Major Character Death", in which Leon retraces your existence through videos and documents you have left for him after your death to guide him through a mission you have left for him to finish. VEEEEERY sad, very heavy and very structured as a "Reader", not really easy to put yourself into the character, and not really an xReader per se, more like a platonic falling for someone's ghost.

"Per un pugno d'Hybris" (For a handful of hubris) ex "You’ll hear me howling outside your door"

You always knew touching was not something you could afford, not back then, surely not now, and yet the Porsche, damn it, that fucking Porsche, had begged you to be stolen, especially since the owner had left it unlocked and fucking turned on, is he kidding you? How could you not at least try? But you truly were never supposed to touch. From the prologue: The beautiful Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT rolling down the central lane of the busy street fucking glistens in the low rain and dim light of the evening, and if your eyes don’t deceive you, that is a customised model as well. Your nostrils flare, and your eyes shine, thick smoke coming out in puffs of nicotine. A low whistle escapes your lips. No need to feel self-conscious, the street is busy, yours is a compliment, and the owner of the little slice of heaven gracing the streets of filthy old Wrenwood will never know you occasionally act like a pervert.

WAAAY funnier and less heavy, set during RE9 (like the timeline is the same, you literally witness Dr Gideon kidnap Grace), and it has the added bonus of you… well… of you still being alive 😐 It's a wrong person, wrong time, wrong place kind of fanfic. If you know me even a bit, you know my xReader are always kinda "fitting" meaning the Reader usually has a backstory and/or a somewhat marked personality, so this one too is like that, but I think it's funny. I like to be someone else sometimes. Let me know which one I should focus more on!

To wake up to the loud bass of God knows what kind of grungy music someone’s kid is playing at full volume a couple of doors down from his apartment is not exactly how Leon wants to be woken up on a random Sunday morning after another gruelling mission. It really is not.

But it’s exactly what is going on right now. With an insufferable beat stomping in his ears and making his walls tremble with edgy tones and a nausea-inducing, messy rhythm. It’s stupid that he instinctively reaches for his gun; it’s even more stupid that he points it at the closed door of his apartment. And by the time he actually understands what the hell is going on, anger pools behind his eyes. Fucking kids.

He’s still in his sleeping clothes when he bangs on your door. And, judging by the messy hair and three sizes bigger t-shirt you greet him with, so are you.

«Oh! Hi, can I help you?» «Lower that damn music down, do you have any idea what time it is?» For a second, you blink dumbly at him, with the edge of your door in hands and the sweet smile frozen on your face, and Leon is almost proud of how impolite he has come across. Then something in you snaps, and your face turns into a scowl; a pissy, youthfully-judgemental scowl. «Like… 2 pm, dude?» What?

Now that you have mentioned it… the hallway does look suspiciously lit. He must be looking completely lost, and a good portion of dumb, if even you — the most terrifying of monsters, a young adult — after a piercing eye-roll, find pity for him in the depths of your cold, cold heart. «Alright, I’ll tone it down a notch, but you have to go to sleep earlier next time. 2:15 is genuinely fair game.» And with a hip propped against the doorframe, you arch an eyebrow and deliver the last painful jab at his dignity: «grandpa.» For a second, Leon is so out of depth that he genuinely gapes. Well, there goes his resolve. «I’m sorry—»

Not that you step down easily with the derogatory sass, on the contrary, his sudden nervous behaviour seems to spur you on. «Don’t have a heart attack over it,» you cut him short, before swinging your weight from leg to leg and fixing him with a sour expression. «I’ll cut the music out, so you can have your afternoon nap in peace. Old man.» And with that, and a last dismissive huff, you close the door in his face, and he’s left standing on your “go away” doormat that does nothing but rub salt into his wounds. Well, that was brutal. It’s only when he’s back inside the safety of his apartment, too awake by shame to go back to sleep, too physically taxed to do anything else, that he finally realises he never stopped to buy coffee yesterday, coming back from his latest mission; and the nagging feeling of having forgotten something gets dethroned by pure despair.

He has to do some serious mental gymnastics to convince himself to throw on his leather jacket and walk in his pyjamas to the store, but he cannot function without coffee. It still takes him 20 minutes to hype himself up enough to even slip on his shoes. No socks because he hates life.

And today, life hates him back apparently, because as his door slams shut, his eyes connect with yours under the rim of his baseball cap and you’re simply there, at the end of the hallway like a sphinx guarding his freedom, between him and the stairs for the outside world, one yellow package in one hand and the handle of your door in the other. Your eyes scurry to his, attracted by the loud sound of the closing door, and something wicked splits your lips in a grin. «Well, well, well… aren’t you up bright and early?» You mock, crossing your arms and dangling the forgotten package from the hiding place tucked against your hips. «I finished coffee.» Is the only thing he can murmur, surprisingly truthful and plain. For a minute or two in the brightly lit hallway, nothing but silence lingers in the air; then, suddenly, as loud as gunshots, your laugh ricochets through the walls. «Man, today is not your day at all. Get in, 12B, I’ll make you a cuppa.»

And on a normal basis, Leon would have never accepted, but today, nothing feels normal. So he follows. The apartment is furnished the way Leon would expect a 20-something girl’s apartment to be furnished, perhaps leaning a bit on the side of 90s grunge; the one he lived on his skin firsthand during his own youth, and now echoed in his neighbour's cramped living room/kitchen/music room. It’s a weird transitory space that feels lived-in, as if its purpose had shifted and changed during the years, settling into an impractical mixture of old functions and newer ones. «Do you play?» The row of guitars and what he assumes are bass lines the wall over a mismatched old piano that screams “old lady” rather than college student. All different colours and shapes, a particular one even having two necks and some glittery finishing over the body. Those too feel lived-in, with scuffs and scratches across their varnish. «No, I like to spend my paychecks caring for these bitches out of the kindness of my heart.» sassy, «I’ve been playing since I was seven or so.» It should feel like hostility, but Leon knows what true hostility feels like, and that is not it. You’re more like a hissing cat swaying your tail dismissively, deeply offended. «You’re a mean one, aren’t you?» The coffee machine sputters to life, a low buzz indicating a long life of usage. You turn and tilt your head, unimpressedly looking at him through your lashes, «Me? Are you having a senile moment? I was sunshine and rainbows when I opened that door; — your hand does something incoherent with itself in the general direction of the exit, then, coming back to him, a finger points square at his chest — you were the mean one. It’s truly not on me this time… As you sow, so shall you reap.» You pronounce at the end, like a mantra, spinning on your heels, chin up in pride, messing around with pots and coffee pods.

«I had a rough night. My bad, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.» It’s really easy to slip onto the stool at your small kitchen island, as easy as asking for your forgiveness. It feels almost… normal, a well-oiled machine that has finally sputtered back to life after years of neglect.

It sounds stupid. «Don’t stress about it.» The comforting aroma of coffee fills the air, the sound of poured coffee curls around the edge of your words, mixing and fusing. «There is space for my piano and then some inside those eye bags.» Your figure turns, your smile settles back into the soft one you had opened your door wearing, and something soft tugs at Leon’s heart. His cup clinks onto the kitchen island, you sip your own, the day outside slowly moves on. «Sugar?»

It gets really easy to talk to you, like sipping the sweet coffee cooling in his mug, like huffing at your playful jabs and hiding his smile under the rim of his hat as you question and probe to get a rise out of him.

It’s well past four when his stomach grumbles loudly, and you once again laugh at his expense. His joints creak as he rises from the stool, hands hoisting him up «Well, that’s my cue to leave. Pardon me, my lady.» Your laugh is a kneecap shot; Leon has dealt out his fair share of those, he knows how effective they are. You take no prisoners, stretching lazily over the counter dividing you two, your hands shooting from across the island to cup his own. «No, no wait! I’m having fun.»

His legs give up, and he crumbles back into his seat. «Tell you what, pretty eyes.» Your hands don’t leave his. «If you don’t have coffee in there, it’s hard to believe you have actual food. I’ll make you a deal: I cook you up something de-fucking-licious, and you tell me why I thought you were dead in your apartment, and your cat was eating your face to survive.» Your voice is light and cheerful, your back straightens, and your eyes glimmer in the afternoon orange light pooling from your windows. He’s suddenly two sizes bigger than his own skin, so out of place in your serenity, «I’m not usually around.» he chews in between his teeth, unable to avert his gaze but willing to try. Yours, once again and unsurprisingly, feels steady. Unhurried. «No shit, Sherlock, but if you want food, you’ll have to be a bit more loose-lipped.» «Why?» It’s an honest-to-god question, perhaps a bit too honest for his training. It feels like a layer of his soul is being peeled. You shrug your shoulders and let go of his hand, almost sure he won’t attempt another flight, and turn on your heels to start the late lunch. «'Cause I’m nosy as fuck.» you offer simply, putting a small pot on the stove and bobbing your head as if to punctuate each word now that he can no longer see your expressions. «Well I— I’m truly not… around… that much.» if you wish to humiliate him for the dumb repetition, you don’t let it show, simply huffing a somewhat derisive sound and arching an eyebrow from behind your shoulder. «How so? I thought people your age had achy knees, not travelling desires.» Yeah… why so? But most importantly, why is he around now? And why does he have the feeling he’ll have to make peace with the idea he’ll be around quite a bit more?

To put it simply, Leon is slowly falling into retirement; he can feel it. The missions are sparser and fewer in between; he’s at home more and more often, and life just generally feels… slow. He’s not getting any younger, tons of new agents are getting recruited every month, and his experience is starting to get outweighed by the constant ache in his knees. He’s old stuff now; the DSO is of the youngster roaming its neon-lit halls, as all he can do is make room and wonder how did he get to see his fifty.

His silence must have been interpreted as offence as you quickly cast a glance behind you and rectify: «Alright, I’ll quit it with the old man jokes. You did piss me off tho. Did the coffee taste of peace offerings and spite? Because that’s what I was aiming for.» You’re cute. All words and sassy remarks. A chatterbox with a cute scowl and an even cuter irritated frown. «Mmmister?» He gotta put his ass in gear, «It’s Leon. It’s stupid I haven’t told you yet.» God, he’s out of practice. But that doesn’t seem to faze you, little does apparently. «You’re fine, Leon.» You concede, pulling open the cabinet over your head. «You feel like the mysterious type. Plus, I liked “grandpa”» Grandpa. His eyes trail your back; you’re difficult to pinpoint. There is something unmistakably weird about you, the way you talk, the way you act, but Leon doesn’t really get what’s tipping him off; you’re just weird. It’s plain in the way you laugh, and it’s there when you say some absurd thing, bending backwards on a logic that is all your own, but it doesn’t stem from those. It just permeates them. His eyes catch yours, once again over the edge of your shoulders, and he finally notices you’re quiet. «Sorry, I wasn’t— I was paying you attention… I just got lost in thoughts.» and those same eyes shine, not with malice but not with innocence either. «An open-eyed nap? Alright, that was the last one. Tomato sauce or pesto?»

A couple of days later, he finds you at his door. Mail in hands and a new, silly, pyjamas hanging loosely on your body. «Dude, Kennedy? Really? Like the president?» Never mind “Confidential” is plastered all over the mail. The postal service managed to fuck it up regardless. «Gotta something to say about that?» Your shoulders shrug, your hand stretches, «Not really, it just sounds silly.» It’s out of his mouth before he can catch it, «My middle name is Scott if that fans you amusement.» It does, it really does, if the nasal and ugly laugh that escapes you is any indication. Weird. «Well, your mail got delivered to me mister president.» Yeah, he can see that; he got some neck to twist back at DSO.

He knows it’s not early, he won’t make the same mistake again and embarrass himself twice on the same matter, but he’s so fucking tired. «Dude—» This time you’re dressed, a black shirt of some band he had seen in concert, but that probably broke up before you were even born. Already on a war footing. «I know, I know, it is fair game, but— please, I just really need to sleep.» It must have been rude to cut you off like that; it definitely was, but he had been verbally digested once; he doesn’t want to have that experience again. You look pissed, eyebrows drawn, and hand gripping the door frame at your side, and for a second, Leon double-guesses his social skills, nonexistent, and his ability to not make you mad with his mere existence. But the sharp tones in your drawn eyebrows smooth, softly, almost out of habit, more than real softness. You look… gentle? «Aight. Fine. I’ll cut the music.» Leon can feel a sight escaping his lungs. «Thanks, really. I’m sorry.» Your head shakes, your shoulders do the same, and the myriad of bracelets on your wrist ring like bells. «Don’t be. I get it.»

That is the moment he should retreat, go back into his apartment and back to bed, the couch if he can’t manage the off meters separating the two. But something seems to prevent him from doing so. You are still there, scrutinising him like a mortician. He should take your doormat’s advice.

«Did you manage to buy coffee?» He didn’t. «Shit— no, I’ll go out tonight.» Last week had been a nightmare; spotty missions of a day or two, polluting his everyday life. Not hard at all, but gruelling. Your tongue clicks on your teeth, «Don’t bother, grandpa.» Fucking nickname, he won’t be able to shake it off, won’t he? «I gotta pull an all-nighter anyway. Just knock, and I’ll get you set up.» That’s odd, you’re odd. Oddly gentle, oddly kind. «You’re awfully nice for being this rude.» Even your laugh is odd. «Rude my ass, dude. Go catch your beauty sleep, princess; you look like shit.»

He does, catching up with his sleep — not look like shit, thank you very much — in a blissfully silent apartment, and then, not even bothering to put something decent on, he knocks at your door. «Damn, old man. Thought you would have been out for at least a couple of hours more.» Weird, but weird in a funny way. Like weird ha ha. «Thanks God you’re funny, girl.» Coffee at your place becomes a habit. You bitch and whine about “taking care of your elders”, but Leon eventually understands it’s an act. He does odd jobs at yours from time to time. The sink doesn’t work? You don’t even have to ask, he’s already two-thirds of the way to getting it repaired. The shutters don’t close all the way, and you hate sleeping with the light of the outside world? He’s already oiling them. It’s a nice balance. It makes him feel needed.

It’s not really clear, in the strict timeline he keeps tabs on in his head, how or when, did warm coffee became trash TV from the worn dip of your couch. It just happens. There is so much caffeine you both can ingest without seriously damaging your stomach before the ridiculous excuse to keep the moment going starts to feel old. The shared silences and the lively conversations weigh more than a possible ulcer on his part and a probable insomniac night on yours.

It’s not unexpected from his point of view; you’re full of life, a constant buzz fluttering around him, softening the blow of his mind’s reeling thoughts, spiralling in silences stretched too long in his deserted apartment. But it’s — once again — kinda weird for yours. For some reason unknown to him, you actually like him around, no, you want him around. He has passed his whole life noticing details, the true distinction makers between life and death in his missions. So it’s not really “spy work” to spot them as they surface. The room you have made for him in your life, nudging your clothes and rags away enough on the couch to make room for him, tugging them in the crevices of the seat. Not gone but folded enough to just let him exist in a spot that is all his. The shift is in the cup you always give him, blue and white, glazed wrongly, probably a failed art project of yours or a close friend. In the pack of cookies you have started to pull out of the cupboard every time he says, “I should go” without really feeling like going. Only to bribe a few minutes, he was already willing to give up, out of him.

Hell, most of the time you open the door of your apartment before he can even knock on it. It’s odd, and it’s even odder that you have stopped murmuring the ritualistic “what a coincidence” after the first couple of times, but somehow that puts him at ease. It’s clear that you want him to be there, in your apartment. And it’s a feeling so long forgotten he had thought he would have struggled more to recognise it.

And it’s not even such extraordinary company the one you offer, it’s mostly a quietly buzzing presence, sometimes a tad too much, but mostly enough. It’s enough when you sit at his side. You have one of those old TVs that, when you shake your hand in front of it, makes it look like you have twenty fingers or more. Per hand. And he’s sure that will probably be the thing that fucks his vision up once and for all — Leon is sure about that — but it’s enough.

Even with the eye-murdering TV, he cannot stop knocking at your door, sliding down the couch beside you as you pluck chips from the bag and hand him “the greasy ones” because you’re picky like that, and somehow you can feel the difference.

He doesn’t complain. When you are too deep into your film, you even feed him, aiming for his mouth without taking your eyes off the TV. It’s awkward, clumsy, and so irresistibly you.

Somebody is trying to remove the door from its hinges. The gun is in his hands in seconds, low, ready. He gotta get out of the apartment quickly, he doesn’t know how many are there, he’s in civilian clothes, his ammo is in his bedroom— «Leon, open up, I don’t care if you’re asleep, come on!» Your voice sifts through the door, through the cracks in the crappy old wood as your fists bang on its expanses. The gun, from his sole lifeline, shifts into an imminent threat; he disarms it and tosses it away as fast as humanly possible, as if burning. God damnit. The door swings open; his frame must be towering over you if he can see his own shadow obscuring your entire body. «Kid.» If you’re intimidated, you don’t let it show, with a shove and a pull, you literally stumble into his apartment. «Dude, there is a fucking Porsche down the street!» Your gait falls jittery and excitedly, running at the window and throwing a glance out of it, down the street. «wha—» But you don’t let him finish, actually, you don’t even dignify him with a glance, waving a hand with chipped nail polish, at him still trying to merge yourself with the window screen, «Put some clothes on, I wanna go see.» Your logic is a fucked-up mess he’s not sure he wants to tackle this early, and this hungover. And yet he asks. «Why do I gotta be with you?» «I don’t wanna go ogle all by myself, I’d look like a creep.» Ah, yes, sure, now he understands. «Because with me you’ll look different?» At that, you finally turn, sharp gaze fixing him with impatience, and a tinge of… embarrassment? «No, but… you know, we’ll just be two creeps… like a flock, you know, anonymity in numbers and all that shit. Better than the lone creep anyway.» He doesn’t really know, mostly because if you don’t want to look like a creep to the owner, you don’t really gotta worry. It’s his. And he already thinks you’re a creep, or at least some other variant of plain “weird" «Alright, gimme a sec.» And yet he yields. «Hurry, I don’t wanna lose it.» You won’t.

«Duuuude, that’s so fucking sweet!» You look like an overexcited… you. It’s actually pretty difficult to compare you to something tangible, something he knows and can catalogue. Your wonder is fresh and childlike, but your excitement comes off of you in waves of low curses and keen eyes raking over his car. He shouldn’t have come home drunk last night, he shouldn’t have left the Porsche out of the garage, but for some strange reason, he doesn’t think the mishap bore horrible fruits. It’s actually pretty nice to see you like that. «You like cars?» «Not as much as I like guitars, but I can appreciate. I’ve never seen one of those before.» Let’s see if you’re telling the truth. «You only like French cars or like…» Your laugh rises airy and light, not in derision, not even mischievous, once again, only yours. «Dude, Porsches are German.» The key in his hand clicks, the car beeps to life, and you almost jump out of your skin. When you turn around, panic visible on your features, looking for the owner, the keys are already dangling from his outstretched hand, and for a second, he can gloat in the magnificent picture of your owlish eyes blinking, slow; as the cogs in your brain shift and clunk connecting the dots. When he speaks, it’s a low rumble, «Alright, teach, do you wanna go grab some coffee?» You look like a fish out of water, gaping at him, and if your eyes could pop out, they would. «Are you?» You don’t even finish the thought, your eyes dart back to the car, to him, «Is it yours?!» «Yup.» Joy jolts through your veins, zapping behind your eyes, raw and unfiltered. «Oh my god, can we— coffee? Can you—» but then something snaps, all that enthusiasm bubbles over, but it’s as if the means to feel it were suddenly taken away from you. And you shift, a bit awkward. Silence falls. «Have you… have you drunk…» your voice comes out low, very low, almost inaudible. Torn between jumping in and putting your feet down on something you won’t negotiate on. He did, he could actually say he got hammered, stumbling up the stairs well into the night and collapsing into his couch moments after, not even properly securing his door, passing out where you had found him this morning. A heap of crumbled clothes and the shadow of a legend. Slowly fading away. Yesterday had been… weird, but not your type of weird, sad-weird. His life had flushed down the drain, drowned in cheap alcohol because that gave the worst hangover headache, and at this point, “hurt” is the only thing that keeps him connected to that part of his life that is actually way more than a part and that without he doesn’t know how to function. So yeah, he’s had a drink, several actually.

But your weird — right now — feels so real he can’t find it in himself to deny you; contagious and fuzzy, like a bad case of the flu. And he feels all warm and sluggish as he stares down the path of voluntarily wrapping around your finger. To be commanded left and right, for the simple pleasure of keeping you content. Buzzing. Not the same buzz he finds looking for solace in the bottle.

You fidget in your spot, growing roots, not moving a single step to get inside the car. He’s weirdly proud of you for that. «I did, that’s why you’re driving.» And for being a sad excuse of an old man, he must have done something right because you suddenly shine.

The coffee shop you drove to that evening was a random one, the only one open this late into the hour, but somehow that became a usual spot. “Usual” is also the habit of letting you drive. For a couple of minutes, Leon simply kicks off and lets you drive, letting you guide him wherever you want. The both of you end up going there quite a lot. On weekends, on Mondays, on Tuesdays… every time Leon is not at work. So a lot. You don’t seem to mind the fact he’s mostly silent, he hopes not rude, but definitely silent. He can’t change in the snap of a finger.

«So… you like own this crazy car but live in that shitty apartment building. Are you like one of those dudes who spend all their money on flashy cars?» The asphalt runs smoothly under new tyres, your voice drifts through the car. «The apartment is good.» The eyebrow-rise is comical, Leon thinks he did laugh; «Leon, I live two doors down from yours. I know mould is growing in your bathroom as well.» It does, in fluffy cotton balls of slightly concerning black substance. But if he closes his eyes, head lolling on the window of his car, he can recall the memory of pristine surfaces, modern lines and oddly shaped high-end lamps looming over perfectly 90° corners, walls of egg-white paint, expensive furniture. Untouched. Waiting for him after endless missions. A solitary life in the guts of a place that screams “aseptic” from every cashmere quilt. «Not really. I have another— place. I just…» You don’t press, you don’t ask, you just let him find it on his own. «I just don’t like it.» Your hum is barely audible over the sound of the car, but it’s sweet, and it’s soft. «And you like that piece of crap? I heard there are loud neighbours on that floor.» At that one, Leon actually laughs, unguarded and raw. He has been like that for a while now, slipping into the habit of simply existing out of questioning in your orbit. A gravitational pull that lures him in. «I’ll take your shitty music over never-ending silence any day.» The corner of your eyes crinkles, that unfiltered laugh seeps into the car, and his heart skips a beat, but oddly feels like it’s falling into the rhythm of yours.

He’s heading down a very dangerous path, but you are driving, and he has no power over the destination.

Leon huffs, annoyance must be visible on his face, perhaps pulling at the worry lines littering his forehead. Wrinkles, there is no need to call them by any other names, they’re wrinkles. «I used to be able to bullseye a wind chimer a mile away.» The newspaper slaps against the table. He can feel the waves of tension rolling off of him, and so must you. One eyebrow arched, eyes unimpressed. «And now you can’t read the newspaper without glasses.» The deadpan lands harder than you probably intended, smoothing the rest of the phrase out of your lips with a softer edge to it. «Come on, grandpa, use this. My father forgot them here like a lifetime ago, I assure you, he won’t mind.» But it doesn't land where you must have hoped it would land. And you must have seen that on Leon's face, this time around, there is more than tension; there’s hurt.

Your voice comes soft and unhurried but firm nonetheless; you don’t reach, you don’t corner, and for that, he’s grateful. You just exist, and you let him do the same «Leon… what’s wrong?» «It’s fucked up.» There is not much more to it. It just is. He has grown old. Useless. The look you pull is weird. Why must you always be weird? So complex to read? Because for a second, you look hurt. Plainly, openly. For what he said. As if he had said it about you. «Leon…» Easily mistaken for pity. Not that he truly believes it. He knows deep down that’s an excuse. The clock over your stove ticks by, time falling slowly out of his reach. «How so?» Your voice rises steady and calm; in a sip of coffee still too hot for him to drink but apparently perfect for you. «What?» Your shoulders shake gently, eyes darting up over the rim of your cup, directed at him. «Why did you know how to “bullseye a wind chimer a mile away”?» «I’m military.» Safe, easier than explaining Raccoon City. Your face pulls, half displeased, he’s well aware how opinionated you can get on government stuff; he gets where you come from, he had wanted to become a cop — a lifetime ago now — for the exact reasons you had listed. Tone heated and annoyed, one dying day he had passed lounging on your couch. He had wanted to change the world back then, to make a difference, but life had yanked him away from that path, hard. And the cop inside of him had died that faithful day. More than thirty years ago. You eye him suspiciously, as if he had turned into the enemy all at once. «Hold the gun, I’m DSO.» «Meaning?» «Division of Security Operations» Your face scrunches up, a very cute frown that tips into displeasure ever so softly, hiding your emotions had never been your forte. «Wow, that gives me like… nothing.» His scoff flees his lips almost unwantedly. «Anti-bioterrorism.» You hum, the sound rippling the surface of your coffee. «Cool.» You relent at some point, as if admitting it cost you something.

The bitterness resurfaces suddenly, ugly and unwanted. It was cool. «Not that it matters now. It has been a while since I’ve been active on the ground.» If there is something that you are, it’s not subtle. Your eyes bore holes where they rest on his figure, intense and searching. «That doesn’t change the fact you had been… DSO or whatever.» «No.» He hadn’t been someone— hell, something in a while now. Aimlessly drinking his sadness away, syphoning your joy, your calmness from your company. You don’t speak, nor correct him. «No, you don’t get it.»

For the first time since he met you, Leon sees it all from an outsider perspective. Outside the bubble of comfort you envelop him in. He’s old, so very old, and you’re younger and brighter, with a future waiting just around the corner. What is he doing weighting you down? It flutters out of his mouth in an exhale. «Of course you don’t. You’re young.» Then the right word to describe it boils down: «It’s humilia—» «Normal.» Your voice cuts him off sharply. Two steps, the clink of your cup to the kitchen island separating you. Your hand falls to his shoulder, and you look at him like you need him to believe you. Unmovable. «It’s normal, Leon.»

Something, in the deepest depths of his soul, is cracking open; he can’t actually pinpoint it, but he can feel it. It doesn’t scare him this time.

Falling for you is soft and graceful, then all of a sudden, it's messy and horrible. Jittery and unsure around you. Like he had lost the balance of your shared existence. So Leon does the next best thing than confessing: he withdraws. Because you don’t feel what he had found himself feeling for you, and it’s a fool’s hope to think of you as anything more than a weird acquaintance.

Days of isolation turn into weeks. You don’t knock on his door, and you don’t go looking for him.

Your absence rings louder than he thought it would. It’s in every nook and cranny of his life where you have jammed your presence, and it hurts around the edges, like a sharp object pressing onto his ribs. «Leon?» clammy hands wrung around each other, pulled hair. Sweat glistening on a thin sheet on his skin. He’s too old for this. «I… I’m sorry, I can’t— I can’t be alone right now.» What a pathetic thing to say to your twenty-something neighbour at three am after you have tried to avoid her for nearly a month. You ought to kick him out, curse his name, and spit on him. Because he’s a coward, a pervert and a pathetic man looking for comfort in retracing a bridge he himself has burned to the ground. «Oh… Yeah, sure, come on in.» But you are just so fucking odd. The apartment buzzes with the soft sound of the fridge in the far corner of the kitchen, the TV glows with a very annoying static and a low crackling sound. You lazily stroll barefoot to the couch, crunched covers squished down, rummaging through the cushion for the remote and shutting the TV down. The room falls into an uncannily still silence, Leon’s heart stutters but stops the galloping it had done for the past interminable minutes of lone panic. The remote slides back over the couch, a thud in the otherwise silent room. You turn and lean into the backrest from behind it, leg outstretched, as if you had never sat in a damn couch. «I’m sorry…» Comes out of his lips small and unsure. «You can go back to sleep, I just— I’m sorry I shouldn’t have—» «It’s alright, do you wanna sleep? Or talk, or like, watch trashy TV?» The proposal is so stupidly sweet he can feel it in his teeth. A dull ache. «No, no, it’s—» What is it? «I just wanted to know you were— okay. Just… safe.» Your head lolls up and down in a sluggish rhythm, crossed arms, a foot coming up to scratch the back of your calf. «Do you wanna sleep over?» He must have heard you wrong. «What?» «Like a pyjama party, shame I just ran out of facemasks. Sleep here.»

«Knowing you’re there, it’s— it’s enough, you can go back to sleep.» It is. It really is because all of this has always been about how much your presence has come to ground him. Your voice lifts something heavy in his chest, soft and calm. «Will you be able to sleep at yours?»

Fuck no. «No.» «Then stay. Why torture yourself?» Because I deserve it. And I don’t deserve you. Too bold. Instead, he settles on: «It’s a loaded question.» Your shoulders draw in, a silent chill running down your spine in jarring shivers. «It wasn’t supposed to be. Stay.» A huff of a laugh filters through his teeth. «I—» «Leon. Please…»

«Yeah… okay… I’ll— sorry. I’ll settle on the couch.» Your face pulls; there is something you wish to say underneath the sleepiness, but you refrain. «Will you be able to fall asleep there?» «Yeah, I will… eventually.» You look less than unconvinced, but once again, your self-control puts his to shame. «Okay.»

It’s an afterthought, soft around the edges, as you pull away from the backing of the couch, sleep clinging to your judgment. You pull him in when you’re close enough, arm circling the small of his back and a palm guiding his nape to the crook of your neck. A soft embrace. Comfort seeping through his clothes, where your skin meets and burns through each other’s warmth. Your voice hitches, «Door’s wide open if you want to curl up and spill your guts.» Then, as if you wanted to drill the thought deeper into his understanding, you clutch harder. «I’m right here.» And with that, you retreat. And he’s left struggling against what that had meant. He can’t recall for sure if he clung back. He does eventually. Fall asleep. Around five or so. And wakes up at eleven, to the soft clatter of kitchen utensils. «Good morning, pretty eyes.» Your voice fills a very deep void he never noticed. I love you. «Good morning.»

Your eyes burn on his skin. Always so unsettling focus. «What?» «Something’s different.» The slurping sound of the straw in your glass announces you’re done with your overly sweet milkshake. He’s halfway through his steaming hot coffee. «The milkshake?» He doesn’t even know how you could be able to tell, all that sugar must have fried your taste buds. «No, dummy, you. Something is different with you.» An eyebrow arches, he sips slower, just because he knows it irks you. «I don’t know what you’re talking about.» It has been a week since the night he spent on your couch. And that has gone blissfully unacknowledged. On his part, you had simply behaved as if what had just happened was the most normal thing that could have happened. «Yeah, you look… better?» your voice cuts through, smacking the tackiness of the sugar away from your lips. «Is it a question or a statement?»

He doesn’t get to listen to your reply. A waiter, all sweet smile and bubbly attitude, approaches your booth. «Can I bring you anything else?» She asks, tapping a pen over an already filled notepad, looking directly at you; Leon has been the “scary guy” all his life, he’s not surprised the woman must feel better speaking to you instead of him. «Oh no, I’m all done.» So he folds himself into a smaller version of what he is, pressing closer to the window, head tilted down. Less scary, less imposing. «What about your father?» The words freeze something in the air, like a spell gone wrong. And all he can inhale is ice-cold dread. Until he has to mutter: «I’m fine.» before the moment drags out worse than it had started. «He’s not my father.»

Your face is hard to read, soft-eyed, a simple smile on your lips, a genuine tilt of your head. You look at ease. You don’t look ashamed. «I’m so sorry—» «Don’t worry.» Man, you’re weird. «You drive like a madman, are you sure you’re not drunk?» You’re not even worthy of a proper answer, so you get a grunt. The road bends and twists in intricate backroads, “to avoid the insomniac rush hour.” you always say when you take it. «Leon—» but tonight you’re in the passenger seat. «I’m dry. Been a week.» Silence falls back, your head falls softly onto the headrest. «A week, mhm?» Fuck, you’re way too damn observant for your own good. «Yeah, been thinking of quitting for a while.» He steps on the gas, sidestepping a lone car going too slow for his liking. «What got your panties in a twist?» «Nothing.» And you let it be nothing for a couple of seconds, even a minute if Leon believes your magnanimity, «Was it the waiter’s comment?» But you’re not that nice, all things considered. «No.» And you’re not easily deterred either. «Then why are you trying to snap your wheel in half?» «You don’t know me.» The whiplash is painful. His own venom drips down his lips, poisoning his own thoughts. «Fuck— I—» «You think so?» Fuck, fuck, fuck… he fucked up so badly. Like horribly badly. «I—» «Stop the car.» That’s it. That is how the only good thing left in his life ends. Because he’s a sad man who doesn’t know how to stay in his lane. «Please, I’m sorry—»

«I want to know you. I do. And you can start letting me get to know you by telling me why you're mad right now.»

The car sits idly on the side of a deserted road. No other passerby in sight, you might as well be the last humans alive in the world. It feels like it. «I hate that she just assumed…» Your voice clicks, a low hum, almost like a buzz. «Why?» unkind. But not harsh.

You just sound demanding. No point in running. «Because I like you. And you deserve better.»

«Better…» Yes, better than someone edging on the void of the half-century mark with no other accomplishment to his name than destruction and blood. Yeah. Better. «Yeah.» «Better than you, but you still get to decide what I deserve and what I don’t.» «No, you—» You don’t even blink as you deliver your next line. «I’m the worst person alive.» And he falls for it like a dumbass. «You’re not—» «Then you aren’t either. If I like you, and you’re such worse, then I in fact do not deserve better. I deserve you exactly.» The air in the car grows heavy. Your words linger between your bodies. «You don’t like me the way I like you. Believe me.» «Boy, you’re dumb.» Your belt clicks, the car gives off a faint alarm, still on, still humming under you two. And for a second, panic sets in. He’s sure that next will come the bell of the door being opened with the car keys still inserted, yet another alarm blaring in his head. But it doesn’t. You lurch over the shift, hand fisting his shirt in your grasp, and then you yank him to your level and kiss him.

And then the rest falls into place with a satisfactory click. The odd-weird you’re dancing on the edge of infects him like a virus, and suddenly, he’s all jittery buzz and tingling fingertips as well. It must be all that sugar he’s tasting off of your tongue.

«Abso-fucking-lutely not.» his palms fall to your figure, harder than intended.

Your huff is playful; you rarely aren't. «Hard ass.» His hands grip harder. Your waist, your hips, your thighs straddling his lap. He guides you lower, harder, over the clothes you still cling to. «I am.» He still clings to. It’s hard to explain. He now knows for sure you won’t judge him; you have done plenty to deserve his trust, but the objective truth is that his body no longer looks like what it used to look 20 years ago. The scars have gone from “enough to feel mysterious” to ugly viper’s nests of leather-like damaged skin, varying in colour and texture; his muscles, no longer cutting, look defined, sure, but the definition of too strenuous work that had left marks deeper than stretch marks over bulging biceps. He looks used. Exhausted. And that scares him.

Your hand dips slightly lower than he thought you would, grazing the hem of his shirt, and his body goes rigid. «Wait—» Your hand retreats immediately, clasping behind your back as if demonstrating to him you’re harmless now; holding onto your forearms. Your lips land on his cheek, soft and steady, until you withdraw, but don’t leave him behind. «Sorry, love, got carried away.» The ease is so jarring he doesn’t even have the time to chastise himself. «It’s okay.» he mutters then, because he truly feels like he has won the lottery with you. Then a huff follows, as you litter his face with kitten kisses. «You sound like my mother when you call me “love”» Your feigned gasp comes with the definitive withdrawal, eyes wide open and false shock painted on your face. He had told you at least a dozen times. «You should know better than that.» you tut suddenly, popping your neck softly. You’re not wrong, his couch is kinda uncomfy. The smirk surfaces like a message in a bottle. Only reading “trouble” all over. «Aren’t you the one who got all grumpy ‘cause the waiter insinuated you were my daddy?» The tip of his ears warms up, and he’s sure that if he were in front of a mirror right now, he’d notice a soft dusting of red colouring them. «She did not say “daddy”» Your grin only gets wider. «She didn’t… I could tho.» Jeeze, he’s gonna combust. «Okay, you’re in time-out.» But he knows you have filed his reaction under the “for later shenanigans” folder inside your brain.

You dismount him like a saddle, swift and confident, not at all bothered by the interruption. He is tho. «Hey. Princess, hold on a second.» His fingers wrap around your wrist. hot versus cold. You always seem to run a bit colder than the rest of the world. Your eyes don’t. Pools of endless warmth zeroing on him. «What’s up?» So he blurs it out. «Does— I know it’s bothersome.» and he can no longer take it back. «What?» And if he can’t take it back, and you’re both already there… he might as well go with it. «The interruptions. It’s— frustrating, I know. I’m sorry.»

Your blinking is slow and deliberate, or maybe it’s just confused. «It’s not. I mean, not really; I do wanna jump your bones, you’re stupidly hot, I feel like I’m salivating every time I see you. But your comfort is the number one priority. So it’s actually not that hard a choice.» Oh…

Well, now he’s the one wanting to absolutely wreck you. It’s not fair. «Can I sleep at yours tonight?» «I’d be offended if you didn’t.»

This is silly. You are silly, your ideas are silly. It’s silly that you’re lying facing each other on your comically small bed. «Your mattress is minuscule.» «But he’s very hard. He’s compensating.» A hand lifts from the cramped space between your bodies, and a snap of his fingers hits the side of your forehead. «Dirty mind. If I knew it was this small, I would have stayed on the couch.» A smile at the edge of your lips pulls slightly. «I think he’s average size.» Typical. «Plus, I got rid of the bigger one to get you all close and cuddly the day you’d finally accept to nap with me.» Leon huffs. This close, he can see the strands around your face moving by the action. You look stunning, groggy with sleep and illuminated by the low light of the outside world. «A mastermind, I see.» Your giggle settles into a comfortable background noise, mixing with the sounds of the street below you; mischievous glint shining behind your eyes. «I got you in my bed, didn’t I?» You did, hell yeah, you did. «What’s next, Emperor Palpatine?» That grants him a full laugh, a soft sound falling precisely between embarrassing and sweet. «I’m swaying between making you cut that beard of yours and letting me shoot a real gun.» Silence falls softly over you, like a blanket pulled under your chin.

Leon’s the first one to break it. «Can I kiss you?» Your eyes soften. «How many times must I tell you, Leon: you don’t have to ask.» One too few. He will never stop doubting himself. «Only once more, I promise.» It’s not once more. He asks every single time, when you wake up in the morning, when he circles your waist at the stove, when you part ways to go to work, when he comes back and finds you curled up on the sofa, reading or plucking at the strings of the guitar of the day. It’s a routine that settles into a type of comfort that eggs him softer and softer into an edge he’s not sure he’s bordering until it’s too late.

The desire slams into him all at once, like a brute force pressing from every direction into his very soul. He has just returned home, to your apartment that had somehow morphed into your shared quarters, and you are just standing there in the kitchen, spoon in hand, and your work clothes draped over the back of the counter stool, messy as always, one of his T-shirts so old it probably predates you, hugging your figure, logo dry and faded. You’re doing some shenanigans with the stove, fire too high, he can already tell from the doorway, and you look so… cosy.

The desire hits hard. The need to act on it hits even harder. He barely shrugs his coat off, throwing his briefcase to the side and marching toward you. The sound slightly startles you, your shoulder jumping slightly, but you turn lazily, eyes focusing on him. «Shoot, I didn’t even notice yo—» He doesn’t let you finish, he just really wants to put his hands on you and grip tight enough to convince himself you’re real. This time, he doesn’t ask for permission; he still thinks he should have, but the want is too much. The kiss is hard and full, one hand flying to the back of your head and the other finding something to grip on your waist, skin, clothes, whatever he can put his hands on. He holds you there, gripping you tight and kissing you deeply. The room fills with smacks, you open up like a flower to sunlight, initially shocked, then melting to his touch. The hand on your waist flies to the knob turned to the highest setting and shuts it off. Something simmers in the background, finally cooling down. Your lips part with a wet sound, a strand of saliva still connecting you. You look at him sheepishly, still panting, still wide-eyed, lips red and glistening; something mischievous bubbles deeper. «You’re gonna burn down the whole building.» his own voice sounds strained. Desire is on a rampage inside him. Your eyes narrow, focused and predatory. «What can I say, fire must be in the air tonight.» Cocky. He still snorts. «Dinner’s busted by the way. In case you haven’t noticed. Beyond salvageable.» He noticed. It’s alright. He’s not hungry. Well, he isn’t for food. «We’ll survive.»

The moment stays charged, or at least he thinks it does; it has been a while since he had been comfortable enough with somebody to let the passion bubble. He had been an awkward teen, a lifetime ago now, a somewhat clumsy rookie, and then he had been a traumatised recruit. Not the best state of mind to let loose.

Sure, he had overcompensated at some point in his youth; when he had been younger and prettier, when the girls in bars had found his scars attractive and not concerning. But even that had gone stale quite early, and the shame of lying had outweighed the brief relief of a one-night stand. And Leon had gotten older, and the wrinkles around his eyes had deepened, his eyes had darkened, and the worry on his forehead had settled into deep lines. He had started to frequent the bars solely for the booze, and the pretty girls had started to steer clear of him. Leon’s not a saint, but it has also been a long time since he deemed himself worthy of such comfort.

Panic seizes him once more, and the urge to ask for permission flutters agitatedly in his chest. «You okay with this?» You’re not even doing anything. Your hand falls to his, slid from the back of your neck to your cheek, and it just rests. «Are you?» He knows you well enough to know this is not a throwaway line; you actually expect a response. «I am.» «Good, then I’ve been okay with this for months.» This time it’s your turn to jump him. Quite literally, filling the inches separating you two with thrown arms around his shoulders and on tiptoes that barely makes you tall enough.

The fire lights back up. And it’s with such ease that you kiss him that his brain doesn’t even go into performance mode. It just lingers in a blissful state of want and warmth. He’s pretty sure he’s the one who hoisted you up, but you might as well have been the one who decided to climb him like a fucking tree. He’s not sure anymore; he just knows his hands are suddenly full of you, and he’s pressing your body on the kitchen counter, mouth on yours and your soft noises buzzing in his head.

God, you sound divine, wrapped around him and kissing him like that.

There is a certain abandonment in you that urges him on, the way you cling to his shoulders, hands raking through his hair, kissing his worries away, one soft lick at a time. «Can we— bed… Now… please—» You don’t even let him finish, nodding against his lips, awkward and hurried, bumping your nose on his. He lifts you higher, tossing you up without really thinking of it, simply wanting a better grip on your body. Your leg clenches, your arm tenses up, and an almost- squeal flees your lips. «Jesus Christ, Leon, how strong are you?» What? For having caught you mid-air? «We can test it.» It’s so fucking stupid the way you mouth “Oh my God” as if he wasn’t there to judge you, sliding your hands from clasped behind his neck to his biceps, softly squeezing over the oversized sweater. You’re so odd, so silly and stupidly you.

The walk to the bedroom is quick; he’d throw you on the bed if he didn’t adore you the way he does. But for how much he wants to absolutely wreck you, he wants to appreciate you the way you deserve. So you get softly laid on your bed, tantalising exposed skin and mussed hair. And when he retreats, stalling just a second, he finally allows himself to fidget. The hem of his shirt being the closest thing he can put his hands on. «All good, Leon?» «Yeah. Just— a bit spooked, I guess.» It’s actually surprisingly easy being honest with you. It comes without a pricetag, just something he has filed under “normal” and has kept acting upon. «Okay. Nobody’s testing us; we can do what feels better. That includes stopping, Leon. For whatever reason.» He knows, he can feel the softness in the air. Still, your attentiveness pulls at his heartstrings. «You’re stealing my lines… You know it works both ways.» Your smile mirrors his, small, persistent, shared. «I know.» You do. He can see it in your eyes, the complete trust you put in him. And to look at you from so high up feels weird, so he puts his palms beside your thighs on the mattress and bends until he can kiss your lips once more.

When he’s back up, the shirt comes off almost instinctively. He’s ruined, he’s marred by scars, but he’s utterly yours, and the sudden feeling of belonging makes him think you can’t hate him all that much if you’re willing to keep him regardless.

You hiss, your eyes dart across his chest like magnets. «I know. It’s—» «Hot. Oh my God, Leon, you’re so fucking gorgeous.» Had he been younger, he’d be blushing. «You’re just humouring an old man.» Your eyes zero in on his, and it’s impossible not notice how dilated your pupil is. You look ready to devour him. «Am I? Do you wanna prove it?» It doesn’t land immediately. He’s still taken aback by such a blunt display of desire that his brain has to reload, then you part your legs slightly, and lift his old shirt enough to let the low light of the room catch a glint.

You’re soaking through your panties.

The knowledge lands like a slap, hard, physically painful, so devastating he falls on his knees. That’s for him. You’re like that because of him.

His hands are on you the second he can get his brain into motion, maybe even before, attracted by your flame like moths to fire. They look for your thighs, for the strap at your waist, tugging, begging. «Please— Can I—» «Yes.» It’s barely more than a hiss, sharp, breathy. His effect on you. His. «Please, you can do whatever you wan— please, Leon… Just touch me.» And he does. Gripping your thighs and dragging you closer to the edge of the bed, tearing your underwear, ripping them clean off. You have time for a single, soft yelp before his lips land square on your core, dead centre. He’s too damn old for teases. The air in your lungs hitches, his tongue darts out; a long, flat strip of spit gets dragged up. «Fuck—» The word stutter, his mouth gets to your clit, and he sucks. Your hand flies to his hair, and the other one lands on your mouth. Hiccups smouldered by your knuckles, as if you were biting down on them. He doesn’t know; he’s in too deep to check on your volume management.

It’s funny, actually. To your moans, he would have liked to be woken up.

The fact it has been a while since he had indulged in intimacy doesn’t mean he’s green. But the sensation is certainly new. It’s not a means to an end, eating you out. Be it taking the edge off or keeping you satisfied. It’s… really fucking hot. There are no other words for it. It’s just really turning him on.

His thumb hovers over your clit, not yet touching, not retreating either, a threat, a promise. His tongue dips lower. You’re so wet he can feel the slick running down his chin, soaking his short beard. Fuck that’s hot, and that’s for him. Because of him. Your moans turn higher, squeals bordering on high-pitched yelps. The perfect moment to add his fingers to the mix. And see what other pretty sounds he can drag out of you. His tongue flattens and swipes between your folds. Then his thumb settles over your clit and circles it with precision. The sound you make should be recorded— no, engraved in his head forever; they should play it in his ears instead of the rush of his blood every time he stands too fast. Just to make his ageing softer. Better.

He’ll have to settle for branding it to memory, trying to capture every dip and high in your cries. Your fingers clench; he didn’t even know it was possible. The soft sting of pulled hair a constant reminder of your grip. «Fuck, Leon, I’m close.»

Your warning means nothing; the absolute abandon with which your orgasm hit you renders it useless. Your legs lock, keeping him there, the hand in his hair tightens, and loosens in spasms that scream of barely held together concern, and your whole body shakes. The moment your body snaps over the edge is loud. Your back arches in a delicious curve, creaking ominously, as if threatening to break. A gush of slick wetness suddenly rushes down his chin as he desperately tries to swallow as much of it as he can. Greedy. It lasts minutes, and when you finally slump back, he’s tempted to follow you for a second round. He almost does, succeeding only in one good kitten lick over your pussy, but the tug in his hair stills him. «God, please, up— I want you inside.» The need to just ignore you and just keep feeding his own wants is strong; it shows its ugly head in a low growl, and very poorly disguised self-control. He’s so hard in his pants. It hadn’t even occurred to him. «Talk to me.» Your voice is a lifeline, a life jacket thrown into the abyss of his desire. «I- I just really fucking want you.» He does, he really does. With all his heart and all his body. «You have me. Up now. I wanna see you naked.» The hand in his hair, that had just been resting at this point, slithers out of its previous grasp. You regain a surprising amount of grace for someone who had just had an orgasm as you shimmy upward into the still-too-small bed and settle against the headboard, throwing his old shirt over your head and sideways. Remaining starkly naked. Ah, the joys of youth.

Your eyes glisten playfully, a tug on your lips betrays renewed vitality. «Come on, chop chop.» The belt clinks; it all comes so naturally.

«You’re gorgeous.» You murmur when he’s as naked as you are, and he believes you, it’s very hard not to, with your pupils blown and your breath shallow. «You are.» he still replies, because you are and because you deserve to know.

The edge of desperation has faded, or better, it’s still there, pulsing in his temples, but it’s background noise. You’re the centre of it. He’s present enough to remember to prepare you. An orgasm is great, but it does not work wonders; gently, slowly, until you’re begging for it and shoving the condom wrap in his hands.

Then, when he’s sinking into you. Kissing you deeply and letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He thinks this might be the only time he has fully felt himself in the last decade.

You flinch at every inch he feeds you, muttering about beard burns on your inner thighs, and hitching your breath at every less-than-perfectly-controlled thrust. It’s agonising and slow. But it’s so tenderly vulnerable that he’d rather soon cut his own hand off than speed it all up.

It makes for a perfect moment to hold you. To bury his face in the crook of your neck and inhale your perfume. You smell safe. Like the coffee you keep sharing with him and the metal of your guitar’s string. But that has to be his imagination. The lingering feeling of knowing you deeply and fully.

When you finally start to urge him further, nudging him closer and deeper. He has half a mind to deny you. Just to hear your soft whimpers once more. But he doesn’t. Because he adores you and you deserve better than a prick that likes your whining.

So he speeds up, thrusts deeper, harder, throws you around a bit to make sure to hit all your sweet spots.

«Leon— close.» Fuck, he’s too, your vicious grip really leaving him no respite. «I know—» your walls flutter tighter around him. «Fuck, me too… me too, love.» His arm hooks your leg back up, calf resting into the crook of his elbow; he hopes he’s not crushing your leg in his grasp, but the line between squishing, gripping and smashing has gone blurry a few minutes ago. He hoists you higher, thrusting deeper still, your punched-out moans filling the room. «Fu—» You come first, hard, throwing your head back, crying out the tension building in your lower belly. The sight of you is what tips him over the edge. Plain as that. His heart squeezes painfully, his leg cramps slightly and then he comes. The light coming through your curtains hits softer than the one coming through his. Leon wonders why it is so. «Good morning, sunshine.» Your voice lulls him out of sleep. It’s the first time in ages he woke up before 1 pm. «Morning, princess.» Your room smells like coffee and the faint traces of last night’s sex. Your hips sway playfully as you close the gap between where you stand and where he lies. This is a life worth living.

Your lips fall to his temple, softly, cradling his face in the cups of your hands. «To think better.» You murmur on his skin, lower, gentler still, on his right eye. A barely-there kiss. «To see better» then his left «to aim better.» The letter sits on the counter, DSO, confidential. Black skin marrying his body. You love him. You have told him so countless times, even like this, even this broken, infected version of him. But he can't stand the infection, not the idea of it, not the sight. Another nest of scars, another mark. Something that takes and takes and gives nothing back. A life he has chosen.

His lips must taste of regret and shame; it looks like you’ll have none of it, not if you can kiss that away. He doesn’t deserve you. «What is that for?» Your shoulder shakes, a shrug, normality, domesticity. Nothing is changing. He holds onto your confidence like a lifeline. «That one is for me. To keep you close.»

He’ll get back to you. To the three-room apartment, and he’ll tell you of his idea to knock down the wall separating your units and merge your lives once and for all. He’ll tell you he wants to adopt a cat and settle into your life; like he belongs. Because he’s starting to think he does. Here, with you. He will when he comes back from this “yet another” mission. His last one. He promise. «I’ll come back.» «I know.»

«I love you.» Your gaze falls softly on his. He knows you know. «I love you too.» He does come home. Worse for wear, too old to recover in a couple of weeks, but he does come back. He promised you.

You make a mess of your apartments, and the cat gets named Chad. It never fails to make you laugh, so he just relents to the name. It’s silly, it’s stupid, it’s odd, but most importantly, it’s you. And in your existence, there is that damned space you have made for him.

Let me know what you think <3 <3 → Little sequel ←

You shouldn’t be here. Rose is too fresh a wound for you. A wound that has closed over a pulsating infection.

Your infection comes descending the brick stairs of her hotel, looking over at you, long coat over a silk pyjama, still crossing the flaps on her chest. It’s 4 in the afternoon, and Miss Perfection is still in her pj’s. It doesn’t sound like something a normal person would find interesting; to you, it feels like a victory.

Blonde locks blow in the wind as she turns her head side to side. Always look before crossing. She had taught you that. You had forgotten.

You don’t run when she skips over your way; you’re tired of that, you’re allowed to be here. You live in this town, unlike her. Rose reaches you half huffing, as if she had run down the stairs, squeezed onto herself, and folded like a piece of paper. Then she gets to your side and leans on mom’s car.

«I was a coward.» You keep smoking. Rose huffs, breath coming out in puffs of hot air. «You’ve always been tougher than me. I don’t regret leaving this, but I regret leaving you, and Anna.» Not Nik, never Nik. You know what Rose thinks of Nik. «You made a choice. You had it.»

It’s weird, you’ve always wanted to hear those things, to hear Rose say “you did better than me, you are better than me.” but for some reason, something is not clicking. You know you did. It feels empty. You had always thought the final revelation would have come with tears and screams, your ultimate triumph. But it doesn’t. It’s— It’s in the sound of cars passing through, and lives going on. It’s… hollow. You watch it all from murky eyes, they’re blurry but not with tears. Just unfocused. You don’t hate Rose. You never did. You wanted to, maybe you actually did when you were fifteen or so, but you had always been fiercely loyal. A dog. And Rose had been your owner as well.

«How’s Dean treating you?» «Good.»

When your cigarette exhausts, you pull two out of the pack. A lighter, a helping hand, Rose lights her own on your flame, and just like that, you’re sleeping in the same room once more, smoking your first cigarette on the rooftop outside your bedroom window. «I have a son.» You fill your lungs and exhale, «Good grief.» Rose’s snort is unpolished and raw, perfect nose crinkling up ugly, youthfully. For a minute, she looks seventeen, and you are sisters, and you are sharing a bedroom because you’re older and Anna deserves her own room like you both did before her.

«His name is Tobias.» Rose fumbles with her coat pocket, takes out her wallet and hands you a photo. It’s of a chubby baby with blonde curls as light as freshly fallen snow framing his cherub face. Cerulean eyes and spit dribbling down his chin. He’s smiling so brightly. «He’s adorable. I saw the crib in your car. Where is he now?» «With my husband back home.» «He must miss his mother.» Rose laughs softly. «He’s one, sis, he barely gets what’s going on.» «I don’t know. He looks smart.» He doesn’t; he looks innocent. «He’ll be confused with Anna at home.» That’s right, Anna is the spit image of Rose, something that had given you grief for a long while. «He’ll manage… He’s only one.» A particularly big truck passes by, cold air gets blown your way. Rose shivers like a doe. «I hate that you hate me.» It’s out of left field, blunt, jagged. But it’s such a Rose move. No matter how many miles she had put between you two, how many years, you’re a dog, you’ll always fall into learned behaviours.

You bend at the waist, reaching into the car through the rolled window. Rose shifts, observes you. Pools of black eyes piercing your very soul. That’s the only thing where she and Anna differ. Hers are blue. She follows your movements until you retreat from the car, straightening back, «I don’t.» leather gloves in hand, offering.

You smoke in silence after that. The cars, the street, life moving on. «I gotta go to work.» Because life is moving on, and soon your shift will start, with or without you, and that will determine whether or not you’ll get paid. «Do you still do flair bartending?» You have no idea how Rose knows you do flair bartending, but you don’t question it. «Come get hammered, pay me a generous tip and perhaps you’ll find out.» Her laugh drips out of her lips like an IV. Measured. Clinical. Methodical. Her long fingers tug at your gloves, sliding them off her hands and folding them with care. «Perhaps I will.»

You take them back. «You won’t, Rose.»

She doesn’t, and Friday rolls around, and Anna gets discharged. You’ve got to be the shiest you have ever been when you knock at his office door, the heavy realisation hanging over your head. «Carlisle?» From the inside of his office comes a vague sound that you interpret as permission. The door slightly creaks. His voice follows: «Alice, I said I’ll be ther— Oh. hi…» It’s really the first time you’ve seen him so taken aback. He looks a lot like last night, with his tie loose and his hair slightly mussed. Even if the tie is no longer the deep crimson you have chosen. You wait by the door; it’s so dark in his office, as if he had not gotten up in a very long time, and the natural light outside had just run out without his knowledge. «Hi. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.» Not that he lets you get far into that path, «No. Of course, you’re not, darling.» He cuts you off, not unkindly, «What are you doing here?» he adds then, clearly surprised by your presence. «I'm just taking Anna home, she got—» «Is it Friday already?» This time, he cuts you off quickly. Odd. «Yeah…» He looks stressed, a bit worse for wear than his usual, and that feels unusual as he runs a hand through his locks, apparently trying to convey order to those too. «I’m sorry, I wanted to—» He twists around in his chair, files scattered everywhere on his desk, he looks like he wants to get up from the chair, but ultimately, he desists. «I wanted to be there… Do— do you need a ride home?» That’s cute, you know he’s stressed, and a bit panicked, but he looks really cute like this, not handsome, not perfect, just human. «No, I’m with my car.» He looks almost disappointed when you decline, eyebrows drawn together in a childish frown, «Okay…» Cute. «Yeah… I really didn’t want to waste your time, I can go if—» This time, he actually gets up, «No, no, please. Come in, don’t be a stranger.» You cannot help but huff a laugh. He’s weird and handsome and adorable, and interested in you. You don’t know what cosmic lottery you had win to deserve this. «Ah, be a darling and turn on the light coming in. Please.»

With his permission, you finally step through the threshold. It vaguely reminds you of his own oddity all those nights ago when you had bit before barking, and he had asked you permission to even step foot inside your house. It feels like a lifetime ago. So different from what you two are now. The soft, yellowy light buzzes to life with a click of the switch on your left. The office has definitely seen better days, but it’s not in complete disarray. For a second, you let yourself imagine an alternative universe where you had finished high school, and instead of bartending for the Mallory, you had ended up in his office as his secretary. To help him keep the office organised, to bring him coffee without feeling like a thief. Not for particularly big reasons, not even for the indisputably bigger paycheck; you just wish you could help him the same way he’s helping you now. But this is not another universe, and you do flair bartending for a living down in a bar where you'd better fill the glasses before any acrobatics gets involved, and his office is a mess. And you usually don’t dwell on ifs and buts. «Speaking of Fridays…» You shake yourself back to life, one step into his space after the other. «I— I don’t really have a babysitter for Nik.» Something tugs at your conscience, and you feel like you should explain yourself. «I don’t usually go out.» you blurt out. Well, that for sure made you sound like a loser. Not that you really can take it back tho. You shrug off your leather jacket, bending it over the chair’s back, barely registering your phone sliding out of the upside-down pocket and bouncing on the cushioned seating. Carlisle meets you halfway through the door and his desk, hands coming to rest on either side of your arms. That’s such a nice feeling «I don’t really like the idea of leaving him alone—» The door slams in its hinges, you basically jump out of your skin, and if Carlisle’s hand hadn’t suddenly squeezed your biceps, you would have physically recoiled. «Carlisle. I’ll die of boredom if— Oh! Hi!» Of course, it can only be her. «Alice.» Your voice softens around her name, wild eyes turning soft. She’s the sun personified, radiant and flooding the room with a different type of light altogether. «I heard you guys will be having a date.» Ah, yes, how had you forgotten: she’s also a menace. Her father —well, adoptive father, but who cares— jumps up before you can laugh it off, and with a stern: «Alice!» fixes the girl with a stare.

Does she care if you do? Should you have asked his kids’ permission before agreeing? «Are you…» You suddenly mumble, as if you had just come up with a very jarring realisation, «…Alright with that?» «Of course, silly.» Somehow that placates your nerves, and with your emotions silent, Logic rises once more «I— No, actually, it’s not sure.» Before you can even finish the thought, Alice’s protest raises almost indignantly, «How come?!» and this time, a laugh escapes. «I don’t have a babysitter for Nik.» you confess simply, shrinking into your own drawn shoulders. «I can babysit!» The kid’s a fucking angel, just like her father. But exactly because she is one, you cannot ask this of her. «Oh God, Alice, I like you too much to torture you like that, cooped up on a Friday night with a snarky thirteen-year-old.» You shake your head and fold your arms over your chest. «You don’t deserve this.» Alice’s expression turns almost pained. «It’s no problem, really.» It is, they don’t know Nik as you do. «He’ll convince you to throw a party, girl. That kid is a menace, and I don’t think you’ll have the backbone to say no to those Bambi-eyes.» But if Alice is anything other than a cyclone with skin and hair, she’s determined. «I’ll bring Edward. He’s sad and angsty. A true downer, no party will be seen for a ten-mile radius.» Her hands fly to your biceps, and you tense up immediately, muscles jolting under your skin. It’s not a reaction to a bad feeling; it’s mostly in response to her icy fingers on your naked skin and the utter abnormality of being touched. With the corner of your eye, you see Carlisle’s gaze falling on your biceps. Oh… His pupils are huge pools of black void with a rim of gold. …Oh. Alice keeps going, unaware of anything. Your throat feels dry, «And maybe the sad boys can bond, you know, enrichment or whatever.» She’s attacking your logic on one too many levels; you truly cannot keep up with her reasons, especially not with Carlisle’s eyes still glued to your flexed muscles, so you simply yield. «You got it all figured out, don’t you, girl? Are you trying to set your dad up?» Her protest almost immediately rises, juvenile and airy, «I’m not!» Your heart melts. «Well, it’s still very sweet of you, and very mature. Thanks, Alice.» Your hand falls on her, still settled on your forearm; you have the irrational desire to care for her icy fingers, to clasp them in your hands and blow on them, until your warm skin has not warded the cold off of her own. She deserves warm hands. To go with her warm heart. It makes sense in your head.

Suddenly, Alice’s eyes seem to zero in on you, something passes quickly behind her eyes, and her expression shifts just a tad. «You look…» Lashes flutter, smile falters, «soft.» Soft? The hand over hers twitches. Well, you ought to have lost some muscle mass during the week of sick leave you have taken; howling dudes over your shoulders every night ought to make you a visibly stronger girl, but you doubt the difference would be noticeable, especially not after so little time. «ah… yeah, I, well, the bar is kind of my gym, and I haven't been there in a while, I guess I might—» But even that ramble lasts only seconds as she’s quick to cut you off. «No, no, forget I said that, you look fantastic. Don’t worry about Friday, I’ll be there, and so will Edward, we’ll be on our best behaviour, and we won’t let your brother bribe us. Girl’s honour. Go get Anna, I saw her waiting on my way in.» Shit. «Yeah, you’re right— thanks, you’re really saving me— I mean, thanks really.» Your hand shifts to her shoulder, her soft laugh, a gentle squeeze. «You’re an angel.» You use it to guide her so that you can retrieve your jacket. «See you Friday then, Carlisle.» you murmur, rubbing one last time over Alice’s shoulder, but finally fixing your eyes back on him. He looks like he could devour you. «See you Friday.» It’s only when you shove your hands in your jacket’s pockets, Anna at your side, walking down the hall, that you realise you don’t have your phone with you. Not a tragedy, you remember exactly where it fell out of your pocket. «Be right back, Ann. I forgot my phone with Carlisle.»

You take the stairs two by two. Skipping a step, you could whistle in joy. «How much of it did you use, Carlisle?!» The sounds are muffled by the closed door, but you can hear Alice’s voice tinted with a tone you have never heard before. It sounds harsh. But you have learned your lesson. Don’t linger. Your knock echoes inside the room; the argument cuts off. Shit, fuck, why do you have to be so inopportune? «I’m so sorry. I forgot my phone.» Carlisle is looking down, Alice's soft smile is back in place. The air feels heavy. It’s alright. It’s none of your business; arguments are normal.

In the parking lot, you tug at the driver’s door, but you don’t enter. The weather is nice. «I’m teaching you how to drive.» «Why?» «Because Rose drives like a cunt and I can’t be the only Moore to be a decent driver.» Anna laughs, she sounds like fluffy clouds and singing birds. «You can still put your faith in Nik.» you sound like shaken branches and briers. «Nah, he has bitch-driver energy.» You shift the gear for her, sling still over her shoulder. It doesn’t matter; you’ve never driven with both hands on the wheel yourself. Anna laughs and does that hopping start every kid does their first time behind the wheel. You laugh with her.

⚜ ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝟙𝟝

«I have five adoptive children, darling. I can always guarantee for you. My record is stellar.» The living room buzzes with life. Nik has just gone to bed, giving you a tight hug and murmuring some teen form of “I love you” you had not yet heard of. Carlisle is sitting at the table, downplaying it. How dare he? Your closed fist knocks on his shoulder, but it’s so playful it turns into a little shove halfway there. «No, you were… you were different back then, I could… I swear I felt a pull.» Your voice rises, the liquor in your glass sloshes, but neither of you is drunk, not even tipsy. You are just celebrating. Anna is still in the hospital, your life feels hung to a thread, but you feel like celebrating. Nik will stay home with you and only you. It is a victory.

His smooth laugh cascades from his perfectly smooth lips, a wrinkle at the edge curving into a smile «Nice way to confess, darling.» You shove him once more; he’s just pulling your leg. «Shut up. I—» his hands grasp yours, and his grip tugs at your wrist; his eyes soften. «I think we are long overdue for a dinner. You and me. No Alice’s subterfuges, no siblings in life peril.» Your brain blue screens, and your mouth dries out. Long enough for Carlisle to drop your wrist and take a wide breath of distance, leaning back on his chair, eyes soft, voice softer. «You can say no.» You don’t want to. «I will still help you and take care of CPS. It’s really all about you. If you want this, you say yes; if you don’t, I’ll take my no.» Your voice falters, small and awkward. «I’d like to…» Silence falls, not heavy, only charged. You’re stuck in your mind, running loops around the mysterious man haunting your very existence. He feels magnetic; you’re not simply attracted to him, you’re pulled towards him. There is nothing normal about it; it almost feels…strained. You’re not usually attracted to people, especially not older men; you could have find a couple of actors easy to the eyes, (Norman Reedus is an objectively handsome man) but you don’t usually do attraction. You’re more friction than anything else; you usually screech against other people, you don’t pull. Not men like this, with their lives figured out and loving families.

«Can I ask you something?» Carlisle’s shoulders shake, glass kissing his lips as he sips the liquor, «It’s grossly personal, and you don’t have to answer me.» his eyebrow arches, eyes focused on you. You play with the rim of your own glass. «Why—why did you choose to adopt?» It takes him a while to answer, but when he does, he looks uncharacteristically raw. «I like to help. It’s my life’s vocation. But the surgical room is… quite sterile. I mean, that’s its entire purpose, but I wanted to help in a more… meaningful way. Does it make sense?» You have to blink the stupor out of your eyes; halfway through his words forgetting to blink. «Yeah, no, no. Absolutely. Thanks for telling me.» It’s not often you ask yourself that specific question; it makes your insides squirm in a very uncomfortable way, and your lungs seize in panic, but right now you cannot but ask yourself: Have I had the opportunity, have I not been to jail, had my criminal record not been too tainted to even think about it… would I have adopted my siblings? You’re not sure, and you don’t know how to deal with that knowledge.

Long fingers flutter in your periphery, and a strand of hair gets tugged behind your ear. «You look deep in your thoughts. Have I said something weird?» His touch grounds, big hand sliding down your jaw, barely grazing, settling over your arm, a way to make you present without shaking you back into your body. Just a gentle touch. «No! No, God, Carlisle, you’re the kinder man I’ve ever met.» The compliment slips out of your lips easily, the rest of the phrase not as much. «I was just… comparing? I dunno, it sounds bad like this.» Your breathing shifts into a sigh; your brain is a mess. You want to rest your hand over his, to keep him there, to feel his touch on as much skin as you can, but you don’t know how to move, so you just leave it there and hope he won’t take it away. «It doesn’t. I can see where you come from.» Your eyes dart upwards, detangling from the knot of veins in the table’s grain. «Mine was a choice, yours wasn’t. I was older and prepared for the challenges raising someone would have brought; you weren’t. You were basically thrust into a role that had never been yours to begin with.» Yes. Yes, that’s exactly it. You’re not bad; you don’t hate them. You’re not a bad sister nor a bad mother; you were just not born for this.

You have to take a big gulp to stop thinking about that. «If I have to be honest, ultimately, I guess the most impactful factor was that I was lonely.» Your arm freezes, your teeth clink onto the glass. The air buzzes, Carlisle's eyes are lost and distant. You work your throat to swallow the stinging liquid. Your voice scurries out of your mouth like a loose dog. You have no control over your next question. «Did it help?» His eyes fall back onto yours. He looks tiredly amused. «Why do you ask?» Yeah, why? «I—I don’t know, I’m just… confused.» Silence stretches between your bodies, your mind keeps spinning around useless, dead-end thoughts until Carlisle finally speaks once more: «Do you feel lonely?»

Your phone rings, the soft tension snaps. When you finally manage to skim it out of your jeans’ pockets, you have to be half standing up, half bent over the chair, and you can finally see Sam’s name blinking on the screen a couple of times. «Sorry—» you throw in Carlisle's direction, catching a tilt in his head. «Sam, hi, all good?» Your friend’s voice comes out of your old phone metallic and low, unrecognisable from his real one, but with a bit of intent, you manage to decipher his words. «Charlie just told me what happened. Jesus, are you alright? The kids?» Your heart melts a bit, and your shoulders drop. «No—I mean yes! yes, I’m fine, nothing major happened, Carlisle handle—actually, I have your crush at my table right now.» Your frame sways gently, not tipsy but definitely getting there, okay, that’s enough for you. «Do you wanna say ‘hi’, Sammy?» Your glass clinks on the table as you sandwich the phone between your shoulder and ear, tilting the bottle to Carlisle in a silent question that, when refused, makes you close the bottle for good. «Ah ah, I was all worried, and there you were mingling with the town hottie. You cheeky bastard.» Your laugh pulls at your lungs, your lower lip bitten to stifle the sound. «I’m sorry, Sammy, I’m all good, I promise…» «I believe you. Go have fun, we’ll talk tomorrow.» You let the last of his soft words linger between your voice and the phone as he ultimately cuts the call, and leaves you staring at the black screen of your phone.

«Who was it?» Carlisle looks at you from the unsteady stool at your counter, posture relaxed, eyes glued to yours. A couple of golden locks have fallen over his face, and you feel the urge to push them back, mirroring his gesture, but you restrain; out of fear or uncertainty, you don’t know. God, he’s handsome. «Samuel, big fan of yours.» You mumble instead, biting at the sudden urge to simply touch. He hums over a sip of whiskey before swallowing and continuing, «Fluffy hair? epistaxis?» Your laugh shifts airy through the room «That one. We went to school together.» His eyebrows raise slightly. «I thought he was older than you.» You shrug dismissively, not really interested in digging up old stories from your past. «I skipped a grade, not that it matters anymore. Remember? I quit at sixteen.» Your voice falls into a soft silence. You were supposed to work for a year, put some cash away and then go back to school, using the year you had skipped to help your siblings. But then you had been dumb. You had done what your father had always done and fucked it all up in spilt alcohol and cop cars’ lights. And your life had gone ablaze like the old ruin just outside of town. There is something very soft and very alive in your words. You fear that’s the soft underbelly of your insecurity, but somehow you feel like Carlisle wouldn’t judge you. «To work?» It’s a question, but somehow he managed to frame it weirdly, or maybe that’s on you and your festering secrets. Your frame shakes once more, another shrug shaking uneasiness from your very soul. «Yeah, that too.» Your teeth sink into your lower lip, tugging and pulling at dry skin. You should really tell him. Not because you owe him, but because you want to. «I got arrested.» The liquid in your glass shines a deep amber, coppery blood explodes on your tongue. You don’t have the courage to lift your gaze. Not if it means meeting his, you don’t know what you’ll read in it and that, for some reason, scares you. «I believe I whined something about it while moping on your shoulder like a crybaby.» His only response is a low hum; you dare to dart your eyes in his direction. He looks… pensive; open, not judgmental nor disgusted. He just looks interested in your life, no, in you. Plain old you. «I went to juvie.» Silence falls over you two once more, unresolved and tense.

«I remember.» No “I’m sorry”, no “Why?” just: I remember. Your heart flutters like there’s a bird inside your ribcage.

Then, after the drumming in your chest has quietened, he talks again, «You’re allowed to feel lonely. Even when surrounded by people.» And he has to be from somewhere else. He has to. «You have to stop saying exactly what I need to hear, Carlisle. This is how impressionable women fall for unattainable men.» You giggle like a fool, hiding your stupor in your hands.

His voice bears the audible pull of a smile, his eyes crinkle around the edges like his worn button-up. «But I am attainable… speaking of which, about that dinner…» Your head shakes, your cheeks flash red. «7:30 at your doorstep next Friday, does that work?» You cannot stop giggling. It must be the alcohol, you have to believe it’s the alcohol, otherwise you’re royally fucked. «It works.»

You bid him good night at the front door, all bundled up in your cosiest sweater, eyes shining with the softness of whiskey and the awe of admiration. He must be tipsy too if he kisses your hand goodbye, like an old gentleman. You smile all the way up to your room, then under the covers when your lips taste of mint and your clothes are softer. You even suspect you keep smiling well into your dreams.

. The house feels so empty without the early morning screams; you can hear the world waking up alongside you in the forest behind your isolated house. «Well, don’t you look happy, sis.» Nik jumps up the stool perfectly timed with a plate of pancakes landing in front of him as you pour another batch into the pan. «I am, you insufferable punk.» You’re not even smoking; a cigarette would stop you from shoving chocolate chips into your mouth as you wait for the mixture to cook. «What’s this?» You turn to eye him long enough for the pan to sizzle. «Pancakes?» Nik’s eyebrows draw comically up in suspicion, his fork pokes at his breakfast as if scared it will jump him and rob him of his earnings. «Since when do you cook?» he asks suddenly, straightening up. «I cook!» you quip, perhaps a bit too aggressively, never fully burying the hatchet. But if your bark scared Nik, it doesn’t show «Yeah, since the doc got you all soft and mushy.» Ouch. «I’ve always been sof— kind. I’m all good even on my own.» Nik shoots you a sceptical look, cynicism painted all over his youthful face. You must look ridiculous with an apron tied over your hoodie and bloody bandages still wrapping your hands. «No offence, sis, but I think you have been on your own enough for a lifetime.»

Brutal. The kid’s a fucking savage and you raised him. «Ungrateful.»

Today, at work, your smile is splitting your face. It almost hurt. Back at home, when CPS drops by to look into the condition of your place, you are not nearly as charming as you were with Carlisle at your side, but you manage to hold your own. Andrea seems satisfied, even Nik is at his best behaviour. You don’t even think about how out of character it is for you until your name is being croaked from the other side of your phone, and reality falls back onto you. «I— sorry Carlisle, am I disturbing you?» «No, no, absolutely. I’m just surprised. Whatever it is, I’m glad you called.» Your smile pulls at your lips; you have to bite it down to stifle it. «I just wanted to tell you CPS approved the house; they just left.» His breath evens on the other line, a low sigh that makes your skin prickle. «I’m so glad…» Your living room feels warmer than you believe it actually is. «I’m proud of you.» Silence fills the static buzz of your old phone; you can hear a chair rolling softly on wooden flooring. You don’t really know what else to say, you’re just starting to feel awkward. «How was your day?» is barely a question, more like a calm demand that soothes your worry and eases you into a normal conversation. You’re not good at those, but you don’t want to hang up either. So you try anyway. «It was good. I made pancakes for breakfast.» «Chocolate chips or blueberries?» «Chocolate chips, sorry, doc.» His laugh bubbles out of the receiver, sweet and light. All this smiling is starting to put a strain on your facial muscles; that can’t be good for all your past fractures. «You’re forgiven.» Your fingers play with a loose thread on your shirt, you feel like a teenager, twisting your fingers around the poor thread as if it were the cord of the house telephone. You have the horrible feeling this is a crush. «How was yours?» you finally whisper, darting your eyes to the stairs where your brother had disappeared a couple of minutes after CPS went away, afraid you’ll be caught acting like a fool. «Plain as always, my favourite client scout has decided to lead a lawful life.» At that you actually snort. «Very funny, Mister Cullen.» From the other side of the call, you can hear a knock on wood, followed by a muffled voice probably asking for permission, and you know you’re done with your little theft of time. «I’ll let you go back to your job, Carlisle… I lik— It was nice hearing you.» You can hear him mutter: “A minute” dimly, as if he had put a hand over the speaker. «I liked it too.» Then, softer, somehow, you hear him smile. «Thank you for calling.» «Bye.» «Bye.» But the phone call doesn’t click shut yet. You can’t bring yourself to press the red button. You simply repeat yourself to fill the silence, like an idiot; you feel like one. «Bye.»

But he must be an idiot too, if he whispers it back. «Bye.»

⚜ ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝟙𝟜

Your eyes snap open, the ember of something familiar sizzles at the back of your skull. The night air sweeps over the closed windows. Nothing has happened.

You shot your father, you alienated your last remaining sister, your brother hates you. You almost died.

You almost died.

The house is plunged in silence, only the low buzzing of the fridge downstairs echoes through the smoke-stained walls, if you concentrate hard enough, lying on your bed, breathing slowly calming down, you’re sure you can hear the downward peeling of the wallpaper, the glue separating from the wall in a descending spiral of crumpled paper. You want a glass of water.

The stairs creak under your bare feet, the house is drafty and cold, and in the back of your mind, you wonder if you, perhaps, have forgotten to pay the bills this month. The TV light glows faintly; it must be on mute since no sound is coming from it. Carlisle sits in front of it, coat still on, legs crossed.

It’s in all the little things that you now see it. In the way he sits, unmoving and stiff, as if frozen in time, a Greek statue, as pretty as inhuman; it’s in the way he carries himself, a step above you all, perhaps not even out of malice. He’s otherworldly in a bad sense, in the only sense that leaves you tasting copper on the back of your teeth. He’s otherworldly dangerous.

«Darling?» Your heart leaps. His eyes shine in the night, like those of coyotes circling your house in the colder months. Your heart is nothing but a hare running through your ribcage. Leaving you trembling and out of breath. He’s a predator; there is no doubt in your mind. «Hey…»

And yet his pull is catastrophic.

Your voice is a murmur, you have no idea what time it is, you have fallen asleep, but you have not stayed like so long enough for your head to feel stuffed with wool and your tongue to feel heavy in your mouth. His head tilts, that shimmering catching the light bouncing off the TV, «You can’t sleep?» Your steps feel suddenly heavy, your shoulders sag. «Yeah, sorry.» You don’t exactly know what you are apologising for, but you think you should. So you do. As you round the sofa and fall next to Carlisle.

His arms open, the memory of his grounding hug, not even a couple of steps outside your house, on the porch still dotted with your sister’s and father’s blood, pulls at the threads in your mind. A clear invitation. «What have I said about apologies?» Your throat makes a choked sound, your eyes lower, but you still fall into his arms, curled up like a kid. «I’m keeping you away from your family. I’m so sorry, Carlisle.» His hands smooth over your back, the world sinks into a calmer rhythm. «They’re fine, no more apologising.»

It’s after several minutes that you finally find it in you to speak again. Something silly is playing on the TV, some late-night, B-rated program. Your eyes are fighting to stay open, but it’s the laziest fight in the history of fights. «You can have the audio playing,» you murmur on his shoulder, leaning on his side, safely tucked under his protective arms. «Your sibling has had a very tiring day. Let’s not risk waking him up.» You know he’s lying. He’s listening for your father, for him to come back home and try to finish what he has started in the night, but you won’t call him out. «You’re an angel, Carlisle.» It makes sense, when mom had been alive and you and your sisters had still been going to church, she had nailed the teaching of Angels as God’s soldier into your minds. Carlisle looks the part. He looks like God’s soldier. You don’t wait for his answer; you don’t need it. The next second, you are already in Morpheus’s grip.

. You have bigger fish to fry. You definitely do, bouncing a leg up and down while seated in the police station waiting room. God, you have visited way too many waiting rooms in the last week alone; you could go without for years.

Yes, you have bigger fish to fry, your deteriorating relationship with your siblings, the dull ache in your limbs, the fact you could face charges… and yet— His hand lands on your thigh. «It’s alright. Darling, you can relax.» Fuck. Why did the pet name stick? Why didn’t you snap at him as you have done to all the other men who had tried to call you that? Because you like it, if he is the one doing it, you like it. Your brain supplies, unwanted and inopportune. Fuck. You are royally fucked.

Because for no reason on earth you’ll ever be able of deserving that man; Carlisle had been, unsurprisingly, the best man alive, driving you back home the next day, when you had finally been discharged, staying the night, waiting patiently in your kitchen, keeping an eye out for your father, only to then jump back into the car the next day and head down to the police station, once again for the sole purpose of sitting by your side and pull you out of your own spiralling mind every time a thought spun out of your control.

He had sat at your side when you had called Rose. When you had lowered your head, shamefully hiding your gaze in the dusty floor, phone pressed to your ear, stale words withering through your teeth. «Come and get her. I don’t want her here.» And then, when the line had gone dead, he had slid the phone out of your grasp, when you had stood there like a salt statue for never-ending minutes, eyes burning and losing their focus at every pang of shameful regret. He had put it on the counter and circled your shoulders until he had had you in a hug, and your face had been sufficiently hidden to finally scrunch up in pain, and you had finally been able to let go of the leftover tears. He had been the epitome of a good man, caring, patient, and gentle. You could come to know he has been handed the Nobel Prize for Peace, and you wouldn’t bat an eye.

Too bad something still stirs inside your gut when he looks at you for that second too long.

It’s the same feeling you had felt when you had met for the first time, something that has never truly gone away, but that you had learned how to coexist with; it’s a deep fear that squeezes your stomach in a barely there sensation, only with time it had morphed. It’s not directly yours anymore, as if afraid he would hurt you, it’s simply a sensation of deep power, as if he could but would never. He feels like a gun.

Not the one your father had aimed at your head, just a gun, something capable of great damage but also unmoving. Not a direct threat, only the potential of it.

You have seen his eyes…

The hand on your thigh squeezes gently but firmly, stilling your nervous movements. His smile, kind and open, follows; as if all your problems in the world could be wiped clean by a single gesture of his hand. You look at him as if he had lit the stars in the sky; hell, for all you know, he could have. His body leans into yours, hand still gripping the meat on your leg, not too soft, not too harsh, a perfect balance of tender and demanding. «Relax.» And despite how difficult the command is to execute, you actually relax.

«Moore?» Well, it was nice while it lasted. You jump off the seat, wringing your hands together. «It’s me.» The young cop, one you have never met before, hints to you to enter the room he just exited, and disappears inside it, leaving the door open. «Do you want me to wait here?» Do you? Not really, you’d like for him to come with you inside the small room, for him to be there and keep you whole as your skin threatens to rip at the seams and let all the sorrow and guilt tear you open. Spilling onto the linoleum floor. «You don’t have to… You should go home, to your kids.» «Nonsense, let’s go.»

Inside, Charlie waits for you, sitting behind a wooden desk with the computer on and an array of files scattered all around the wooden slab. One look at you and your ex-parole officer seems to read you instantly. «Relax, kid. Your father will be detained as soon as he exits the hospital. You are facing no charges.» Your breath stutters. It’s not like you expected the opposite to happen, as Charlie said he did shoot first and was aiming to kill. Yet something still shifts inside you, and you can breathe better at his words. «What I’m worried about is Nick. Once your father is in prison… We’ll have to address his guardianship.» There goes your serenity. Fuck. But your panic is not even being given time to settle when the fax machine on Charlie’s desk chirps, and puts his gear in motion, printing God knows what.

Charlie reads it under his breath, his face falls, his eyes flicker to yours. «You might not have the luxury of thinking about it. CPS will be here tomorrow.»

What has just shifted from your solar plexus drops into your stomach and dread pools in your guts. Your hand flies to Carlisle’s, desperate for something to hold on to. His hand is the only lifeline keeping you afloat. «No, no, no… Charlie, you told me you wouldn’t—» your voice cracks, you can feel, somewhere lost in the heap of sensation bullying your focus haywire, Carlisle's hand squeezing your fingers. Charlie’s face pulls into a pained expression, eyes still planted on the fax, «I didn’t. Rose did.»

That fucking bitch. «Calm down.» The door slams, the outside of Charlie’s office is deserted, the same way it had been while the two of you had waited for the Chief to call you in. It’s so uncanny and devoid of life it would make your skin crawl if you weren’t so riled up from rage. «Don’t you fucking dare, Carlisle. They want to take my boy.» The room plummets into static silence. You’re not a mother. You’re barely a sister. Stop this martyrdom. This obsessive attachment.

Nik might be happy elsewhere; he surely would be away from your father. Would Carlisle be as well once away from you too? Your neurotic pacing comes to an end, your temples pulsate, something familiar digs its claws into your brain as simmering rage snuffs itself out suddenly, leaving only cold nothingness in its wake. One of his hands falls onto your shoulder, pushing and tugging until all the fight left in you is nothing more than some heavy breathing and cold apathy ringing hollow in your ears. You follow his lead as you have been doing for a while now, confused and compliant, until your body gets crushed onto his front and you can grab at his soft sweater. «Nobody is taking Nik from you.» he promises, his other hand coming to rest on your nape, cold fingers entwining with your hair. Your breathing evens. Yeah… you… you just needed to cool off. «How—how can you be so sure?» «Let me talk to CPS, I’m sure I can help.» Something pools into your chest; in the heap of your sudden emptiness it almost stings. Something’s wrong with you. «I can’t ask you this—» His grip tightens, his voice cuts you off. «Then don’t, but don’t refuse my offer either.»

Yeah. You can let him drive for a while. What could go wrong? When you pull back he almost looks pained.

. «You shot dad.» It’s so matter-of-facty. So undeniably Rose, all cutting truths and no regard for fragile souls like yours. The next morning brought with it Rose’s white car, down at the station, an empty child seat in its back, a rosary dangling from the rearview mirror. «So you decide to fuck up my life for that?» your hand slams onto the wooden table. «Incredibly mature, sis, let me say—» Her voice cuts you off, stern, disappointed… like mom’s used to be. «You know this is better. I left home precisely for this reason. I didn’t want to come to hate him the same way you do now.» CPS should show their ugly mugs any minute now; you have to get all of the viciousness out of your system as soon as possible. She has to take it… She owes you that much.

«You were a coward.» It’s a hiss that slips your teeth like a curse, eyes squinted in disgust. «I succeeded. Didn’t I?»

You giggle, there's no other word for it, even if you wish there was. «Do you want that for Nik too?» A little too late for that. Because you have stayed, you raised him, you planted the seed of rage and resentment in his mind. He is the younger version of your own vicious vindictiveness. He already does. And he will forever despise the monster that has given you all careless life.

«He was our dad once.» And it’s in the conviction that you believe her. In the fact you know she actually stands on some sort of truth, some half-assed memory that she still holds onto and that in your mind has warped and bent out of shape under the weights of other memories, newer ones, until the original form has been so unsalvageable not even the shadow of it has remained to haunt your thoughts. You know she remembers things from before. When mom was still alive, and dad used to drink only on Fridays. You know she bailed when all of it had still been enough. Not good but not bad either, just… enough.

And yet to your face. To you who had stayed long after the bottles had been emptied and fists had been raised, she has the guts to keep calling him dad. That pathetic excuse of a man poisoning your childhood and salting the earth of your future. It makes your stomach churn.

The door clicks, a tall woman enters smiling, traces of a previous laugh dotting her lips. Carlisle is holding the door. «Darling, CPS are here.» You blink owlishly at the duo, venom still bitter in the back of your teeth. Carlisle looks at you like the cat who got the cream, his eyebrows lift, and his head tilts. «I hope you won’t mind that I started without you.» The woman looks thoroughly charmed as she extends her hand and grabs yours, dumbly lingering in the space between your bodies. «Pleasure to meet you, Miss Cullen, I’m Andrea, CPS.» «M-Moore, my last name is Moore.» The woman flushes slightly but, unlike you, recovers quickly «Ah— pardon me, I shouldn’t have assumed.»

What on earth is going on?

⚜ ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝟙𝟛

It had already been a couple of weeks since he had found her roaming the deserted aisles of a nameless city’s gas station, and yet Leon was still finding figuring her out quite the task. The apocalypse had long settled into a quiet rhythm of supplies runs and very sparse — very tense — encounters with other survivors, when he had heard the commotion coming from the small building.

A classic, after all, that was how he had met Claire when all of this had started, and so Leon had thought that, perhaps, that time too, would be like meeting a new friend.

Except meeting her had been nothing like meeting Claire. And then existing beside her had been different too.

First of all, she had known how to steal fuel from other cars, a red flag waving in the rookie’s head, then she had hot-wired an old truck when Leon’s car, after one last breath, had decided to simply stop, and that had settled the last alarm ringing in Leon’s head.

But Leon is not stupid, sure, he had frowned upon her indisputable ability in every aspect of criminal life, but he also has to agree that her… talents have saved his ass on multiple occasions. Overall, Dot had been an unremarkable girl sitting beside him for hours on end, with a calming voice and a stubborn enough personality to not even tell him her real name. Even after a month on the road. She had been a calming presence, of some sort, with her lazy attitude and a solution for almost everything. So much so that Leon had found himself thinking, not seriously, only in passing thoughts, that following her to the end of the world would not have been such a bad scenario.

And after a few weeks, Leon had seen just how much those passing thoughts had materialised into his everyday existence. The roles had shifted quietly, without making a fuss out of it, and now, almost a full month into the weird coexistence they have carved out of each other’s presence, it’s him following her around like a lost puppy.

He’s still the one driving, although he’s starting to suspect it’s because she’s too lazy to put herself behind the wheel. «I don’t have a license.» She had told him when he had asked, booted-up feet planted on the dashboard and a map splayed open on her lap. Not even looking up. «Turn here, there is no way in hell the road up ahead is clear.» And Dot had been correct, and Leon had fallen into the quiet habit of hanging from her very lips.

The rotting corpses lying on the ground have long ceased to be a threat, only putrefying human beings too weak to move what little of their muscles they have remaining. And the thrill of existing in a decaying world has stopped pumping the adrenaline of the unknown into his heart. «So we are just having a road trip?» he asks, falling into the empty rack and making some canned goods clink onto each other. The girl, still reading the back of a mysterious sealed meat, laughs. «I mean, basically. Are you having fun, rookie?» Yeah, there is also that; she rarely calls him Leon. More often than not opting for ‘rookie’, ‘lover boy’, ‘pretty eyes’, or some other variant of the latter that will make him blush and go look for something in a different aisle. He’s starting to think she does that to get rid of him, as she also seems to never pull the ‘ocean eyes’ when the two of them are stuffed in the hot car. «Well, would it be bad if I said I am?» Dot laughs and throws the meat behind her shoulders, probably declaring it too messed up to play Russian roulette with their stomachs and ingest it. «Go ahead, boy, it’s just you and me, and I sure as hell am no judge.» Boy, not ‘lover boy’, apparently she’s up for a chat. Leon’s too, hell, he is always up for a chat, especially when it’s with Dot, talking with her is like talking to a long-lost friend who always knows what to say and when to do it. Talking to Dot is like coming home, except home is no longer what you remembered and walls and doors are all in the wrong places, because no matter how easy it is to talk with Dot, talking about her remains as difficult as moving a door from its wall.

Dot doesn’t judge, Leon fears it’s because she has done worse, but in a sense, it puts him at ease, it’s like having a lazy devil on his shoulder that instead of tempting him to do worse simply shrugs its shoulders and responds: ‘Been there, done that’ at everything he does. Not that Leon doesn’t try to appear at least civil. «I do feel bad for those who have died!» Dot shrugs, a suspiciously dense carton of milk sloshing and thudding in her hands. «You are losing me here, pretty boy.» Leon shudders, eyeing the carton of milk and painfully remembering the rule they had set about a day into their shared trip. Never, never look inside the dairy aisle. Dot eyes him, still holding onto the rotten carton as if holding onto a weapon able to shut him up for good. It is. And for that, a shallow shudder runs through his spine «I mean… I’m glad it’s them and not us.» He quickly corrects. He has quickly learned that dishonesty grates on Dot in a very wrong way, one of the many things that make them similar in their differences. A smile is his reward for his renewed honesty, a wolfish grin spreading on her lips and tugging at her eyes.

Too bad that’s only partially true. Lieutenant Marvin Branagh is still a fresh wound on his soul, and probably will be for life. Something pulls at his voice; it’s always like that with Dot. There is little Leon can keep to himself. «There was… It’s not like I personally knew him.» Silence falls thicker than the usual one, denser than the spoiled milk in the girl’s hand. Heavy with a different kind of death than the one lingering in the streets, one still lingering in one’s mind. Dot puts the makeshift weapon back where she found it and falls softly beside him, rack clinking and shoulders touching.

She has that look on her face, Leon blushes, he’s not embarrassed, well, he is, but not in the normal sense, he just feels seen, and for some cosmic coincidence that makes him uncomfortable. In a way, in these moments, he feels as if Dot ceases to be simply a devil and begins, timidly, to become a guardian angel. Still patient, still inscrutable, but somehow… softer.

She is softer still when, waiting a beat longer, she inquires with whispered words. «You killed someone?»

Leon freezes, Dot waits, then Leon nods.

«Before or after?» «After.» «Did it save you?» Did it? It did. Leon would have long been cold on the ground if he hadn’t taken the shot. «Yes.» «Then you were just surviving Leon, nothing more, nothing less.»

Leon, not buddy, not loverboy, not pal, just Leon. And Leon thinks he needed that.

The next time they stop is because Leon’s shoulders are starting to hurt; the old seats of this Wrangler had been moulded to his figure by years of driving it, the freshly hot-wired Honda Civic’s ones are not, and his back is starting to feel that. «I need to stretch.» Dot hums, twirling the open map in her lap as if she hadn’t studied the piece of paper for the previous three hours.

She had been suspiciously quiet, not that Dot had ever touched the soaring heights of Leon’s chattiness, but even for her, that level of quietness had been concerning. «You don’t?» «What?» «Need to stretch?»

The young woman sitting beside him finally looks up, taking in the dimly lit street for the first time in probably hours. «Oh, yeah, sure. I’m right behind you.»

The Gas station they had stopped at is small, almost comically so, untouched by the mess that had gone down out there in bigger cities. Some neons are still running, some sparkling into life every now and then. They don’t need anything in particular. Leon would love a good Coke, but he’ll settle for anything sugary enough to push him through the night. «You see anyth-» «No way.» Leon’s head spins, his gun clicks to life, but the moment he raises it and the torch in his right hand points to Dot’s voice, the dim light shines on Dot and Dot alone. «Leon, look, cigarettes!» It takes him a minute to understand what she means, enough for her to jump over the counter and land on the cashier's side. A wall of cigarette packs is staring back at Leon while Dot sways her hips as if wagging a nonexistent tail. «You smoke?» «Used to, now I just ride the grumpy train of withdrawal.» Worry dislodges from its place on Leon’s chest; he breathes steadily and lowers his gun. «Smoking kills.»

Dot laughs, Leon wasn’t trying to be funny, but he guesses her laughter, even if at his expense, is better than her silence. So he takes it. Just as she takes a handful of cigarette packs, shoving some in her poorly held-together backpack. «When did you start?» Dot hums, some packets scattering around her feet in her unneeded hurry, «God, I don’t know, five or so years ago, I guess I started when I was a junior in high school.» A junior, it hadn’t even been legal for her to purchase cigarettes, and yet she had found a way to smoke, worse, to develop an addiction. Leon scrunches his nose, shining the light on the untouched wall of packets, now slowly being scooped into the gaping mouth of her backpack. «It can’t be good for you. I mean, you need to be able to run if you need to.» Dot laughs once more, throwing a side glance at him, eyes shining brightly on the caught light of his flashlight. «You think I’m gonna smoke all of this, loverboy? You haven’t seen a man in nicotine withdrawal once in your life; this is the new gold of this fine age and time.» Ah, yeah, sure, Leon should have guessed it. Dot is way better than him in navigating the new laws of the new world; he has been good at surviving in it, but relating to others that had done just the same had never been his forte.

She, on the other hand, had been suspiciously good at finding the worst in people, at touching and probing into every cranny of the human soul until eventually everyone had snapped on them, revealing just how ugly human beings could be. Leon had killed for her, sure, for now it had only been zombies, but he had incapacitated well over a handful of men that had very much been alive when Dot had asked, probed and pulled out all the rotten shit festering inside them. And for a while, Leon had disapproved of her method, until one time Dot had told him her guts were screaming ‘run’ and he had ignored her.

And run he should have done.

Something thuds beside him, Dot follows her backpack in one smooth movement. «You still there, ocean eyes?»

Leon blushes, Dot laughs, his memories are fuzzy, but after that day he had promised himself he would follow her advice closely, so who is he to break that promise? «Don’t call me that.» «Why? It’s true, help me carry this to the Civic, my ankle still hurts.» Leon doubts it still does, he helps her regardless.

«You need to sleep somewhere that isn’t the back of the Civic. There is a motel a couple of miles up ahead; we should be safe in there.» It’s weird that she knows; the map doesn’t have motels indicated on it. Leon doesn’t pay the detail any mind.

The bed is slightly softer than the Civic’s seats, but it’s more spacious without a doubt. Dot huffs in her sleep, not quite a snore, not quite dead silence; she huffs and puffs, like the wind. Leon holds her by the waist, almost scared she’ll just get up and flee the room without ever looking back.

She doesn’t, and by the next morning, she’s still there, stretching tired limbs over her messy head.

He doesn’t technically look in the milk aisle; the carton is there on the counter, out of place, almost as out of place as Dot’s face staring back at him from the side. She’s younger in the picture, wearing a different name and an unflattering MISSING plastered over her head. She looks tired in the photo, less alive. «Dot?» The liquid in the carton sloshes with his every movement. The girl pokes her head inside the room. «Is this your real name?»

Dot stays; it’s not like Leon would have used her old name anyway; he doubts she’ll even respond to that, plus Dot is more familiar, less daunting. Her real name is half a decade old, enough for her to stop feeling it as her own. Leon had tried to forget it the moment he had lifted his eyes from those of a younger Dot and met the horrified gaze the real one had cast him.

Sure, she had recovered quickly, shaking her shoulders and feigning boredom, «Yup, don’t go around using it, I don’t respond to it. I’m a poorly trained dog.» but Leon had seen. The horror, the hurt.

So he had not asked for more, not for an explanation nor for a reason; he had just moved on. Perhaps too afraid that would have been what would have finally made her bolt for the door.

Sixteen years old in 1992, and missing. Leon tries to remember where he had been in 1992, fifteen and fully into that awkward phase every teen spends in a body that is not yet their own. He had had braces at sixteen. She had been missing.

«So, what are you? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?» The sun hits harder today, it’s late October, almost November, and yet outside the scorching heat of the day is frying them both. Dot sweeps a hand over her forehead; she faintly smells of sweat and exertion, a job well done, something earned. «I’m twenty-two, Leon.» Not ‘ocean eyes’, not the same ‘Leon’ she had whispered to him at the gas station either, this almost feels like a warning. Leon wouldn’t put it past her to simply turn around and walk out of his life in a straight line if he as much as dared to imply something the girl would not like; she is the type. But Leon is just so curious.

So he feigns — and probably fails — indifference «And for how long have you been twenty-two?» And failed he must have because Dot suddenly laughs, a full and round laughter that makes him look up from the car he’s trying to steal from. The blazing sun beats on her face, making her skin glisten. She looks so much younger like this, even if she’s older than Leon and already marred by scars and lines. At the soft age of twenty-two. «Less than a year, pretty boy, what are you doing? Are you trying to pry my birthday from my cold hands?» Leon’s ears turn pinkish for reasons completely detached from the rising heat, and a comfortable warmth settles onto his stomach. «No! I mean, I didn’t want to—» «February, I was born in February.» her eyes crinkle, her smile feels ancient and youthful. For a minute, despite how much Leon had tried to shake the image out of his mind, he cannot but notice just how much more alive she looks now compared to the photo on the missing poster. «I was born in July. The thirty-first.» It’s awkward and probably stupid on his part; Leon truly can’t seem to be smooth in any social interaction he is having nowadays. But at that, Dot smiles softly, way softer than he has ever seen her being. «Nice to meet you, Leon, born the thirty-first of July.» She’s clearly pulling his leg, but the complete absence of her usual malice makes for a softer tone, kinder words, even playful.

Leon notices he’s smiling only when his reflection in the rearview mirror presents the fact as plainly as only mirrors can do. Dot sits beside him, humming a tune he either doesn’t know or her inability to sing has deformed beyond recognition. It’s nice. It’s the nicest day he has had in a very long time. They managed to score an almost full tank of gas from the scrap cars on the side of the road, and Dot’s legs are draped over the dashboard as they always are. It’s hot and sticky in the car, but the windows are rolled down, and Dot makes aeroplanes of her hands and surfs the wind like a Californian girl does the waves. It’s a nice day to survive.

When they get to their next stop, the sun has long since gone to sleep. It’s impressively cold outside, and the Civic smells of dried sweat and moist air. They’ll pull the seats down and cover the windows with the pile of newspapers resting on the back seats, pretending not to stare into each other’s eyes until they’ll eventually fall asleep. Here’s another nice thing, falling asleep with his eyes full of Dot’s quiet features; the curve of her nose, the brushing of her lashes. «I used to live there. I can hear your brain buzzing over there. One day, I simply left. There is no grand reveal, pretty boy. I just left.» Her eyes are deep pools of inscrutable water, uncharted waters that lull his own senses into a deep pull towards her abyss, but Leon knows her well enough to know there will be reefs waiting for him if he carelessly jumps now. So he simply nods. One hand jammed in between his cheek and the Civic’s headrest. «I’m happy I could still meet you… regardless.» Dot huffs a semi-laugh, her eyes fluttering close. But there is something kinder in her voice when she mocks him. «You are one hell of an optimist, ocean eyes.» then, so softly Leon has to stop his breathing to hear it: «Never change.»

---

That had to have cast a spell. Because from the moment Dot had softened, Leon had never stopped talking. It’s like he had woken up the next day and decided Dot was trustworthy and deserving of every piece of his existence. And so he had told her about Ada, about the station, about Lieutenant Marvin Branagh, the Tyrants and all the horrors he had endured in one single night. And Dot had listened; she had been caring and sweet in her own street-cat way. Never outright sweet but always accepting, inviting, neutral to all his ugly sides. She had let him exist under the pale rays of a progressively colder sun, following his jumbled lines of thought with so much ease Leon would have thought she had lived in his head for years. One day, after Leon had just started to open up, the beginning of his spilling still fresh and confusing on his own soul, Dot traded a whole pack of cigarettes for a single can of Coca-Cola. It’s a wildly disadvantageous trade, so unlike her, who Leon has seen ripping an entire pack of ammo off of a very nervous-looking man, for a mere half packet she had lazily smoked from occasionally, implying it was her last one, despite the trunk of the car — to this day — still being full. It’s disadvantageous, there is no other way to put it, but the way she offers it to Leon makes no room for interpretation. It’s a kind gesture, if not awkward and clumsy. It’s a soothing act. He had ended up talking about Ada that day, the tacky taste of Cola on his tongue and a smiling Dot looking at him as he drove down the road, eyes gleaming and a soft smile tickling her lips. «What?» he had asked, half a laugh, half a demand. Dot takes a long drag from a cigarette she will have to be satisfied with for a very long time, and shakes her head, «You’re so awkward.» Leon’s eyebrows crinkle and his voice lightens in embarrassment, not the uncomfortable one, more like the one he had felt when his mom had combed his hair in public when he was a teen and even his locks had settled on a rebellious phase, «The pot calling the kettle black.» is the only thing he can grumbles as Dot shrugs, but her smile never falters. «Touché» The next day, Leon kills a man. It has to be done, that’s what he keeps telling himself as he craddles the young woman’s body to his own. Not lifeless, not quite there, wounded. Badly wounded. When Dot wakes up, one of her pupils is bigger than the other. «I should hav—» Dot’s voice is sharp and unmoving; there is no room for self-doubt in her tightly run ship. «You saved my life, rookie.» Leon did. A man had to die for that. And the weirdest thing of all this affair is that he’s okay with that. The motel room is high up, and the perimeter is secure. Leon had driven twenty-five miles before taking a sharp turn and proceeding through the fields for another dozen or so. Putting as much road behind him and the corpse of the man as he could. «Come here, I don’t want to sleep away from you.» And for a couple of weeks, Dot’s a ticking bomb, but the pupil starts to shrink back onto its previous size on a random Wednesday, as it begins to react well to light once more; so much so that Leon is finally able to breathe a sigh he had been holding for weeks. Dot is the worst patient on the face of the earth, but as long as Leon holds her through the night, circling her waist with his arms, he’s at least sure she won’t go out wandering. Life goes back to normal, no permanent harm is done, and for a while, they travel once more. Leon chats and talks about his life before the apocalypse and then during it, all that there is to know about him before Dot had met him herself; Dot teases and lets some truths slip her tight-lipped lips, not even pretending to dislike the feeling afterwards, simply letting Leon know her at her own pace. But the settled life had left something inside them both. A longing for a place to call home. Somewhere they could rest their weary heads at night and finally be able to curl into each other without the shift in between their seats.

It’s not long after the realisation that Leon’s turn to be the patient comes around, and the perfect opportunity follows. He’s injured and in need of a place to simply rest although the extent of his injuries are a dislocated shoulder and a bruised ego. And to be fair, Dot is a much more sadistic doctor than the ex-cop. And yet, for being a heartless monster — as Leon has called her during ‘the procedure’ — after yanking and pulling at his arm like a butcher, not even using soft words to soothe him, Dot had crawled into the soft bed found in the vertiginous security of a watchtower in the middle of an endless forest, and had curled up in the space left by Leon’s body. The Civic long gone. Succumbed to rust and the harsh weather of mid-December in Wisconsin. The log in the stove crackles gently, a rhythmic sound dancing around the wooden room. «I want a RAM.» Leon whines, holding his arm closer still, as if unsure Dot would not suddenly begin yanking once more. But the shoulder had popped back into place a couple of hours ago, and Dot is not a sadist, nevermind what Leon accuses her of. «Those things drink up a fuck-ton of gasoline.» It’s a cruel joke of destiny that what Dot comes back with is a Honda Civic, the same damned model of the previous car they had inhabited for more than a couple of months. Smug smirk plastering her face. It’s not like Leon would use it as much as he used to now that they’re not on the road 24/7 anymore; the car stays parked at a sparse meadow a little further from the edge of the forest, simply put, a half an hour from a side road made out of actual cement and a good hour and some of tracking from the watchtower, but it’s essential for supply runs. «I want a RAM.» Dot passes him a half-peeled potato, for Leon to slice before tossing it into the pot on the stove, a warm and tasty smell bubbling up from the stew. «Stop whining, dollface, you’ll have it, I promise.» It’s still in the Honda Civic that he confesses, though. Leon falls in love with Dot the same way he had fallen into her steps when he had met her months ago. Without much of a fuss, simply falling and never landing. And it’s not a crush, and that much he knows mostly on the revelation that he finally has a meaning to existing beside her. Because that had simply meant falling and never landing. It had meant that when he had fallen into her steps, following but never losing himself in her personality, and it had meant that when he had fallen in love with her and had kept falling. Over and over again. Each night, falling asleep looking into her eyes, and each morning, falling once more in waking up to her soft sounds. And for the first time, Leon can tell himself ‘thanks god the world has ended’, because if it didn’t, Leon would have still been a cop, and Dot would have still been a criminal.

Because perhaps, if the world had not ended and if they still managed to find their way to each other their first encounter would have been as tense as it had been back then, when the apocalypse had just started and the both of them had been licking their wounds, but there is no way in hell Leon would have known what Dot’s laugh sound like if the dead had never risen. And some sick part of his brain, he’s sure Dot will never condemn, thinks that is a fair trade. «I think I fell in love with you.» The Civic’s soft air feels like home, the reclined seats prop their bodies face to face, the shift in the middle. Always so separated during supply runs. Leon hates the car. Even if it feels like home, even when the tower has been their home for the past weeks. He has the suspicion it is Dot that does so anyway, so as long as Leon follows her, he’s home anywhere. The young woman beside him peeks through her lashes, one eye opening. «Did you scrape your knees?» Leon's laugh jumps out of his chest; his shoulder no longer hurts as sharply as it did before, but it still aches every time Leon jolts it awake. «You’re lame.» he snorts, hiding a whimper in his laughter. Dot’s eyes open fully, a gloss shining in the gentle moonlight. «You love it.»

It’s true. «I do.» Silence doesn’t fall nor linger, for how calm Dot always is, and for how low her next words are, there is a certain vehemence behind them. «I did too.» Leon’s heart stutters, his voice softens, almost shy. «Scrape your knees?» Dot’s laugh is a huff, half annoyed, half… Dot. So incredibly hers. Her body rises, Leon’s follows, even if propping himself up by the wounded shoulder still makes his arm wobble. Her lips hover over his own, that same smile he had fallen for, tickling his lips. «I almost broke my neck falling for you, lover boy. Have some respect.» Leon giggles; there is no better word for it. And Dot kisses him.

Ao3 Link

Divider by: @plum98 Cute lil taglist: @charringroses

Charlie had appeared in the hospital room your sister had rested around two am, out of thin air, in the short time you had used to make a trip to the coffee machine down the hall on the first floor, hair tousled and face tired.

«I know the kid didn’t pull the trigger. God, you’re raising criminals in there. Lying to an officer…» It’s meant to be a joke, something to lighten the mood, but you truly are in no mood for jokes. «Not Anna, she’s made of gold.» It pains you to say so, it does, because only now you truly understand how hurtful your obsessive attachment had been to her, but what could you have done back then? With a dead mother and an absent sister. Rose had not taken any of your calls for three years, not even when, at seventeen, you had begged her voicemail to just pick up, tears streaming down your face and an officer urging you to “hurry up” in the background. You had left them both alone for five months, alone with him. For something as petty as arson. You should have called Nik’s mom; you should have begged her to take care of your siblings, but pride had stopped you, and you had ended up doing exactly what you had promised yourself you would never have done: hurting them both. And you have hurt them so much. «That’s why you’re sending her away?» The words are slaps to your face. «Yeah.» That’s precisely why you are doing this. «Charlie, if I go to pri—» «Stop, stop, Anna got shot, Frank will open a whole can of worms if he tries to charge you, and I’m sure your little criminal in there will testify you had to shoot in self-defence.» Charlie’s hand engulfs your shoulder, shaking you from side to side in a slow sway. «I’m glad she’s well.» Your head lolls to his movements, still shocked, still only partially aware the night is yet to be finished. «Chief Swan.» You almost jump out of your own skin, shuddering in the cop’s grasp so violently you almost tumble to the ground. «Jesus Christ, Carlisle, you’re as silent as a goddamn cat!» You struggle to keep your heart in check, one bruised hand over the mess beating inside your sternum. Carlisle is standing beside you, still partially inside the room he had just exited, head tilted and an unreadable expression painted on his infuriatingly handsome face. «Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I was just hoping I could just… I’m a bit worried about that ear.» Thankfully, it's Charlie who speaks for you. «Yeah, no, sure doc, I’ll let you have her in a minute.»  The younger man smiles, all politeness and soft features, then, as if sensing you had been craving his touch for the past hour or so, one of his hands lands on your shoulder. You’d be able to recognise it blindfolded; there is a quality to his touch that makes you melt regardless of how cold it always is. You exhale a sigh that has been stuck to the back of your throat for god knows how long, patting the back of his hand absentmindedly, feeling the quiet courage he seeps into your skin with the simple gesture. You didn’t absolutely deserve that man. His hand squeezes, your eyes look for him until you have to crane your neck, then, leaving you one last apologetic smile, he retreats back into the room.

Charlie sits up, finally dunking the rest of the coffee you had offered him and that he had nursed to coldness. «So… what’s going on with the doctor?» His hand does a weird gesture, voice trailing off, eyes darting to the closed door. «What?» Charlie raises his hands defensively, you knit your brows together. What? «I mean…you seem friendly, it has been a long time since I last saw you interact with someone so… easily.» Is he calling you a social inept? Ah! The pot calls the kettle black. «Thanks, Charlie, I really needed that. And stop. He’s a decade older than me.» Is he? he must be at least thirty-five; you struggle to think he could be any younger. No doctor starts practising younger than that, especially not a surgeon. «Almost, almost a decade older, under ten it still game.» «Oh my go— how old is he? No, you know what, I don’t care ‘cause he’s a friend, a good one at that, don’t make it weird.» «I’m not making it weird, I’m just saying… he’s a good person.» You can say that for sure, hell, somehow you are even jealous someone else noticed. «He saves lives for a living, he’s goddamn Mother Teresa by my standards.» Charlie scoffs, gathering the jacket still draped on the armrest of the lobby chair and giving you a lopsided hug, wrapping only an arm around your shoulders. You jokingly battle his affection away. It’s when he’s almost at the exit door that he turns and tells you mischievously: «He’s thirty-two, by the way. Make of that what you wish.»

Nope, nope, you won’t. Because you don’t dwell in dreams, Doctor Hottie doesn’t have the hottie for you, and if you dwell on the thought, you’ll just start groaning about how smart he must be to be where he is right now at the soft age of thirty-two.

So you just spin around and head for the door where you had last seen him disappear, and sure enough, you find him filling up something on a clipboard.

His eyes flicker to your figure, awkwardly standing in the room. You are still a mess, your father's blood crusted on the front of your off-white tank top.

You know damn well right now it’s not the time to feel self-conscious but you also struggle with stifling the feeling that rises in the back of your head. Fortunately, he doesn’t let you dwell on it too long. As if knowing exactly what you need, he offers a distraction. «I’m sorry I interrupted you.» And what a distraction… His voice curls on a note you have never heard it take before, deep, rich, but not crackled through the phone as when he had taunted you in the middle of the mall.  Why the low voice now? God, why is his low voice so sexy? And why is he pulling it on you right now? You take a minute to shake the shock off, forgetting all about the blood crusting your shirt. «D-Don’t mention it, the old man was starting to say senile things.» Your fists clench and unclench. Stop focusing on Charlie's comment! «Does it still ring?» The comment? «What— oh, yeah, I mean, it’s fine, a gun was just fired near my face, I kinda expected it to ring.» Carlisle pulls a face you instantly recognise as the beginning of a scowl, you almost avert your eyes, still childishly fearful of scoldings. «Yes, well, that’s not really fine. That is what I hope it’s a temporary noise-induced tinnitus; loud sound way too close to your ear damaged the hair cells in the cochlea, the ones that convert vibrations into electrical signals.»  «Ah.» «Yes, it is… not optimal, especially given your past I… don’t want to assume, but I gather you might have already suffered from something similar? Perhaps after a blow to the ear?» Fuck he’s good at his job, or maybe you are just pathetically predictable. «Assume all you want, doc, you are spot on. Can it be permanent?» The high-pitched noise reverberating inside your ear is already nerve-wracking; you cannot think about a place in time where having it constantly playing in your ears will make you any easier to be around. «Yeah, that’s why I also wanted to pull you aside, you really need to stay in a quiet environment, drink lots of water and avoid stress, although I understand the latter is kind of impossible right now.» Oh, that solves the mystery of the slutty voice. «Yeah, sure, I’ll do my best—» «I mean now. You really need quiet. Right now.» His hand is around your biceps, you have no idea even when he has gotten so close, you just know you breathe better now that he’s touching you. «I know you want to stay with your siblings, just a few minutes, half an hour at worst, you really need silence.» Yeah, yeah, you can do half an hour, you are the queen of running away, if he’s offering you a way of staying alone, you’ll gladly take it. You have always craved that; never a pack animal to begin with. «Yeah, sorry, I feel shitty, but— I do need silence indeed. Everything is… too much right now.» The look on his face is sweet, the pressure on your chin as light as a feather, he smiles at you, fingers lingering over your skin, an effortless touch gifted so freely, without an apparent reason other than comforting you. «I know, I can see that. You just need to decompress, stay here.»

You hum in the darkened room, only now realising the lights have been switched off almost entirely, leaving only some spots of pale light above your head. A relaxing space, Carlisle had been creating a relaxing place for you, somewhere you could actually stop worrying for everyone else and start healing your own wounds. «I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Carlisle.» It rings hollow in your ears, so uselessly true you don’t even understand how speaking it would make it any more obvious. It’s the simple truth. You had scratched at him day and night during the building of your extravagant friendship, so much so you had thought he would have thrown in the sponge much sooner. And yet he didn’t. And you still cannot figure out why. The hand on your bicep shifts you forward, guiding you to a hospital bed in the far corner of the small room. «You are perfect the way you are, lay, rest, you did good.»

«Can— Sorry I bothered you so much, I’m truly mortified.» Were you really about to ask him to stay? After all the ways you had bothered him tonight? You truly are selfish, egotistical, self-centred— «Ask. You are allowed to want, you just have to ask.» It’s simple to him, so simply put, you actually tumble into the habit of believing him. You just want him to stay, to crush you in another hug and swallow your sorrows whole. «I— no, you don’t have to—» «Ask. You know I won’t deny you.» Wouldn’t he? Why wouldn’t he? You have done nothing but create problems, and yet you can’t but keep asking, wanting more than what people are willing to offer. You stall, without a coffee at hand, but with the same sour apology clinging to your lips. «Only the truth. If you please.»

«Can you stay?» His hand falls to your chest, slowly pushing you to the bed. When have you sat on it? When did you start to lay? Your eyes are so heavy you have to fight them to stay awake, limbs jittery and painful. You weigh a ton and some. «I never wanted to go to begin with.» His voice is barely a whisper, his smile soft and simple, no hidden lie behind it, no pity nor imposition. Cold fingers graze your bruised cheek; you could die in this bed and death would mean nothing more than never seeing Carlisle Cullen again. You could die like this, and that would be your only regret.

When you wake up, less than an hour has passed, but your body feels better already. The ringing has subsided, not passed, but not as persistent as it was before. The room is empty, the soft beeping of machinery outside your door lulls you out of sleep gently; it’s a soft sensation that keeps you glued to the bed even if you should get up and go back to your siblings. The door clicks open; Carlisle must be back.

But the footsteps are wrong. Heavy. You turn your head to the sound.

He looks silly, a weird similarity to the Van Gogh picture your school textbook had provided in your third year of public school, with white gauze wrapping around his head.

You have never seen your father more crazed. «I told you I’d fucking kill you.»

You don’t have the time to scream, you don’t even have the time to feel the surge of adrenaline coursing through your already fried nerves. You just inhale sharply, then a flurry of white crosses your vision. The crashing of something hitting the wall hard, and the churning sound of broken bones.

A scream cuts the night silence, but it’s short-lived, and it’s not from you.

Carlisle, the doctor, the good man with a heart of gold and soft hands, is pressing your father to the wall. «One more step. I dare you.» His voice is something you have never heard coming from his mouth, low, cutting, a threat in itself. He’s pinning your father with an arm across his throat, the remaining hand wrapped around his mouth, fingers digging into his skin painfully, so harshly you think you can see beads of blood forming at their tips. «I’m gonna make myself indisputably clear. If I see you around Anna one more time, I’ll kill you. If I see you around Nik, I’ll kill you. But if I see you around her… If I see you around her, God help me. You are going to wish you were dead.» In the darkness, in the pitch black room that backgrounds the most bizarre scene you have ever witnessed, you are sure you see a flash of boiling red bleed into his eyes.

Your dad stumbles to the side, no, Carlisle forcefully shoves him sideways, away from you, gripping his flesh in a vicious hold. Something dark and sinister pools in your stomach, but you’ll have to address it later; now you are too stunned to even move.

Your father stumbles to keep up with Carlisle’s strides, whining like a wounded dog, dragged along by a force you had not thought the doctor capable of. That no one should be capable of. You only vaguely hear his voice, now steady, now as calm as an undisturbed sea, calling for security. Too occupied with battling what is stirring inside of you.

«I shouldn’t have left you alone. Darling? Can you hear me?» Your eyes dart to his, that coppery undertone shining in the moonlight.

There is definitely something wrong with him; you know this for sure, but there is something worse in you because you feel like you could jump his bones this instant.

⚜ ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝟙𝟚