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Well judging from the charactersâ interactions alone, the core dynamic between Ada and Leon has never really been one of care, understanding, or honesty. It has long centered instead on information asymmetry, concealment, manipulation, and emotional withdrawal. That does not mean she has no feelings, nor does it mean she has never suffered in her own way. But in narrative terms, her role is indeed much closer to that of someone who repeatedly appears and disappears, withholds her true intentions, and manipulates the situation whenever necessary. A character like that can absolutely have complicated feelings for Leon, but to claim that she âsharesâ Leonâs Raccoon City trauma feels extremely forced, to the point of being almost repulsive.
??? She didn't seem to care one bit about what was going on around her. She was focused on her mission. She owes Leon her life when she was that night and that's the only thing she carried with her from that night. That and her fall.
I never came across such discourse but if it's what's being said in the general fandom, then it's indeed disgraceful on so many levels.
The opening CG cinematic begins with a torrential downpour. Two special forces units parachute into a village at the edge of a dense rainforest. Everyone is in full tactical gearâhelmets, masks, visors down. Amid the crackle of radios and rustling gear, one soldier cracks a regionally charged joke to the blue-eyed guy beside him. Another manâclearly a commanding officerâstands and cuts through the noise with a sharp voice, telling everyone to stay sharp. Above, a helicopter hovers with tense instability, its pilot muttering over comms as the men begin fast-roping down into the wet jungle below.
Then the camera shifts. Inside the tents, helmets come off. And itâs only then the players see themâtwo piercing pairs of blue eyes. The faces: Krauser and Leon, revealed together in a moment designed to floor you with sheer charisma. These are your dual protagonists.
From here, players choose which character to control. Regardless of choice, Krauser and Leon move together as an inseparable unit. The opening hours build a sense of brotherhood and teamworkâyour âtutorial village.â You can explore the camp freely, in a blend of Call of Duty and Red Dead Redemption energy: field-stripping and reassembling weapons, survival mini-games, analyzing strange data, or even sparring with Krauser or other NPCs squadmates. Conversations trigger flashbacks or war storiesâgruff complaints about Krauserâs brutal discipline always laced with deep respect. You witness Leonâs evolution from green recruit to a finely tuned operative.
Outside the camp, there are small, morally murky missions: eliminating possibly infected locals, receiving vague answers from command, increasingly ambiguous objectives. The sense of unease builds. Then comes the order: break camp. The night before departure, Leon privately informs Krauser that heâs carrying a classified White House mission. Heâll need to split from the unit once theyâre deep in the jungle. Krauser clearly wants to ask moreâbut holds back. Instead, he offers Leon a firm, weighty piece of advice: stay alive. Leon replies, âYou too, Major. Iâll see you on the other side.â They shake hands, the bond unspoken but deep.
What follows is a descent into hell. After a large-scale mid-game boss battle, the game splits: players go solo.
If you chose Krauser, youâre plunged into a nightmare of comrades dying one by one, with no time to process. If youâre Leon, you face the emergence of B.O.W.s and the enigmatic Manuela. When the two finally reunite, tension snaps. Krauser, traumatized and furious, refuses to trust Manuela. A violent argument erupts. But thereâs no time to resolve it.
The team faces Javier and his grotesque army. Krauserâs last two men fall. Javier deals Manuela a near-fatal blow. And when the villain unleashes his final, devastating strike meant for LeonâKrauser steps in, takes the hit, and sets his fate in motion.
As the chapter closes, the rain still fallsâbut sunlight finally breaks through. It cuts across the muddy battlefield, illuminating the waterlogged ground like the glimmering surface of a lake. It looks just like Mott Lake back at the base in North Carolina, under the heat of a summer sun.
Synopsis : What happens when Krauser has to leave the base for a few days...
The room was dim, lit mostly by screens.Â
Satellite feeds, grainy footage, heat signatures drifted through jagged terrain halfway across the world.
Voices overlappedâmeasured, clinical and detached from the lives flickering in green and white across the monitors.Â
âMovement along the eastern ridge.â
âZoom inâhold there.â
âThermal spike at grid nine.â
Jack sat with his back to the table of the briefing room, hunched forward and fingers steepled before him, tracking with piercing blues the satellite feed cycling through on the screen in grainy infrared, along with the the timestamp running in the corner and the heat signatures of men moving through the ridgeline corridor southeast of PriĹĄtina.
He'd been watching the same loop for forty minutes on another monitor. The terrain was the familiar Kosovo highland: broken, heavily wooded on the eastern exposure - the kind of ground that swallowed movement and made clean extraction a complex exercise. He knew it. He'd been studying the Yugoslav theater since '97, when it became clear to anyone paying attention that the KLA's escalation wasnât going to resolve quietly, and NATO's patience had a ceiling.
He also knew the terrain better than the analysts presenting it to him, which was the kind of thing he didnât need to reaffirm when it was the reason why heâd been pulled in from the base and put on a plane to Belvoir in the middle of a steak bite.
âTheyâre too exposed,â he muttered.
Around the round table were two men in suits from the National Security Council whose names he's been given and already set aside, a colonel from the Joint Chiefs with too many files spread before him, one DIA liaison who kept clicking his pen, and a couple of tech analysts to better explain what went on on the screens.
Standard configuration for something that rushed and urgent.
One of the suits closest to his seat caught his grumble. âTheyâre following the planned route.â
âThen the planâs bad.â
A few heads turned.Â
The colonel piped up solemnly, âItâs decided then. The deployment window is locked. Ground team moves at 0400 and Air support is on standby. We want eyes on the ground before the handoff window closes.â
Jack nodded. He'd already calculated the window. Forty-eight hours, maybe sixty if the weather on the eastern corridor cooperated, which the satellite data suggests it wouldnât. âThen I better gear upââ
âActually, that wonât be necessary, Major,â the same suit next to him interjected without preamble, like interrupting a man of Krauser's particular dimensions was something he did regularly and never reconsidered.
Clearly a lifelong habit of being unimpressed by men who could fold him in half.Â
Fucking feds.Â
Jackâs eyes cut towards him sharply. âExcuse me?â
âWeâre keeping you stateside,â the man continued, his tone carrying the quality of a decision being communicated rather than discussed. âYour current assignment takes priority. That unit in Colorado took considerable time and resources to select. Pulling you from that now compromises long-term readiness.â
Krauser flagged the first lie in that prattle instantlyâor else theyâd have to explain to him where the pretty boy they dumped onto their so-called top-secret program counted in that statement.
âLong-term readiness? Havenât we been watching the same loop for over thirty minutes now? What about the long-term readiness of these men.â
âAnd we have a very capable team ready to be dispatched into the field for the handoff.â
âI know that terrain very well. Thatâs why you brought me here in the first place, after all, isnât it?â
A flicker of irritation crossed the suited manâs face. âMajor, we brought you in as a valuable advisor. Your roleââ
âMy role is to make sure soldiers donât die when they donât have to,â Krauser cut in, voice low but controlled. âRight now, theyâre moving into a dozen threat indicators they wonât see coming.â
Silence tightened across the room.
Jack pushed off the chair, stepping closer to the main display. The convoy crawled forward, right into a narrowing corridor of terrain.
âIâll get thereâwith the team youâve readied,â he stressed out, indulging the man his petty managements, sensing that fastest route through this room was compliance, âpull them out of that messââ He glanced over his shoulder at the rest room as his tone took a sharper edge, ââand Iâll be back before our precious assets start thinking the worst is behind them.â A beat. âEvery last dipshit one of them.âÂ
The speech earned a few looks, some amused, some less so and that pen finally stilled.
The NSC agent studied him, weighing. âYouâre confident in that.â
Jack didnât hesitate. âAffirmative.â
A beat passed where the table looked around one another in silence.Â
Finally, the liaison exhaled before turning away, already reaching for his cellphone. ââŚIâll make the call. See if we can get authorization.â
Jack didnât thank him, he just turned back to the screen, eyes narrowing as the feed flickered, already halfway there.
***
âHey, Kennedy.â
Leon glanced up from his bunk. He'd been lying there with a knife balanced loosely in his hand for an hour now, not doing anything with it in particular, just turning it over and back in the way it had slowly become a tic when lost in thoughts.Â
A couple of soldiers lingered in the doorway, already half out of uniform, boots and trousers staying but their khaki jackets knotted around hips or tucked beneath arms as if they couldnât be out of them soon enoughâLeon was still in his, had gotten used to the weight of it somewhere along the wayâand carrying the energy of men who've decided the night belongs to them.Â
âSome of us are heading out to Maloneâs for drinks and a few rounds of pool,â Kyle Rives said.Â
The other one, whom Leon wasnât familiar with, grinned. âFigured you might need a stiff drink after that nosedive in the mud you took yesterday.â
Leon looked at them for a second, then at the knife in his hand.
He flipped it onceâcleanâcatching it by the handle without thinking.
âThanks but Iâm good,â he said.
the two men exchanged a look.
âSeriously?â
âYeah.â
âDude, you know Krauserâs not around, right?â the one he didnât remember the name of saidâas if Leon hadnât seen him being pulled from his mashed potatoes right before his eyes.Â
âWhaâwhere are you going, Major?â
Krauser passed back the phone, already up and moving. âSome business that needs to be taken care of. Iâll be back. Finish your plate.âÂ
Finish your plate, heâd said.
Leon huffed.Â
His appetite had gone the moment Krauser left him hanging in their familiar picnic bench.
These had been his parted words for him and Leon was pissed at how silly they were when the matter concerned the current war in eastern Europeâsomething he learned later that day, after playing off his charms on the receptionist at the restricted area, where he learned federal agents had waited for the Major to escort him in a black SUV.
Shitâs about the fucking war and that was what he left Leon with.
Tch. Well, Leon didnât finish his stupid plate and didnât feel like dinner either.Â
How about that.
âWe know he rides your ass harder than anyone but heâll never know about it if it's all of us sneaking out.â
Leon shrugged, slinging a smile across his face even when heâs already half-tuned out. âNot about that.â
It was though. Part of it. But not in the way they thought.
They lingered a minute longer, then Kyle clapped him lightly on the shoulder, laughing. âSuit yourself. Just donât bleed out here or something.âÂ
âYeah, if Krauser gets back and finds his chew toy looking like warmed over garbage, heâs gonna ride our asses to Kingdom Come,â the other added.
Leon huffed a quiet breath that passed for amusement. âYeah. Iâll try.â
As they walked away, Leon caught the whisper of Whatâs wrong with him? and Kyle Rivesâ Leave him alone, heâs just a kid.
And those were their parting words for him, too. But Leon could only hear the echo of one.
If.
Even if heâd been in the mood for a change of air, heâd lost any motivation for it.
Kyleâs stupid friend wasnât wrong though. He could use a drink or two. However, he wasnât sure he could stop at that and Krauser made him promise to never get shitfaced again after that Christmas Eve⌠And for some reason, he didnât want to break that promise.
So he was not feeling like eating, he was not feeling like drinking and he was also too restless to fall asleep.Â
Eyes fell to his hand and stared at the saw-edged knife the way Krauser taught him to look at any weaponâÂ
âNo fear. The size of it is irrelevant. What matters is that you don't take your eyes away from it.â
Was Krauser joining the war?
War⌠What a load of bullshit.
Leon swung the knife.
As his arm stayed suspended, position locked, Leon followed the dull light skating along the blade with his eyes up to his wrist for a beat.
Shit.
Bad grip.Â
Heâd been rebuilding his wrist work from the ground up for two weeks now.
He adjusted his position on his bed. Crosslegged. Back straight.
Simple rotations first. Controlled tosses no higher than eye levelâthe foundational stuff; the kind of movement that looked like nothing until it set the pace for everything that followed.
The knife rolled over his scrapped knuckles, flipped between fingers, spun cleanly back into his taped up palm. The rhythm found him fast, the way it always did when he stopped thinking about it and let his hands remember.
âSlow is how you find the mistakes. Fast is just how you hide them.â
Spin, catch, turn.
Spin, catch, turn.
His breathing evened out a little and he leaned back against his pillow, stretching one leg out while the other bounced faintly with the leftover current of adrenaline.
And anxiety.
The knife kept moving. Reverse grip transition. Clean.
Forward spin. Catch.
Palm rollâthe blade slipped. Leon caught it before it dropped, jaw tightening.
Sloppy.
Krauser's voice arrived at the front steps of his mind without knocking.
Leon exhaled through his nose and tried again. Faster this time. More deliberate. The correction sat itself and he ran it again from the top, building the sequence back up from where it broke, the way he'd been taught: You didnât paper over the error, you went back to where the error began.
Again.
Again.
The knife became something close to a blur between his fingers, the motion shedding its individual parts until it was a single continuous thing, instinct being carved into muscle one repetition at a time.
His hands knew things his mind had to explain to them once. That gap had been closing for months without his fully noticing until moments like this one, alone in the low light, when thereâs nobody to perform for or impress.
Krauser had caught the wrist earlier into their sessions. He said nothing for most of it, watched him work through it and see if heâd catch onto the mistakes on his own. And if Leon did before the moment of correction, when Leon's form finally matched what it was supposed to look like, heâd be given that single, small nod.Â
Not even praise.Â
Just acknowledgment. The recognition that something had been done correctly, offered flatly, almost as observation rather than approval, and somehow that made itâ... Leon didnât have a word for what it made it. He just knew that nod had started to mean something he never really cared to stop and think aboutâŚÂ
If the major was here, Leon would already be wallowing in the look those frigid eyes got when he did something right. This was around the time they usually started their one-on-ones after allâŚ
The smile faded like a cheap fragrance and the restlessness was back. It built pressure somewhere under his ribs like there was too much current in too small a space and his wrist work wasnât drawing enough of it off.Â
He sat with it for a moment, slowly recognizing it for what it was.
If.
Leonâs jaw tightened as if the word could be snapped in two between his teethâand he pushed to his feet in a single shot.
Since they were a small unit of thirty one cherry-picked soldiersânot accounting for himâthe base allotted four buildings for their sleeping arrangements, divided into small groups rather than stacking them down in one barracks. A smidgen of privacy, which was the concession, and the size of said arrangements being the trade.Â
Thirty-two feet long, twenty-three wideâwhich sounded generous until you put seven men and their footlockers into it. Three beds ran along one wall, four along the otherâan unwelcomed asymmetry courtesy of Leonâs additionâand fifteen feet of open floor running down the middle. Just enough to pass through without grazing either side.Â
It wasnât like the whole base wasnât designed to remind you at all hours that comfort was a civilian concern they were meant to check at the front door the day they accepted this draft.
Leonâs bunk was against the farthest wall, a last minute addition and closest to the one fluorescent tube left buzzing faintly, throwing long shadows across the bedframes, footlockers and other personal effects regulations allowed for keepsakes.
The only thing Leon had as such was his gun and the RPD badgeâa cherished collection of ghosts he begged the feds not to take away.
In retrospect, even without feeling crabby, Leon might have still passed on the night out for a moment of utter and complete privacy like the one right now.
He took the center of the room and started moving between the two pillars standing in the middle.Â
Light steps, controlled pivots, shifting his weight from heel to toe while the knife ran its patterns in his hand.
Suddenly, the barracks got the particular quality of a space that felt like it belonged solely to himâas if he was back home, in his childhood bedroom, and that alone couldnât compare to any drink his mind conjured every minute of every day spent here. And so he moved through it like suchâunhurried, finding his ground, learning the geometry of it the way his Major told him to learn any space he moved through.Â
And little by little, slow turned to fast.
He weaved through the narrow aisles, ducking around bedframes, pivoting off the support beams, boots whispering across the floor in the half-dark. The fluorescent light at the far caught the blade on each pass, brief cold flashes like moonlight skipping across broken glass.Â
Step. Turn. Flip. Catch.
Too wide.
The voice in his mind carried grit and disapproval but a smile crept to Leonâs lips, anyway.
He tightened the motion before Krauser's voice finished the reproach inside his brain, the feedback loop so internalized that it coursed through his veins unbidden.
In the beginning heâd needed it said out loud. Three months ago he'd needed it said once and itâd be enough. Now it was just there, running in the background like the phantom of his operaâthe voice in his mind and behind the curtain, guiding his limbs as his moves like the perfect puppet.
Telegraphing.
He tightened again.
The burn built in his legs without fully registering it and the shallow cut across his palm from yesterday's session reopenedâhe could feel the faint sting of it, the warmthâbut his grip didn't loosen, his eyes didn't check it and his knife didn't slow.Â
And Leon moved through the barracks like nobody but him could see who or what he was trying to outrunâor chase down.
An opponent taking form in the pillar he twisted around before tipping his blade against the invisible neck on the second pillar with a solemn flick of wrist.
Sweat dampened the collar of his shirt and he shrugged his jacket off thoughtlessly, sending it flying to some bunk that wasnât his.Â
Heartbeat was jagging out of place but all was lost in a scarlet rush he couldnât contain. He felt loose and light as a featherâlighter than he ever had beforeâlighter than the academyâs training or anything had ever come close to making him feel. Â
It was like heâd unlocked something he never thought possibleâÂ
The power to fucking fly.Â
He vaulted over the end of the last bunk, landed clean on the balls of his feet, pivoted and sent the knife through a single clean arc behind his backâ
âand caught it perfectly.
Teeth bit into flushed lips as a grin spread in the silent space, slow and unaccountably wicked like a predator feeling at home in the dark.
The satisfaction shot hot and immediateâbright as a struck match. He stood with it for a suspended beat in the middle of the empty barracks, chest heaving, blade hanging loose at his side, and let it encompass himâlet it pull him through its wild fire, let it burn the bitter thoughts beneath the high.
This new feeling⌠this ache he started to seek, subconsciously chasing it through the barracks in the dim lightâthis ache with blue eyes that lit his veins with crimson fire, that made blood drip down his palmâthis new feeling, Leon started to like it.Â
And if it burned him then let it stay.
Maybe it was his destiny to feel this wayâŚÂ
He finally slowed near the far wall, breathing hard, the adrenaline crackling uselessly through his extremities now that the movement had stopped.Â
The barracks felt vast in the sudden stillnessâlike a black hole, void of thoughts and emotionsâtoo empty like it was missing something it had before, even if that something was never in this specific room to be exactâŚÂ
What he was missing was inside his head.
Backwards crash onto his bed. Blue peepers suspended between wide open and openly tiredâŚÂ
Leon thought about Krauser somewhere over the Atlantic. Or already on the ground, moving through foreign terrain that had no shape in Leon's mindâno coordinates, no map, nothing he could picture or place or follow. Just the fact of him being somewhere that wasn't here, leaving Leon alone in his own foreign worldâand the thought seized his chest like a loving cobra.
âŚ
If
That nameless asshole, Leon couldnât wait to face him in the fight ring.
***
He almost walked past it.
Eighteen hours of pure logistics; DC first, the debrief in Belvoir eating through the afternoon and into the evening, then the drive back through the forest that made the Fort disappear from the world past a certain checkpoint taking the rest of it.
Somewhere along the drive, Jack stopped tracking the hours and let his body relax into the miles, allowing himself to enjoy this narrow window between operation and return where nothing was required of him anymore.Â
At least until he reached the real comfort of a pillow that knew his neck and a bed that didnât have to be rolled up on frozen ground at oh-four-hundredâŚÂ
He knew the Fort by feel now. The specific texture of each hour of the day and night as it fell over every nook and corner. That was why as he crossed the courtyard, the yellow rectangle of the window against the dark face of a certain building stopped him in his tracks.
Jack stood in the middle of the field for a moment as he looked at it.Â
That was hangar number eight. And just like that, hand readjusting around the strap of his duffel, he already had a guess.Â
When he pushed the door open, his eyes instantly adjusted from the dark outside to the lit interior, taking in the familiar space, instinctively scanning it for what had changed, what hadnât and what was where it shouldn't be past curfewâŚÂ
Leonâs back was hunched over a small table, shoulders curved forward and forearms flat on the surface. The cone of the single overhead light fell directly over him and his hair swallowed it all.Â
That ridiculous quantity of blond fluff that he himself allowed from day oneâthe First Sergeant snarling about shaving it himself. Jack had let him finish, then he spoke three words.
The hair stays.
And the hair stayed ever since.
At first he liked the reminder that this one was an oddity he needed to keep track of. Something that must not disappear into the ranks so easily given the redacted file and the Secret Service that personally delivered it. He first thought of some kind of mole but that idea soon died in the bud on that Christmas Eve nightâŚÂ Â
Then little by little he started to like that excess of blond sitting on Kennedy's head like the latter never got the memo about what this place was and what was asked of the men inside it.Â
He also liked that it made it easy to locate him from a distance, if only to better watch him squirm through the hell Jack knew he was going through.
And yet, Leon never made a move towards chopping it off despite all the dissent it added onto his plate.
Obstinate and bright and entirely out of place.
Jack wouldnât have had it any other way to be honest.
Right now, it was throwing a soft halo that reminded him of the painted angels on the ceiling of this small church outside Vicenza during a European posting⌠How the light still found them despite the dimness and narrow windows had fascinated him.
The doorâs metal creak broke the stillness of the allotted space and Leon jerked up, instantly turning before Jack had finished putting a foot inside.
The shift that went through the kid was not small nor subtle at all. Jack watched it happen almost in slow motion. The way Leon's body froze like a mouse that had made it three quarters of the way across the kitchen floor before the light came on, the way his eyes went wide and very blue in the floodlightâround with something between surprise and reliefâa terrain more foreign than where Jack came from.Â
Then Leon's mouth fell open and Jack was once again struck by the sheer foolery of such a face being niched deep inside this merciless place.
He looked like he just caught Santa climbing out the chimney.
Fucking hell.
"You're back," Leon breathed out.
Jack stared for a moment. âI am,â he said, and let the door fall close behind him.Â
âYou just got here?â
Jack advanced further into the light. âI have.â
When he finally stopped by the rookie's side, he saw what was so important to make him brave the metaphorical whip of the First Sergeant and the not so metaphorical extra hill climb that would follow.Â
A suture kit and a row of stitched up pads lined up the edge of the table. He counted them without meaning to, hoping the number told him approximately how long Leon had been sitting here in this room under this one light.
Those baby blues bore into him like sunken treasures and there were mixed signals written all over them - the deep violet shadows of exhaustion pooled beneath while something else entirely sparkled in the gaze above. Two different stories running in the same pair of eyes.Â
Jack waited for him to explain himself the way he always waited for Kennedy nowâfor him to find his own mistakes before being told, testing to see if a few grunts or furrows would suffice. It had become their particular rhythm and Leon often got there now. Sometimes it just took a few moments.Â
What he got instead was more mixed signals.Â
âYou jumped,â Leon stated.
âJumped?â
âYou were deployed to Europe, right? Everyone heard about it. So you jumped on a parachute. From an aircraft.â
â... Thatâs usually how it goes.â
Leonâs smile was simple and scrupulous. âHow was it?â
A brow ticked up. The only move he seemed to have left lately when the kid caught him off guard with that particular brand of puppy-ish nonsense.
âIs that why youâre not in bed yet? Waiting for a bedtime story?â Jack asked archly.
Leon dropped his gaze into his suture pad and his smile folded into the only pout he encountered in the course of a given day - the only people that pouted around here were Marla at the front desk and the nurse around a busy day.
He also knew that pout. It wasnât the kind that crumpled his little mug in pain or fury. No, this one was the kind that preceded a snarky littleâ
âNot my dad.â
Honestly, he couldnât remember when he started allowing all this cheek. Somewhere between the bratâs first broken nose and third breakdown, maybe.
The kid played with the spark in a room full of gas but Jack had never been one to back down from a little kiss of deathâŚÂ
However, before he could shut down the insolence, something caught his eyeâlight and hair colliding at the right angle, putting something on display that hadnât been visible a moment ago, and his earful died on the tip of his tongue.
His large hand dove into pale blond strands and tugged.Â
Leonâs neck bent obliquely instantly, eyes going wide but his silence betrayed another unspoken ritual. Â
That hand raking through his hair to literally grab his attention had joined the long, quiet list of things that had accumulated between them without negotiation; their afterhours one-on-ones, the little picnic bench behind the refectory, the chair always present beside his infirmary bedâŚÂ Â
For Jack, it split the apple nicely:Â a small tax on the insolence and a reminder that the golden crown stayed under certain concessions... Fair by any measure in his opinion.
For Leon though, the complaints had stopped somewhere around the fifth or tenth tug-of-war. Jack couldn't pinpoint the reason behind the surrender, still. Spite, maybe. Habit, possibly. Yet Jack found that neck bending to the will of his hand and the rebellious spark that stayed lit in the eye regardlessârefusing to be extinguished by the compliance of the body beneath itâunreasonably satisfying.
The neck yielded, the eyes held, the routine masked as choice continued and through it all, he could see itâÂ
The blotches of a bruise hidden under all that cornsilk.Â
âWhat happened.â
âNothing.â
âMhm, try again.â
âItâs fine.â Leon twisted himself out of the grip and went back to fiddle with his needle as if he suddenly remembered that he was actually very busy. âI handled itâŚâ
âWell I sure as hell hope so with the amount of work I beat into your skull,â A couple of knuckles found said skull in punctuation. âBut Iâll still need a name. I donât have the timeâor the interestâto babysit every ego in this goddamn place, but thereâre rules here and as long as you little shitheads are under my roof, nobody gets to swing their dick around like they own it.â
â... McCain.â
His fist tightened around his duffel bag.
Dammit. One of the good ones.Â
The problem was that this wasn't a typical training program. Not the kind where green recruits arrived soft and frightened to be broken down and rebuilt from the ground up according to the familiar template.
The men here were different. Exceptional assets, hand-selected, already disciplined and hardened by the time they walked through the gate. Already dangerous.Â
They hadn't been sent here to learn shooting and chains of command. They'd been sent here to be built into something a little more complex. More precise than the usual parameters of warfare.
So Jack filed it under the growing list of problems this particular program kept generating by virtue of putting exceptional people in close quarters, under extreme pressure and expecting them not to occasionally try to destroy each other.Â
However, he was still the chief commanding officer of this operation, and that meant David McCain was his problem to handleâefficiently, though. In a way that didn't make it look like Kennedy had gone crying to his mama.Â
Not like itâll be the kidâs first rodeo; although he thought the bullying had stopped a while ago.
âFor what itâs worth,â Leon added after a beat, tone shifting just a shade lighter beneath the sullenness, âyou might notice him limping tomorrow.â Â
The brow ticked up again.
Jack watched that pout struggling to contain the proud, shit-eating smirk he got served more often nowadaysâhad he always had that attitude underneath all the waterworks? Or had Jack beaten that into him, too?
He was doing a lot of beating when he thought about it. But the kid was supposed to be a survivor. He was just testing that theoryâŚÂ
âThe kind of fuckinâ bullshit I come home, toâŚâ He sighed.
Leon peeked up at him finally again. âWelcome home, Major,â he quipped, but it was not that quicksilver tongue that gave him pause. Not completely.
It was actually the shape of the mouth that spouted them.Â
Where Jack had expected the edge and the cheek curling at the corners, what he got was an impish little smile, almost coyâbut most all, devastatingly genuine.
Those words might have been spoken as the usual dose of lip but that genuine smileâgrowing full and true as the seconds passed, was what flipped a switch behind Jackâs eyes all of a sudden.
Every thought arrested in that moment; on the precipice of a revelation.
Was it possible the kid⌠missed him?Â
âWell I have been thinkinâ about getting a maid around the place. You sound the part so far.â
Heâd balk for now. Too exhausted to willingly pull on that thread and his little blue bird of sulkiness would still be a pain in his ass tomorrow. It also made that smile crumple instantly into another pout for the collectionâand this one Leon meant if the deep dent carved between his brows was any indication.Â
âCâmon, get your ass up and letâs go.â He curled his fingers unceremoniously around Leonâs forearm and dragged him up from the chair without waiting for a reply.Â
âWaitâlet me clean upââ
âLeave it, you can do all the cleanin' ya want tomorrow.â He was the only one with the keys to hangar eight. The only reason Leon could be found here past curfew at all was because Jack hadnât gotten around to locking it a week ago after being nabbed in the middle of his lunch.
However, the moment he opened the door, Jack felt a sudden tight clutch at the stem of his jacket that made him pause.
âAre you going to be deployed often like this, Major?â Leon asked lowly, eyes downcast and hidden beneath his fringe.
The tone caught him more off guard than the question itself.Â
âIf thereâs an emergency, sure. Iâm still on duty, Rookie,â he said even as he remembered that he was never meant to jump at all.Â
âStrategic advisorâ they called him. Close by in case the mission went south before their very eyes.
It still burned his ass that they dared treat him like that comfortable pencil-pusher Colonel who chose the briefing room when he was barely a decade older, still perfectly capable of leading a few hundred in a field.
He let out a sigh. âBut they made it clear that my primary objective right now is to complete this unitâs training. So unless some catastrophic shitshow happens, I expect theyâll keep me stateside and reachable from here on out.âÂ
It chafed him to say that and the grip on his duffle bag turned white once moreâand yet, it felt like the right thing to say for at least one of them because a smile lifted those round cheeks again without warning, sudden and full as a fucking flare going up in the dark.Â
If the kid dared say some stupid shit like âI'm gladâ now, he was finally going to deck him. He did seem to be in a weird mood.
âI see.â
Good enough.Â
The fist around his clothes loosened.
âI⌠I heardâŚâ Leon quietly piped up again, âthat you also have your own squad?â
â... Yeah.â
âAnd that by the end of this training, youâre allowed to choose two men to join it?âÂ
Jackâs eyes narrowed as he seized him up with the particular attention he reserved for foreign objects. âThatâs right. Why? You wanna join my team now, Rookie?â He smirked.
Leon seized his gaze suddenlyâblue on blue, that cutting edge so precisely mirrored in that suspended second that the original and the reflection became indistinguishable.
And the coy curl of that mouth was slowly but audaciously getting comfortable in places that had made stronger men look away first.
âNo. Itâs you whoâs gonna want me.â
The way he turned and walked out first into the open night with no hesitation and no backward glanceâno waiting around to see how those words landedâwas like the move of a man who'd thrown a grenade and had the good sense to already be walking away.
A solid minute of open incredulity was allowed as the whole well-oiled machinery of Jackâs mind pulled up short.
Now out of all the things he came to expect from this walking, talking little hazard dumped onto his lap, he hadn't seen that one coming. Which was in itself remarkable, because Jack Krauser saw things coming. It was arguably his most marketable skill.
You hadnât seen that snotty liplock in the torture room coming, though, a voice in a distant corner of his mind that was still trucking snarked back.
But just as Leon got as far as the edge of the light, something made the latter stopâclearly some belated, poorly-timed instinct for self-preservation that arrived about ten seconds too lateâand Jack watched as the line of that soft jaw peeked from a reluctant angle.Â
"...To join your team."
Jack didnât know what microexpression was telling the truth in that instant; the nervous eyes flickering between him and the ground or the teeth biting onto that lip.
Nowâextremely loaded declaration held purposefully or not in the air between them asideâthe little brat had bled on his knuckles. Had cursed him blind and blue. Had literally thrashed in his grip to get away. By any reasonable measure, Leon should be looking for an outâshould be counting the fucking days or at the very least building distance.
Not sit alone in the penumbra of a hangar past midnight practicing stitches and thinking about what? Joining his goddamn squad out of thin air?Â
Somehow, for the first time in recent memory, Jack felt like a current somewhere inside of him had reversed direction.
Being drawn instead of drawing⌠That was new.Â
Heâd either hit that head a few too many times or the brat managed to get a concussion in the few days he was away. Regardless, he was sending him for a check up first thing tomorrow just in case.
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I don't know if someone ever thought about this, but hear me out: If there is ever going to be another real life movie about Resident Evil and Jack Krauser will be a part of it...
I come across this âŹď¸ yesterday and I just saved it but then today, zbam, what I see as I'm looking for a movie...
I don't even know who this actor is but I recognize a universe-message when I see one.
Now let's see if this really hit the Jack Krauser spots (they already have the 'engineer' part on point as I totally headcanon Krauser to be something of the kind (Have you seen his tent??))
[...] The satisfaction shot hot and immediate, bright as a struck match. He stood with it for a suspended beat in the middle of the empty barracks, chest heaving, blade hanging loose at his side, and let it encompass him - let it pull him through its wild fire, let it burn the bitter thoughts beneath the high.
This new feeling⌠this ache he started to like, subconsciously chasing it through the barracks past midnightâthis ache that had sky blue eyes, that lit his veins with crimson fire, that made blood drip down his palm.Â
Synopsis : A day in Leon Kennedy's training days...
Inspired first by this great post : https://www.tumblr.com/fuckyeahleonxkrauser/815522924085854208?source=share
Songtrack that carried this to the finish line : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SjQ0dCuZlLk
The concrete wall is cold through the thin fabric of his shirt. The chill of it seeping into his spineânot that he could be bothered by it in the grand scheme of things when his hairâs still dripping wet at his feet.
Whatâs a little chill when heâs practically dissociated at one point to withstand the pain like a body on autopilot and the pilotâs long goneâŚÂ
In fact, bracing his back against the cold wall is almost a welcomed sensationâsomething sturdy and real thatâs slowly pulling him back from everything thatâs distant and submerged.
Slumped against the wall, knees pulled in, shoulders shaking in small, uneven tremors he canât quite suppress, he doesnât know how long he's been sitting here. Ten minutes? An hour? Time does what it does during these sessions; stretches and compresses in ways that make it unreliable. After all, part of the torture is losing the notion of timeâŚÂ
Parts of his body still believe itâs not over. His hands, resting loose against his head, trembles in fine, almost imperceptible increments. He presses his palms flat against his forehead to stop it, which doesnât work, which he already knew.
Everytime, the session drags a little longer and today was another new record. Long past the point where his body stopped cooperating and something more stubborn, more desperate had taken over. It was almost an outer body experience.
It was horrible.Â
It was frightening.
But itâs overâyet he hates that he canât muster the strength to run the fuck away from this room, now.
So his legs buckle beneath his feet and he let himself slide down against the wall. And the moment he hits the ground, a tear slips down before he can stop it.Â
Then another. Silent. Steady.
Then a gut-wrenching sob not silent at all. Â
He presses his forehead hard against his wrists, and just like that, the breakdown becomes almost as worst as the nightmare.Â
The nightmare he can categorize. Box it, fill it under training, necessary, temporary⌠but this? The way his body has just decided to surrender to the weakness, blowing all the resilience heâs been made to build for hours here into smithereens? Thatâs unforgivable. And yet here he was, loud and steady, like a broken faucet he couldnât fix.
Heâs not even sad. Heâs not sure what he is at that moment. But something has shaken loose inside when it was finally over and the tears are just the evidence.Â
Perhaps itâs the epiphany that this is what life had in store for him all alongâwhen heâs kissed his grandma one last time before leaving town to join Raccoon Cityâs precinct, happy as a clam. When heâs been so scared to have fumbled his first day at work after his girlfriend broke up with him through the phone.
That every police code heâs learned by heart has been a silly waste of time.Â
That protecting citizens using the law has been a waste of dreams.Â
That all along, heâs been bound to end here, in this empty room bereft of nothing but a table for a handymanâs tool case and an execution chair.
Leon wants to fucking die.
He hears bootsteps approaching and he doesnât need to look up to know who it is. Then the long descent of a man lowering himself to the floor without complaint, and suddenly thereâs a smidgen of warmth at his left shoulder, the solid proximity of someone who has also been in that room with him for hours.
Krauser doesnât say anything and for a while. Thereâs only the sound of Leon trying and failing to steady his sobbing and the twitches of that miserable bulb above their heads.
And yet, something stubborn survives the wreckageâeven like this he finds the strength to cling to itâkeeping his gaze down, refusing to look at Krauser first.
Krauser finally breaks the silence, voice low, almost thoughtful. âSomeday this pain will be useful.âÂ
Leon turns his head, eyes red, lashes clumped together, and looks at Krauser like heâs trying to decide whether to believe himâor hate him for it.Â
Itâs almost harder than if he's said something cutting. Leon has braced for cutting. Has assembled the architecture of a response, something clipped and defiant. But Krauser just sits there with his forearms across his knees and his breathing even, meeting his gaze without flinching.Â
Itâs always a small miscalculation, looking directly at Jack Krauser. The man has a quality of attention that feels like pressureânot aggressive, not warm, just totalâlike being observed by something that doesn't look away till itâs bored.
And those eyes are enduring glaciers in a boreal land where Leon wonders if anyone could ever be welcome. Â
They find his face and hold. And they win like fucking always because Leon looks away first.
But he doesnât get far.
Krauserâs hand comes up, firm fingers catching his chin and pulling him backânot gently, but worse of all, not roughly either.
âDonât turn away,â Krauser mutters. âLook me in the eyes with that angry, snotty little mug of yours.âÂ
Something ignites in Leon's chest.Â
Snotty. He feels it move through him like a lit fuseâthe indignity of it, the accuracy; the fact that Krauser can sit here after everything he did to him and still find the angle that makes Leon want to swing through absolute exhaustion.
Itâs not even crueltyâwhich would have been easier to dismiss. Itâs the precision. Him locating exactly the small remaining embers of his pride and breathing on it, deliberately, because this impossible man understands what a man needs to come back from something.
And that thumb presses against his chin.
Making him look into that wintrily appraisal that always feels like a nice little present saved for Leonâs eyes only.
He wonât fully understand it until later, would turn it over for a long time afterward in the dark but in that instant, he closes the distance and presses his mouth against Krauser's.Â
Hard, graceless. A declaration more than anything else. Take this. Feel this. Have a taste of the fucking snot. Â
The rebellious punch he doesnât have the strength to land.
He wants Krauser to flinch, to pull back, to be thrown - he wants one moment where the man doesn't have the upper hand, where something lands that Krauser hasnât already anticipated. He wants to land a hit. He wants to take something back from this session. Â
And most of all, he wants to show the prick he canât just break him for hours then act like he can also be gentle by slinging bits of wisdom words at him like some fucking Ghandi.
But he ends up pulling away first.
Because Jack hasnât moved.
Thereâs a flicker of expectationâlike heâs waiting for impact. For the man to shove him off, to get pissed, to react.Â
But he hasnât even flinched.
Heâs exactly where he'd been, forearms across his knees, chin slightly tilted, watching Leon with an expression thatâsâGod, insufferableâand the faintest suggestion of a smile curls the edge of his lips.Â
âThat supposed to mean somethinâ?â
Heâs fucking amused and Leonâs the one still leaking snot and tears.
Oh whatever the fuck.
Leon starts wiping at his face, rough and resentful. âYeah,â he mutters hoarsely. âMeans Iâm not fucking broken.âÂ
âThen I have more work on my plate.â
Leon snaps back at him with a pathetic, hateful glower. âWhy do you fucking hate me?â
ââCuz you havenât been damaged enough. And damaged people are dangerous. Know why?â Leon scrunches his brow and Krauser smiles. ââCuz they know they can survive.â
This time, Leon doesnât look away.Â
âPlus I donât hate ya, Rookie. Youâre part of the fold I must trainâand I always deliver good fucking results.â
His chest still heaves, his throat is still tightâbut he holds eye contact, now even as his chin still trembles.Â
Krauser suddenly pokes at Leon's temple. âIt all begins and ends in your mind, Rookie. What you give power to, has power over you, if you allow it. Do you wanna continue to be ruled by pain and whatever fucking monsters you told me about?âÂ
Itâs at that exact moment, that something slowly burrows inside his head. Like the faintest beam of light pushing its way through the dark clouds of the nightmare.Â
Krauser turns back to face forward, forearms settling on his knees again, gaze moving to where that vile, strapping chair is, and Leon gets suddenly dizzy from the whiplash of feeling like theyâre just two men sitting in the training field now. As if nothing has shifted. Jack hasnât been drowning him for hours in electrified water and Leon hasnât planted his lips on his fucking superiorâŚÂ Or everything had, but the difference didn't matter to the other man.
Leon wetly coughs and stares at the side of his face.
 MaybeâŚ
Maybe he should start looking at this differently.
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Random Krauser headcanon, hear me out (+ explanation)
The US army usually wants its officers to have useful college degrees (STEM, political science, criminal justice, etc). To the point where they'll actually pay for four years.
The flavor text for Krauser's bow in Mercenaries says he made the it himself. He also has a bunch of tools in his tent, presumably from making all his traps himself as well (someone else noticed that way before me and I would love to credit them but I cannot remember who it was someone help me out here)
Statistics I found say it usually takes ~10 years to get from O1 to O4 (Major) in the army. Krauser's age being probably around 35 or so makes it unlikely that he was Enlisted for very long, if at all. Probably went straight into the Officer program, which is only really possible if you have a Bachelor's in something the US military finds useful.
Conclusion: Krauser has a bachelor's in engineering (probably mechanical?)
This is a token of appreciation for the writer Tori-Anne-Singer and their Chreon series The BroTP Verse on ao3 from which it's inspired. I highly recommand to check it out to fully understand the references and setting behind this little piece. This series is one of the best mature, bullshit-free, drama-packed and professionnally-written chreon out there. I've been loving it since I discovered it and was the only thing I kept tabs on after jumping onto another fandom for a year. But their lattest update had me in a final chokehold (and if you know me you'll understand why~) For the love of God go check it out, you won't regret it. Satisfied or refunded. (No this isn't a secret agenda to make them write more! What are you talking about haha...ha)
Now, Chris isnât in the habit of snoopingâbut when one is left alone in the notorious Leon Kennedyâs bedroom, can you really blame them for giving in? Thatâs what he tells himself as Leon waves him off towards the bedroom, already turning away to take a work call somewhere else.
Itâs not like itâs his first time here, per se. Still, Leon shoos him away with the ease of an unexisting habitâlike this is routine and not only Chrisâs second time in the apartment.
It has taken a lot of Fridays to get the man anywhere that isnât clothing-optional, many more weekends to lure him into his own place, and perfect timing like stepping onto a moving train to be invited inside Leon's flatâand now here he is, feeling a tingle of misplaced domesticity as he walks down the dark hallway on his own, without the owner watching his six or guiding him by his prick.Â
So yes, Chris doesnât mean to snoopâat first.
At first, he sits politely at the end of the bed, steepled fingers on his knees, waiting, like the good boy he was raised to be. Leonâs voice carries faintly from the hallway as he seems to pace the living area, before the soft click of the balcony door reaches him.
Things mustâve gotten âclassifiedâ, huh.Â
When the glass door rattles a second time, Chris abandons his polite upbringings and stands.
Honestly, he can't help it. Something about being left alone in the most private space Leon owned feels like a gift dropped straight into his lap. Heâs a soldier after all, and the instinct to seize opportunities is ingrained in him.
The first thing he catches is how the room smells like the manâsubtle, clean, something sharp underneath. The bed isnât made, sheets tugged loose like Leon dragged himself out of them in a hurry. Chrisâs gaze lingers there longer than heâd have dared has he not been alone.
Itâs his second time here, sure, but his last visit hasn't exactly given him time to linger on things.
Things like how Leon pulls himself out of heavy sleep fast enough to leave the sheets like this. He stares at the spot he knows is Leonâs side⌠Does he spring out or drag one foot after the other?Â
When he notices that this meaningless thought is growing too significant in his head, he stops and forces his attention elsewhere, scanning the rest of the room.
Closet is cracked open. He can see dress pants and suit jackets hanging neatly there. Damn, Chris doesnât think he owns pants that need hanging. Disturbing thought. Letâs move on.
One jacket is slung over the back of a chair. Chris drags the back of his fingers through the fabric. The little menace really likes his leathers. When heâs not in a fitted suit, Leon is always squeezed into one of these. Not Chrisâ style though, heâs more of a flannel and cotton khakis kind of guy. Too squeaky for him. Leon makes it work, though. Leon makes everything workâeven Chrisâ ugly Hawaiian shirt that he yanked on as a patronizing testament that he can pull anything even with his balls hanging in the air.
If he hadn't been a federal agent, Leon couldâve been a model, easyâand even further out of Chrisâ league, easy. Something about the idea of going back to when Leon was a mad impossibility makes bile rise in his throat.
His eyes land on the desk, next.
Unlike Leonâs first time at Chrisâ place, the latter hasnât gotten a tourânot that itâs all on Leon being a terrible host, they were pretty sloshedâand it doesnât seem like heâs getting one this time around, either, but Chris suspects the man hasnât gotten a study like he does, so this must be where any work-related materialsâwhatâs cleared to leave the office anywayâend up.
Now, initially, Chris hesitates to step over there, of course.Â
If thereâs any line between harmless snooping and bad snooping, that's probably it.Â
The BSAA and DSO only worked in tandem when it strictly suited themâmostly as last resort. Ironically, this Friday arrangement they have going is probably the closest their respective organizations would ever get. Which is why the desk area is tempting but off-limitâuntil a lacquered wooden box shaped like a wing catches his eye.Â
Itâs left ajar. A chain hanging outside catches the light, glinting with each small shift, and âPersonalâ suddenly starts drumming in Chrisâs earsâmade worse by the fact that Leon has curated so much of what he lets exist in plain sight that this small object is suddenly glinting at Chris like a weak spot in a BOWâs armor.Â
The feet are already moving before reason or probity catches up.
Heâs not much of an investigator, reallyâhe investigates with his fists and it always works fineâbut he knows he can always count on his gut feeling and when his guts tell him that the box is a personal artifact, itâs not wrong.Â
It's deep green and looks antique, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and carved with intricate Greek patterns swirling along its sides.
Fingers hover for a second before nudging the lid fully open. Just a quick peek, he tells himselfâOr this shit might haunt him in his fucking sleep.
Heâs right, the box is full of personal possessions. First is that obvious chain, which turns out to be a dog tagâand that already has Chris frowning. He wasnât aware Leon was part of any military corps? The frown only deepens when it has the name of another man on it.
Jack Krauser.Â
Doesnât ring a bellâŚÂ
Lying beneath is a mix of papers and photographs, old by the look of them, edges softened but not brittle. A teddy bear-shaped charm, a silvery damn-wicked knife that takes up the whole length of the box. Even his RPD badge is hereâdoomed to sit there, unused like it's already outlived him.
Chrisâ curiosity is already satisfied after the glimpse he catches of the photograph of what looks like a toddler Leon hugging an older woman. His mom for sure, Chris thinks, breath caught for some reason.Â
She was blond with thick bangs. Â
Thatâs it. The box served its purposeâhe got his illicit glimpse into Leonâs private world and even got to see him in cute overalls. His curiosity is plenty satisfied nowâuntil the top half of another photograph beneath the knife makes him pause again.
He doesnât pull it out immediately. Just stares at it where it rests beneath the knife and a cassette tape - like it might explain itself if he waits long enough.
It doesnât. So he picks it up.
There is Leon, cherub-looking and younger than heâs ever seen, sitting at a picnic bench in a khaki t-shirt, a sling over one shoulder, bandage around his nose and his bright blond hair only rivaled by the mane of the other guy sitting across from him.Â
The latter is older, infinitely broader and in a similar military-looking attire. The way those muscled arms are crossed with a cigarette half way to his lips, speaks of the type of confidence that doesnât need to prove itself to anyone.Â
Chris canât take his eyes off this picture, wondering where this piece of Leonâs past fits in a timeline he thought he knew.Â
He turns the photo over. No date. No note. Nothing to soften the sharp edge of curiosity that prickles at the back of his mind.
He looks back at the picture, then at the dog tag, and the dots connecting in his head make the photograph feel ten times more intimate.Â
Theyâre giving the lens a mix of boredom and caught-off-guard look, and the mellow affinity and handsomeness bleeding from the photo make Chrisâ jaw tightens with irritation he refuses to examine too closely.Â
This is his cue to draw backâstarting to feel oppressed by this pair of blue eyes cutting through him from beyond the paper like heâs still disturbing a moment there.Â
The moment he slides the lid ajar back again, Leon is at the door. Ever the stealthy fucking felineâthough to Chrisâ credit, the man is wearing socks.
And an infuriating smirk.Â
âAnd here I thought Iâd find you horizontal and half naked already,â he snips, leaning against the doorframe, thumbs in his jeans pockets like the infuriating poser he is.
Chris flusters through a weak laugh, backing up as slowly and nonchalantly as possible from the desk. âSorry to disappoint.âÂ
Leon moves, brushing past Chrisâ shoulder. âI am disappointed. Didnât think you were the snooping type.â He closes the lid of his box with a solemn clack that ring out in Chrisâ ears like church bells.Â
He watches him go through the motionsânot hurried, not defensive, just⌠deliberateâlike Leon knows exactly what Chris was up to and doesnât mind.Â
Or he minds in a way he isnât going to showâwhich makes it cruelly worse.
Leonâs airy lilt does nothing to soothe the heat crawling up the back of Chrisâs neck, shame settling in sharp and sudden at being caught with his hand in the cookie jar like a fucking amateur.
He knows he can get away with a lot in the way they test the last nerve of each other. The taunting, the mauling, the degradation, the disrespectâitâs all part of the rhythm to their weekly dance, now. He never wouldâve dared at first, but Leon has a way of undoing something in himâthe latch of a caged beast he rarely lets loose.Â
Fuck me. If you want.
Hurt me. If you can.
But this? This isnât part of it. Crossing into Leonâs privacy was never one of the unspoken rulesâand now Chris isnât so sure he didnât just screw it all up.
âN-no, I wasnât. I was just pacing aroundâŚâ Stammering. Great. This is exactly the game he wanted to bring on this God-given second visit miracle.
âItâs fine. After all, I did fondle half of your prized toys and stretched out on your desk like it was my damn couch,â Leon retorts with a playful side-eye. âYour orange post-it said you had a dentist appointment Tuesday. Hope that went well, by the way.âÂ
Stumpedâand still burning at the back of his neckâChris lets out a nervous huff that doesnât quite steady him, yet.
A stealthy, fucking vixen. Through and through.Â
âOkay. Point taken, you fucking little spy,â Chris rumbles, shaking his head as he steps closer. Then, eager to shift the ground back under his feet, he drops his voice into something he knows always gets a reaction. âHow do you want me?â
Leon points with his chin. âOn the bed.âÂ
He moves to comply, toeing off his sneakers and socks before settling on his elbows, the grin splitting his face impossible to hold back when he catches his reflection on the adjacent mirrorâridiculously come-hither.Â
âGood?â
âLoosen a couple buttons.â
Chris obliges, tugging at his shirt just enough to flash a hint of musculatureâmaking sure his Tasmanian fucking devil doesnât miss it.
âPerfect.â Leon drawls and combs a hand through his luscious hair like a reminder that Chris isnât the only one capable of posing.Â
And the world narrows down to the way Leon moves in and climbs onto the bed like dinner is fucking servedâŚ
***
Itâs only when Chris can finally think outside his baser needs, smoke swirling off his nostrils that he atemptââCan I ask you a question, Leon?â
âWell, when you put it so politely, how can I refuse,â Leon drawls, forearm draped across his face.
Heâs pretty beat and Chris can see right through the attempt to hide it, which makes it almost funny in its own way. Chris has made extra sure of it. After all, tonight and for the first time, he fucked Leon with a couple of ulterior motives.
âWere you ever in the military before?â
A faint tick lifts the corner of his lips. âWhy?â
âI saw the dog tag in the box on your desk.â
âThat all you saw?â
âIt was dangling off the edge. I⌠didnât mean to snoop, really. âTwas a pretty box. Got curiousâŚâ Chris exhales another puff of smoke, watching it curl in the air, mirroring the knot tightening in his stomach at the thought of stumbling through another round of awkward explanations. He doesnât think he can handle the sting of post-coital shame, right now. Then why bring it up again? Because Chris is a hopeless bastard with a questionable sense of self-preservation.
âYeah⌠it's a family antique. Got it from my mother. As for your questionâyes I was.â
âReally? I didnât know. It doesnât show up on your file.âÂ
âPlenty doesnât show up on my file.â Leon then makes a grab at Chrisâ cigarette. A rare maneuver that makes Chris tick an eyebrowâbut he allows it.Â
âWhich corps?â
âI⌠donât know if I can disclose that,â Leon drones with a tired smirk.Â
Chris frowns. âBlack ops?â
A shrug. âMore or less.âÂ
Would he be less cagey if Chris wasnât BSAA? Or is he just another guy Leon handles with the same federal caution? Chris canât stand the answer either way. He watches him, something tight and begrudging settling in his chest. He needs to feel like heâs moreâso he needs more. Anythingâ
âThe dog tag wasnât in your name, though. Friend of yours?â
â... My major. He was⌠he was something.â
âWasâ, Chris notes immediately, isolating it like a weak point in a report. He takes the smoke back. He needs it for the leap heâs about to makeâsnooping allegations be damned. âWas he also the guy in the photograph you keep in there?â
Leon turns his head, shooting him a squinty look. âWhy, arenât you the perfect little Colombo.âÂ
âmilitary fatigue, dog tag and a red beret. Iâm nowhere near starring in an Agatha Christie novel, yet.â
Leon grins, bemused and post-sex ravishing as he gazes at Chris from under his lashes. âI used to love those, you know.â
âAnd youâre a master at changing the subject, you know. âS fine if you donât wanna talk âbout it.â Chris shrugs, the drag of his cigarette helping him sell the nonchalance heâs going forâdespite the complete opposite warring in his gut.
â... Yeah he was.âÂ
âJack Krauser.â
Leonâs eyes unfocus for a beat, like he might drift off right there and leave Chris hanging.
âYeahâŚâ
The name doesnât leave him indifferent. He kept the dog tag. A pictureâcaught in something that looked a little too private to be nothingâChris already has his answer. He doesnât know why his mind insists on worrying at it like a child with a scab.
But it does.
Every time he starts to believe this is something more than just Fridays and happy hoursâit does.
He wants Leonâs ugly. His dirty. the skeletons in his closet.
He wants it all. And he wants it to hurt. Maybe in his own fucked up way, heâs looking for something thatâll help him pump the breaks a little; âcause ever since he started riding this tazmanian fucking devil, he feels like heâs been going a thousand miles a minuteâand that canât be healthy for his heart.
âYou two were a thing?â
Leon snickers, low and mocking, and just like that, he sounds small and stupid. Chris hates how it still lands, even with the man loose and heavy with sleep, barely trying.
âHard to be a thing with someone who waterboards you twice a month.â
Chris frowns. âExcuse me?â
âSERE training.â Leon shrugs. âWater pits, truth serum, sleep deprivation, strangulation⌠You ever been crammed in a box for an hour?â
Chris stares back, trying to catch up to where the conversation suddenly veered off a cliff.Â
He knows what Leon is talking about. But⌠Whenâhow did Leon go through all of that? He knows he was only fresh out of the police academy when Raccoon happened. So how far did his training actually go to qualify for that?Â
Itâs the kind of thing people donât talk about in the military, but he knows fatal accidents happen in those.
He canât reconcile the picture of the Leon he saw in that photograph and what he knows that training entails. The sling and bandage starts to make sense and the thought makes Chris want to punch something. His cigarette burns forgotten between his fingers until Leon plucks it from his hand.
âSee this little bump on my nose?â Leon asks, tapping the bridge twice.
Chrisâ mouth tilts up. âNo?âÂ
âYeah, I can never unseen it. Jack broke my nose three fucking times.âÂ
The smile drops clean off.
Leon sucks on the stick. âYou know theyâve got the right to break one bone in your body,â he adds flippantly, then continues, âRightâbut every time he did that, he always made sure it was perfectly set back. He was apparently buddies with the doc on site.â He exhales slowly, then flicks Chris a sidelong, amused glanceâclearly aware of how unhinged all of it sounds.
Chris, on the other hand, is caught somewhere between teasing and irritation. He settles for the former in a weak attempt to mirror Leonâs flippancy, brushing a finger along the slope of his nose. âIt doesnât showâŚâ
âThe third time around, the doc told me he slimmed it down a little. Said it suited me better,â Leon snickers. âCan you believe this shit?â
Chrisâs brows shoot up. âYou telling me you had a nose job?â
âAgainst my fucking will!â Leon snaps, bristling like a cat before settling just as fast.Â
Chris bites the inside of his lip.Â
Vain little shit.
âJack always told him to pump me full of drugs so I wouldnât feel a thingâright up until I wake up with cotton stuffed in my nostrils and that four-eyes showing off his work on my CT scans.â
âDamn. Still, this Jack sounds like a fucking asshole.â
Leon passes the finished smoke down with a quiet sigh. âYeah⌠I guess⌠you could call it tough love,â Something wistful slips into his voice as he rolls on his stomach and ducks under the covers, his thick crown of hair haloing the pillow. âFrom the moment I told him what really happened in Raccoon, he somehow took me under his wing. Trained me one-on-one for months, since I had no military background. Showed me how to deal with the dipshits⌠I was so pissed when he broke my nose the third timeâeven after I told him to cut the shit. Didnât speak to him for a day after the surgery.â The chuckle that follows is so agonizingly soft. âMan, was I a dumb bratâbut I donât think anyone else couldâve gotten away with that attitudeâŚâ
Chris frowns. âHe was fond of you.â It comes out more like a statement than a question. Because in the end, who wouldnât be, Thatâs the problem and the bane of what his lifeâs become...Â
âMaybe⌠or maybe it was just pity. Heâd found me piss-drunk and bawling my eyes out on Christmas Eve when I spilled the beans about what really happened in Raccoon City,â Leon scoffs against his folded arms. âHe broke me and put me back together⌠And as much as I didnât see it back then, I know now that I needed that. I wouldnât have survived without that.âÂ
When those baby blues fall shut, Chris knows the box of secret tales closes along with themâleaving him hanging there with nothing but the suffocating shadows of someone elseâs past.
He shouldnât be complaining. He took a risk, and it paid off. Heâs walking away with more than heâd hoped for. Is Leon always this chatty after a good romp? Maybe he should start saving more time for pillow talk.
Or maybe this Jack Krauser guy is just that fucking good of a memory.
They might not have been a thing, but Chris finds himself almost wishing they were. Maybe then the yearning wouldnât be clogging the fucking air, right now.Â
Won't be the first time he catches him in a lie, after all.
He also didnât get the chance to ask if the past tense meant the guy is no longer around or no longer around.
Why? so you can try to kill him, too like you did with Wong, you fucking lunatic?
One sky-blue eye cracks open. âWill that be all, Big Daddy?â
Chris drags a finger over that poor, overworked noseâa silent counterâthe only retaliation heâs got left in him. âYeah. At ease, soldier.â
âGood, âcause Iâm beat.âÂ
Chris shakes his head. âI need a second to digest all of this.â
Eyes already closed again, Leon chuckles, the sound muffled into the pillow. âYou can even sleep on it if you need.â
Chris goes rigid for a beat. Was that an invitation? His watch says past midnight. His reason tells him to knock it off.Â
What does his gut say?Â
Maybe itâs a stars-like alignment of good mood, good fuck, good timing that got him hereâto this exact checkpoint where a new milestone in whatever the hell is this is looming ahead.
Fight or flight, sucker.
Fine. A few minutes of shut-eye wonât hurt. If he doesnât slide down too far, doesnât shift, nobody will even notice.
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Abso-fucking-lutely. Nothing changed. I still believe that canonically speaking, metaltango had more materials than chreon as everyone felt the sexual tension, both straight male gamers and the voice actors themselves spoke about it, haha.
In fact, I'm currently writing a little something for someone whose chreon series I absolutely adore. The last part they released mentionned Krauser by name for the first time and that was the last restrain snapped for me to do what I like to call a fic-inspired-by-fic thing. It's a token of appreciation and a way to help me release the excitement and inspiration I feel for said fic.
However, even though her story is purely chreon and what I came up with is also chreon, it's krauser's name drop that inspired me and thus, I'm doing something about it in a roundabout way~
I became a slow writer and it's taking me forever to finish it but you know what, here a exhibit as proof,
honestly its kinda weak to be like âohhh if this character is confirmed to be in a relationship I just CANâT ship tthem itâs too hard đ˘đ˘â
Unfortunately, this is the way I'm wired when it comes to ships. When I ship two characters together it's because one, I see the potential in it and two, there's a pourcentage of plausible deniability that makes everything possible.
I cannot get behind a ship already confirmed in canon or that has gone official for the simple reason that kills this factor I strive for in my fanfics, arts or other medias which is realism.
What makes a good doujin or fanart or fic for me is the realism and fidelity to characterizations. Maybe because I'm a stout canon-compliant girl.
I need that unknown pourcentage of chance for it to be real to trigger my fantasy and imagination.
So yeah, maybe my imagination is limited or weak, but this is how I'm ultimately wired. And I truly envy those that don't care about canon and live the fandom experience to the fullest *sigh*.