it was just an awful dream.

─✴︎ resident evil.

❖ break room coffee. ─ leon x dso!reader (smut)

you meet leon kennedy at work, the absolute last place you should be looking to date anyone. too bad you're a sucker for blue eyes and vaguely pathetic-looking men.

❖ the sound a body makes when it's still. ─ leon x doctor!reader (ongoing, smut)

You and Leon Kennedy collide like stars—over and over and over again. It is as devastating as it is inevitable, and maybe there is some comfort in knowing that you will always find your way back to each other. A slightly canon-divergent retelling of the events of the Resident Evil series. Each chapter focuses on a different game/movie in the series with little interludes sprinkled in between.

─✴︎ a knight of the seven kingdoms.

❖ in bloom. ─ daeron x snow!fem!original character (smut)

daeron dreams of a flower among the snow, his only reprieve from the terrible nightmares of death and destruction that he drowns in his cups to forget. at ashford meadow, on the eve of the trial of seven, he meets a woman who brings new meaning to his dreams of snowdrifts and blossoms.

─✴︎ dragon age.

❖ simmer. ─ solas x f!lavellan (long fic, ongoing)

a canon-divergent re-telling of the events of dragon age: inquisition through to pre-veilguard. chapters updated weekly on saturday with sprinklings of codexes and interludes posted throughout the week.

─✴︎ superman.

❖ yes, ma'am. ─ clark kent x editor!reader (smut)

clark likes his editor, even if she's a little mean to him.

❖ six months. ─ clark kent x editor!reader (smut)

sequel to 'yes, ma'am.' clark and you have been dating for six months and he's acting... weird.

❖ no good, very bad day. ─ clark kent x editor!reader (request, smut)

companion to 'yes, ma'am.' and 'six months.' you have a bad day. clark makes it better.

❖ family album. ─ single dad!clark kent x photographer!reader (request, fluff)

clark doesn't want to ruin what you both have.

─✴︎ mcu.

❖ to know grief. ─ bob reynolds x witch!oc (fluff/comfort)

bob knew one thing - Lucy Jean was sad, and he would very much like her to not be.

❖ almost lover. ─ bob reynolds x witch!oc (fluff/angst)

sequel to 'to know grief.' bob and lucy jean are both idiots when it comes to feelings.

─✴︎ alien.

❖ for science. ─ kirsh x reader (smut)

you think kirsh fascinating. he reciprocates.

❖ punishment. ─ kirsh x reader (request, smut)

sequel to 'for science.' while kirsh grounds slightly and smee, he has a better punishment in mind for you.

❖ put him in rice. ─ kirsh x reader (request, ficlet)

❖ dandelion. ─ kirsh x lab tech!reader (request, ficlet)

❖ self-preservation. ─ kirsh x lab tech!reader (request, smut)

sequel to 'dandelion.'

Of all the tasks she's been asked to do, this is the one she fears the most. Court intrigue isn't something she particularly excels at or even truly understands. Even Josephine could see the cruelty of sending a Dalish elf to the pack of wolves that were the Orlesian nobility.

Fortunately, the ball at the Winter Palace was still a month and a half away, giving Iona a reprieve—her advisors kindly allowed her some rest before she needed to return to Orlais for the event. Iona was looking forward to it until she realized she would actually have to attend lessons with Josephine on court etiquette and the intricate connections among noble families.

And also, the dress fittings.

She frowns as the Orlesian tailor tuts and tsks as she measures every single circumference of Iona’s body—she doesn’t know why they need to measure her ankles of all things. Leliana is smirking in the corner, watching the puss on her face grow with each passing second, while Josephine is fretting about which fabrics will be out of season by the time the ball rolls around.

Coincidentally, the Ambassador is also giving Iona the silent treatment after a conversation earlier in the day in which the Inquisitor insisted that her entire retinue be secured invitations, not just the ones Josephine thought would garner more court approval. She’d initially pitched the idea of Iona bringing along Cassandra, Blackwall, and Vivienne, with the advisors also coming for additional support.

Of course, Josephine didn’t say she chose those three because they were human—the Ambassador was too polite to say so outright—but Iona was not stupid, so she refused. She wouldn't brush her other companions aside to appeal to Orlesian sensibilities. It would be easier, of course, it would always be easier, to play along with the part they wanted her to, but even with the collar of the Inquisition securely locked around her neck, she couldn't resist clawing and biting whenever the leash was pulled too tight.

Luckily, Josephine cannot hold a grudge for long, so Iona knows that it will only be a matter of time before she is back in the Antivan’s good graces; she simply needs to pout for now, and Iona is more than willing to endure the cold shoulder.

“What of the footwear?” the tailor asks, Orlesian accent grating against Iona like nails on a chalkboard.

“No shoes,” she answers, and the woman draws back, her eyes flitting to Leliana and Josephine behind her mask as if looking to them for approval or assistance.

“Your Worship,” she starts, cautious in her approach. “It would be indecent for a woman of your stature to attend the ball without footwear.”

The scowl that is already present on Iona’s face deepens, and the tailor shrinks back at the sight of it. “No shoes,” she reiterates.

“Perhaps we can make matching footwraps?” Leliana suggests. “A gauzy material might be quite fetching.”

“I am afraid I do not know much of Dalish footwraps.” The tailor says, not as slyly as she thinks she is.

“Then I suggest you do some studying,” Iona grits out.

The woman looks surprised, glancing over at Josephine, who offers a strained smile. “Ah, I believe that is all the time the Inquisitor has today,” she signals as politely as she can, starting to herd the tailor to pack her things and leave the Inquisitor’s quarters quickly, which she thankfully does.

As soon as the tailor leaves, Josephine and Leliana are not far behind, Josephine giving Iona a disappointed look while Leliana only gives her a conspiratorial smirk. When she hears the door shut with finality, only then does she slump down into the welcoming plush of her bed, a huff of indignation escaping her.

The light trickling through the window panes of her balcony streaks across her room. A subtle itch from her left hand draws her attention to the appendage, and she holds it up under the ray of light that illuminates the little scars branching from the center of her palm, twisting and turning in an odd curving pattern. With her other hand, she scratches the itch before she allows her finger to trace along the raised skin. It is something she’s done often since obtaining the Anchor; the new markings are an oddity for her, and strangely, it’s become comforting to trace along them.

Like a practiced route, she expertly navigates the winding scars, the familiar curves snaking out from her palm up her wrist, and just when she stops her finger right at the spot she knows the scar has not yet extended to, she is struck by the startling realization that the scar has spread further up her wrist.

With a sharp gasp, she sits up, her brows furrowing as she holds her wrist to her face, examining the markings more closely. When her investigation yields the same results, she goes so far as to light a candle to check beneath the candlelight. She’s sure it hadn't stretched so far onto her wrist before. In fact, she’s positive about it. Worry begins to gnaw at her heart, a kind of dread seeping through her skin like cold ice, and her thoughts are interrupted only by a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” she calls, hoping they do not hear the shake of her voice.

“Vhenan.”

She breathes out in relief at the sound of Solas on the other side. “Come in.”

She sits on her bed as she hears his steady footsteps climb the stairs, her right hand unconsciously covering her mark—if anyone were to notice the mark spread, it would, of course, be Solas. She doesn’t even stand to greet him. Her eyes follow his form at the top of the stairs, and even with the wretched mood she's in, her heart still sings at the sight of him. “I hope you are not here to ask my opinion of fabrics,” she says deadpan.

Solas chuckles as he walks over and takes a seat on the bed next to her, a hand coming up to brush a lock of hair from her face, thumb smoothing over the planes of her cheekbone. His eyes flicker down to her lips, as though he’s contemplating a kiss, but decides against it. There is a reason he’s come to visit her, and lest he be distracted by a kiss, he must stay the course.

The two have not talked much since Adamant, a refusal on her part to speak about what she endured, and his inability to broach the topic with her. He went searching for her after she decided to exile the Grey Wardens, finding her on her knees in the sands of the dunes with tears running down her cheeks.

His heart ached for her.

He pulled her up from the ground, thumbs smoothing out her tear tracks with a frost spell that cooled the skin beneath his fingertips. The Inquisition didn’t need to see their leader like this, nor would she want them to.

When they returned to Skyhold, she spent a few days holed up in her room, denying anyone who came knocking. Solas, however, would not let that deter him, employing Sera of all people to pick the lock to her quarters—the rogue was delighted to do so and begged Solas to ‘get a pair of Inky’s knickers for me, would ya?’

Solas would not be doing that.

While Iona looked surprised—and a bit more than mildly perturbed—by his intrusion, she did not throw him out, instead settling on silently seething at him as he made himself comfortable on her chaise and started to draw in his sketchbook, completely unbothered by her stare.

He continued this for several days, sitting with her as she stared out at the mountains from her balcony, or watching her dedicate hours to weaving a basket, a skill he did not know she had.

The worst day was when she spent most of it signing letters of condolence to the families of the soldiers they lost at Adamant. Her sniffling grew with each subsequent letter she placed her signature on, just below Cullen’s, and Solas stood behind her with a secure hand on her shoulder the entire time.

He eventually managed to coax her out of her room, even if it was to go down to the rotunda to watch him work on the frescoes, or sit with Dorian in the library as the mage quietly read. Before long, each of her companions offered a quiet solace for her, and even Sera would sit with her in silence, stringing and restringing their bows together.

Iona, though she would not voice it aloud, not yet, is grateful for that.

“I thought it might be time for us to speak,” Solas informs calmly, and Iona almost flinches back.

“Speak of what?” she asks with trepidation.

He takes her hand in his—her left—and she tenses. “About what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

She frowns and starts to pull her hand away, but he holds it firmly. “You know what happened, you saw the memories,” she replies, exasperated.

“Vhenan…” His tone is warning and pleading all at once.

She considers him for a moment. This was a conversation she knew they would have sooner or later; she only hoped it would be later. She sighs, eyes staring faraway behind him, as if she couldn’t look him in the eyes, and then her eyes slide to his, reluctantly. “I went to hunt like I said I did.”

They stand in the cover of darkness; the mountain air is cold, colder than anything she’s ever endured before, but even so, her fingertips itch to hunt. The last few weeks on the road were spent with the utmost caution after their encounter in Wildervale—or rather, Iona’s encounter in Wildervale, Solas refused to take any accountability for what transpired there. As a result, he was wary about allowing her to hunt any more than necessary, in fear that news of the incident might have stretched beyond the Free Marches, and someone might recognize her, which she reluctantly agreed with.

“You will be careful.” His request is phrased as a question and a command wrapped into one.

She scoffs as she pulls her shawl up and over her hair, though it does nothing for the snowflakes that have already coated her curls. “Are you worried about me?” she asks, her tone deadpan, but he could tell she was egging him on—teasing him.

Her eyes trace his features, illuminated by the moonlight, watching as he opens his mouth to refute her, but instead, his lips form a firm line. “I will meet you later, then.”

She gives a huff of sardonic laughter. “Later, then,” she agrees, and begins to walk off into the nearby dark woods, and he watches her go, grasping his staff like it is a lifeline, and only when she disappears into the treeline does he turn, heading into Haven.

The snow crunches beneath her feet, which are red and bare, bitten by the frost, but she, even so, refused to wear anything more than her thicker, insulated footwraps. The thought of shoes alone made her feel claustrophobic and scratchy.

It takes no time at all for her to catch the trail of some game, a deer, she determines from the hoofprints. It is definitely larger than anything she’d need for herself, but she figures she could offer it to the tavern in town to get free room and a hot meal for herself and Solas until this whole Conclave ordeal is over.

The rebellion of the Circles is felt throughout all of Thedas—change is heavy in the air, and there are many, Solas included, who are eager to bear witness to that change. Iona would be foolish to think that the plights of the mages would have no impact on her.

“The mages are beginning their uprising,” Solas said when he implored her to journey with him. “Don’t you want to see the world the elves—you—were supposed to inherit?”

Everyone is waiting anxiously to see what happens here, for what the future will bring, and no matter what decision they make, it will likely be met with hostility. Iona can't imagine a world where the mages and Templars can resolve their differences, or one where the Chantry will allow mages to roam freely and without oversight. The righteous fist of the Chantry has proven enough to beat down many a rebellion in the past; the Dales, scattered with the bones and ashes of her ancestors, is proof enough of that. Still, they have never encountered a might such as an army of mages—if the mages could manage to get themselves organized sufficiently, which Iona doubted very much they could.

She shakes her head at the thoughts—hunting is supposed to be peaceful, not a time for her to ruminate on the political strife the world faces.

It is different, she finds, as she hunts through these deep snowtracks, but Iona is a quick study and in no time, figures out where and how to step quietly so she won't alert any nearby animals. Her mark isn't too far off, she thinks, as she follows the tracks through the winding woods. The trees welcome her as they always do, and even in the cold of this winter night, they feel like a warm embrace.

She pauses, her brows furrow when she spots footprints starting to trail behind the deer. It wouldn't be unusual for another hunter to be out for a late-night hunt. She holds no claim to these woods, but after seeing how many footprints have muddled the ground, she doesn't think they're hunters—especially given how careless and clumsy their steps are.

The desire for a hunt rapidly morphs to a thirst of curiosity longing to be quenched. The trail leads further, deeper, into the forest. The darkness does not scare her, but she keeps an arrow nocked all the same. She would not be caught unaware.

Around her, the trees begin to give way as the footprints lead up through a clearing. Iona crouches, shifting through the snow so silently, as she shuffles up to a tree, peeking around it. At the center of the clearing, a deer lies there, unmoving—dead.

She waits a beat, green eyes squinting as she surveys the area, looking for any sign of movement. When she sees none, she steps out from behind the tree, slowly making her way to the animal, caution coursing through her movements. The sight she’s met with is unusual—unnatural. Her jaw sets as she kneels in the snow, examining it more closely. The neck is slit, but where she expects to see blood and viscera seeping endlessly from the arteries within, it is dry as a bone. Not even a speck of blood on the ground.

Her hair stands on end.

“Blood magic,” she hisses quietly to herself, teeth grinding in determination as she begins to follow the trail of footprints.

She doesn’t know how long she walks, but she’s like a dog with a bone, a wolf who's caught the scent; she's single-minded as she trudges through the snow. Eager to see where these prints lead.

The structure emerging over her makes her stop, and she pulls the shawl tighter around her as the winter wind bites at her cheeks.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes is more grand than she could have ever imagined, a sentinel to the passage of time that was restored to its former glory by the will of the Chantry—and no doubt through the deep pockets of some very keen investors. Iona creeps along in the cover of shadows, spotting two masked figures in the distance. She observes how fast they take care of the guards outside the temple, leaving their bodies in a pile. They likely will not be discovered until morning. The figures’ clothing looks familiar to her; ornate and far too fine for Ferelden—Tevinter, she realizes with disdain.

She follows silently, watching as they slaughter their way through the guards, and she quietly prays for each one that falls, but the desire to know where they are headed keeps her from intervening. They wind their way through the temple, the Tevinter infiltrators moving with confidence as though they’re not afraid of being caught—like they’re supposed to be here. Unfortunately for them, but fortunately for her, their ego and perhaps their lack of spatial awareness allow her to follow them all the way to the basement.

The winding halls of the temple lead to a large antechamber, and the infiltrators stand at the entrance, hands behind their backs as if they’ve just assumed guard duty. Iona sneaks up behind them, staring past, and what she sees makes her heart race. Grey Warden mages hold a woman suspended in the air, her head adorned, dressed in pure white robes; she could only be the Divine. In front of her, a monstrous figure looms.

“Now is the hour of our victory,” the figure’s voice booms, echoing through the room.

“Why are you doing this?” Divine Justinia asks the Wardens, wrinkled face twisted up in fear. “You of all people?”

She is met with silence from the Wardens.

“Keep the sacrifice still,” the figure commands.

“Somebody help me!” the Divine cries out, desperately.

The figure brandishes an orb.

Iona’s mind races back to the temple in Rivain. The orb on the pedestal. It practically sings to her now—it calls to her, begging for her to come and take it. Like a woman possessed, as quiet as a shadow, she dips behind one of the Tevinter agents, plucking her dagger from her belt. The slice through their throat is clean, and before they can slump to the ground, she catches them, lowering their body noiselessly. Before their companion can even notice the gurgling as blood spills from their throat, she thrusts the dagger up through the base of their skull.

The body hits the ground with an audible thud, and the creature quickly pivots to find the source of the noise. The Divine looks over, locking eyes with Iona, then, with all of her might, swings her arm, knocking the orb from their hand. She doesn’t even realize she’s reaching for it as it rolls toward her, like a moth drawn to the flame. As soon as it contacts her palm, an explosion reverberates in her ears, but it’s distant now, like sound underwater—and she is no longer in the temple.

She feels disoriented, like her body was pushed, pulled, and stretched all at once. The ground is unsteady beneath her feet, with the dark stone both warm and cold against her bare skin. Her palm is on fire, and when she looks down, she sees her hand surrounded by a sickly green kind of magic. The smell of rot and sulfur fills her nostrils, and she realizes there’s someone next to her.

Everything happens so quickly after that. There is chittering, a familiar sound that lives in the darkest parts of her memories, and she fearfully peers over her shoulder, already knowing what she is going to see.

Spiders.

The Divine grabs her arm, urging her forward—pushing her forward. Her feet, thankfully, obey without hesitation even as her mind rushes to catch up with what’s happening. In the distance, up on a hill, there’s a light—beckoning them home.

“There!” the Divine cries out.

They keep moving, and there is skittering behind them, though she dares not look back, dreading to see how close those mandibles are to nipping at their heels. They begin to climb. Iona is sure this is where it ends for them. The sound is so loud in her ears.

Just as they reach the top, the Divine gasps. Iona whirls around, watching as she gets caught by the spiders. When she reaches out toward the older woman, she is shoved away. “Go!” She is ordered, and as she stumbles backward, she sees the Divine being ripped away, disappearing into the creeping darkness. She thinks she's going to be sick, and as the ground steadies beneath her feet, she realizes she is standing amid burning rubble.

Then her eyes roll to the back of her head as she collapses.

“You say you’ve come across the orb before?” There is bewilderment in Solas’s voice as she finishes recounting the story. Iona glances over at him. His hand is gripping hers harder now, and something on his face scares her for a moment.

“Yes,” she confirms. “Back in a temple in Rivain.”

He breathes out as though he’s been punched in the gut. “Did you not think to tell someone—to tell me about it?” he asks, and Iona bristles at the tone he uses.

She rips her hand from his. “I only found out after Haven,” she insists. “It’s not like it would have made any difference, I can’t exactly go back and tell myself not to touch the thing.”

“You touched it?”

“At the temple in Rivain?” she questions to confirm. “Yes. It was only for a moment.”

“And you say that you felt as though it was calling out to you in the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

She blinks, scowling. “Yes.”

He lets out a huff that sounds like disbelief. “Corypheus never stood to benefit from it, then,” he informs. “The orb had already marked you.”

Her brows furrow. "Marked me?"

He nods somberly. "When you first touched it, it tethered itself to your energy—"

She frowns, interjecting. "But I'm not a mage."

"No, you are not, and while it is highly unusual for such an artifact to react to someone who is not a mage, it is… not unheard of."

Iona is quiet for a moment, and then she starts to laugh, grabbing at her stomach, full-on belly laughter. Tears flood into her eyes, and she buries her face in her hands, muffling the manic sound. “What awful luck,” she finally croaks out. “What rotten, awful luck.”

She lowers her hands and cranes to look over at Solas, eyes glistening and red, and she seems like she can’t quite decide between sobbing and laughing more.

“It's just a matter of practice, da’len,” Mamae’s voice echoes in her memories.

Her babae is off with Mahari, or at least he was, because he rushes over to Iona and Mamae, no Mahari in sight, claiming that ‘he’d only taken his eyes off of her for a second’, but that is all Mahari needs to perform her infamous disappearing act.

Her mamae firmly instructs her to stay put, and the other women do not hide their side-eye toward Babae as Mamae follows him to search for Mahari. Iona has yet to reveal her sister’s favorite hiding spot under Keeper Talas’s aravel, which is usually a prime spot for the two-year-old to watch her parents run around, the little girl giggling with delight at the sight.

Diligently, Iona continues her weaving for a few more minutes, and she thinks Andruil must smile down upon her, because the gaggle of women quickly becomes distracted when one of the hunters struts by with a fresh bounty. He is still unbonded, and even if some of the women in the group cannot say the same, it does not stop them from ogling the man as he walks by.

Handsome, they call him.

It is the perfect opportunity for her to slip away—an opportunity she gladly takes.

The clan arrived outside of Arlathan Forest not more than a week ago. It was unusual; normally, the clan was more than willing to traverse the density of a forest to find a suitable clearing among the trees to make camp at, but they dared not pass through the threshold of Arlathan.

When Iona asked her babae, the explanation offered was lackluster, a simple: “That forest does not welcome us, da’len.”

Iona thought that to be ridiculous at the time, and as she stares at the edge of Arlathan Forest, she still thinks it ridiculous because her blood is practically on fire with how it thrums in her veins at the proximity to the tree line. Without any second thoughts, she crosses over into the treeline, and it welcomes her.

The trees in Arlathan are larger than any she’s ever seen—larger than the oaks in Planasene Forest or the huge redwoods of The Heartlands in Orlais. She thinks they might even be taller than the ones in The Tirashan, and Mamae told her that the forest is as old as the world.

As she presses her hand to the base of one, she swears she can feel a heartbeat beneath her fingertips. It makes her giddy, giggling with excitement.

Above her, the canopy thickens, and in her wonder, she’s not sure when the forest became so dark, only that ahead of her, the path is near pitch black. She never explored the forests in the dark before, only ever in light of Elgar’nan’s sun. For a moment, fear grips her heart, and she hesitates, unconsciously taking a step back. The loud snap of a branch breaking beneath her foot makes her jump.

Stubbornly, she takes a deep breath, swallowing the lump in her throat. She will be brave, she decides, and marches forward, unaware of the eyes that have turned toward her in the darkness.

She should have turned back, but she realizes too late. Even as her vision adjust to the dark of the woods, it does nothing to help her find her way. When she looks behind her for the light of the path she was following, she sees not even a pinprick.

Above her, she hears chittering, and she presses her hands to her mouth to stifle the gasp as she sees large forms emerge from the treetops.

Spiders. Enormous spiders, bigger than any she’s ever seen—bigger than her. Beady red eyes glow against the dark, and as she swivels around, she realizes they are everywhere. With a shriek, she starts to run. There is skittering behind her, close at her heels, and white hot panic settles into her bones in a way she’s never experienced before. Tears gather in her eyes as she runs, and runs, trying to breathe as terror tightens around her lungs.

Then her foot catches on a gnarled ancient root, and she’s unable to catch herself, sliding along the forest floor, palms scraping against rocks. She scrambles, trying to find purchase to right herself, to get up, and she chances a glance behind her, coming face to face with the jaws of an arachnid. They snap out toward her, and she squeals in fright as she crawls backward, tears blurring her vision as a sob catches in her throat.

She wants to call out for help, but barely manages a whisper as a horde of beady red eyes converges upon her, jaws biting at her feet that she barely keeps from their grip. One of them, tired of the hunt, slams its leg down upon Iona’s, its claw digging into the flesh of her skin, pinning her in place.

She cries out in pain, scrunching her eyes closed, as the mandibles go to chomp down on her, and then, in the distance, a howl. The spiders still instantly. There is rustling in the forest around her, something bigger than even the spiders that surround her. Her breath stutters in her chest, and she holds it there, waiting for something to happen.

The spiders themselves don’t dare move as they listen, and then, a low growl reverberates—a warning. In a flurry of limbs, the spiders clamber away, up into the tree tops seeking the safety of height from whatever lurks in the dark. Iona can only look fearfully around her, searching for whatever it is that scared the spiders off.

“Da’len!” A voice calls, and suddenly she is scooped up into warm, sturdy arms. At the sight of the handsome hunter’s face, she begins to weep. The man, Ithelan, holds the child closer—tighter. “You scared us, da’len.” His admission only makes her cry harder, but the safety of her clan wraps around her. “Let us return home,” he murmurs into her halo of curls.

When she flicks a kernel at you, hitting your cheek, you peer over at her with narrowed eyes as you start to cycle through the channels again, certain there has to be something worth watching. "What is that supposed to mean?" you ask as you pick up the offending piece of popcorn and set it on the coffee table in front of you, perhaps proving her point by not throwing it back at her.

Sherry grabs her soda from the end table next to her, noisily gulping down nearly half of it before letting out a satisfied 'ah'. "I mean, you were like, what… sixteen when you went to college—" "—fifteen—" "—you can't tell me you weren't soaking it up at those college parties."

Your brows rise as you chuckle, recalling your abysmal social life in college. "Sherry, I hate to break it to you, but my peers had little interest in hanging out with some grubby kid." Settling on a movie you and Sherry have seen too many times to count, you give up your search, tossing the remote on the couch between you. "And besides, I didn't exactly have a whole lot of time—"

"Oh my god," she gasps, interrupting you. "You were a nerd."

Ordinarily, you would consider yourself above reacting to insults—to be fair, you're a doctor, of course, you were a bit of a nerd—but the venom in her voice makes you straighten as your jaw slackens. "I—I was not a nerd!" you stammer, then, with the grumpiness of a petulant child, mumble, "I just had a really heavy course load, and pre-med isn't exactly a walk in the park."

"That sounds like something a nerd would say." She does a poor job of hiding her grin behind her soda, laughing and leaning just out of reach as you try to swat at her. Relaxing back into the seat with a satisfied smirk, you watch it shift into something contemplative as she presses her lips together. Her fingernails tap, tap, tap on the aluminum can.

You wait a moment, tension weaving through your body as you wait for her to ask whatever it is that's suddenly made her so fidgety. When she doesn't take the plunge, you do. "What is it?"

She's silent for a second, then inhales and rips off the band-aid. "Is Leon coming? He's missed the last few visits." You will yourself not to make a face, but it must be doing something, because Sherry's brows draw together and she slides across the couch cushion toward you, asking, "What?"

Truthfully, it's been a while since you last spoke to Leon—probably the longest since you two first met eight years ago.

The strain between you two has been palpable since your confrontation after your return from Spain, so much so that even Hunnigan set aside her strictly professional persona to ask you if everything was okay between you and him.

"Rough patch," is what you told her because at the time, that's what you thought it was. Your anger in the aftermath of your argument didn't last long because, true to your word, you couldn't be mad at him—the situation, maybe, but not Leon. You set aside your stubbornness and reached out, and the two of you tried to carry on as normal, but it was clear that something had fractured—something you're now sure is beyond repair.

The time between movie nights grew longer, and the check-in phone calls grew shorter, until the only time the two of you saw each other and spoke was during the monthly visits with Sherry.

The last four of which he's missed—and she's obviously noticed the trend as well. In the visits you had with her in the first few years after Raccoon City, she would get anxious as the visit was coming to an end, repeatedly ensuring she knew the next day you both would be there to visit her, as well as the contingency date in case both of you were out on assignment on the specified day. Given how her relationship with her parents was and what happened to her during the outbreak, it was no wonder that she exhibited such behavior.

By the fourth year, you insisted to Simmons, her appointed guardian, that she see a therapist. When he resisted the idea, you told him the suggestion was based on your professional opinion, not a personal one. You may also have, in not-so-many-words, said that you would voice your concerns up the chain of command until Sherry was placed in the custody of someone who cared more about her well-being and less about poking and prodding her, using the "good of humanity" as an excuse.

You were certainly bluffing, as you would've likely been told to kick rocks in the most government-official way, but Simmons, at least, seemed to think you held more sway than you actually did back then, because she was in therapy sessions within the next week.

Since then, her anxious attachment seems to have lessened, or at least gotten easier for her to cope with, but both you and Leon realize how important these visits are to her, and in the past, when one of you wouldn't be able to make it, you'd send word through your handlers to the other. You're positive he knows what day it is, given that the visitation schedule is set months in advance.

As she's gotten older, she's been afforded a few more freedoms—she's got her own phone (that is heavily monitored), she's been taking a few college courses (that are also heavily monitored), and she's been allowed to visit you at your apartment (you guessed it, heavily monitored).

But that level of security means there is an agent stationed outside your door and on every floor of the building, as well as several strategically positioned on the surrounding city blocks.

It should make you feel safe to know how well your apartment is currently protected, but it only leaves you unnerved. You're a fish trapped in a bowl, with nosy onlookers tapping on the glass, leaving their smudgy fingerprints all over the surface.

You smooth your sweaty palms over the thighs of your jeans. "No, I don't think he's coming," you answer, willing your voice to remain steady—a practiced precision you've had years to master.

Sherry still sees through it, and the worry on her face deepens. "Is he… upset with me?" she asks carefully, picking at her nails nervously.

You quickly shake your head, grabbing her hands before she can make her cuticles bleed. "No, it's nothing you did, I promise."

Worry shifts to curiosity. "Is… Are you two fighting?"

Your mouth opens to lie, a generic excuse hanging on the tip of your tongue, but you make the mistake of meeting her bewildered stare, and it evaporates. So you shrug your shoulders, unconvincingly, before averting your gaze; the movie you'd seen so many times before becomes even more interesting.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see her adjust in her seat, turning toward you with her arm hooked over the back of the couch. "Does it have to do with that woman from the Harvardville incident?" she asks.

Your head snaps to look at her with your mouth agape. "How do you even know about that?"

She has the mind to feign guilt, smiling sheepishly. "Claire."

You exhale a huff of air through your nose as you roll your eyes, regretting for a moment the part you played in the lie to the federal government that allowed Claire and Sherry to keep in frequent contact. Claire Redfield, the blabbermouth that she is, also called you about what transpired last year. A bioterror attack on an airport that you should have been deployed to in order to help with containment had you not already been on assignment in Eastern Europe.

Leon was sent instead.

From your understanding of the reports you'd read afterward, it culminated in exposing that the WP Corporation had acquired not only the t-Virus but also the G-Virus from a researcher who had escaped Umbrella prior to the Raccoon City incident, the same researcher who had assumed a new identity and was now working for the pharmaceutical company, and who was using the outbreak at the airport as a sales pitch to the leader of Barjirib—a nation in political turmoil.

What you heard off the record from Claire was that she and Leon met an officer who seemed very interested in Leon. She whispered it to you over the phone as if it were a scandal you had the right to know about.

When you sighed into the phone and said, "Claire, he's a grown man; he can do what he wants," she sputtered in response, confused.

"But, aren't you two—"

"We aren't anything."

She must have heard it in your voice, the way your throat constricted and how tears welled in your eyes, because she immediately grew quiet and then changed the subject just as hastily. She hasn't brought it up since. In fact, she hasn't mentioned Leon to you at all.

And of course, there was the rumor mill circulating around STRATCOM about the whole thing despite Hunnigan's best efforts to squash it. You pretended not to notice her sympathetic look when you walked into the break room in time to hear two of the other agents talking about the "hot special forces officer that Kennedy bagged."

To be honest, even a year later, you still don't know whether there's any truth to the gossip. Leon never mentioned it, and you never asked—a very large part of you was afraid of that confirmation and what it would mean. Jealousy was never an emotion you were particularly good at handling, so you avoided it as much as you could, which meant avoiding Leon.

You were practically a ghost around the office when he wasn't on assignment, volunteering for missions you knew would keep you away for weeks at a time. The few times he called to check in, the calls usually went to voicemail until guilt eventually won out, and you answered. Even then, you hurried through the conversation, sticking to one-word answers.

Is it childish?

Absolutely.

You're well aware this only deepened the chasm between you and Leon. Selfishly, you may have hoped he wouldn't let you slip through his fingers so easily—that you were someone he'd fight to keep. You were disappointed when he didn't.

"We're not fighting," you say truthfully, because you're not. You'd actually have to talk to fight.

"But you're upset with him," she notes, as if she herself is trying to make sense of your very confounding feelings.

"I'm—" You pause, brow pinching with thought. "I'm just upset."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sherry offers with a kind smile.

A wave of adoration falls over you as you consider her. She's always been so sweet, and despite everything that's happened to her—everything she's had to endure—she's remained so compassionate. After seeing the worst that mankind has to offer, you hope that she'll always keep that kindness. It is something the world desperately needs more of.

"I'll be okay," you assure, despite the shake in your voice.

She doesn't look like she believes you, but she nods anyway before snatching the remote from the couch. "Okay, but we need to change this because I am not watching Pride and Prejudice again."

Laughing, you grab a handful of popcorn before lounging back into the plush cushions of your couch, letting Sherry pick the movie. She picks a comedy she convinces you is really good (it's not). About halfway through, you get up to grab another soda and ask her if she wants one. Her eyes don't leave the screen as she gives an affirming hum, picking the last few kernels from the popcorn bowl.

The rest of your apartment is dark, save for the glow of the TV. The sounds of the city are muffled outside—just faintly, you can hear police sirens, far enough away that your skin doesn't even prickle at the noise. You quietly sing to yourself, a song that got stuck in your head on your drive into work this morning.

You pull open the fridge door, squinting as the bright light blinds you for a moment before plucking two cans of soda off the shelf. You're debating grabbing the piece of cheesecake you have left over from the Italian place down the street when the phone rings—the shrill sound jolts you. As your heart pounds against your ears, you lose your grip on one of the cans, and it hits the floor with a sharp, metallic clank before erupting into a fizzy, uncontrollable spray all over your kitchen.

"Fuck," you hiss.

"You okay?" Sherry calls from the living room, clearly not worried enough to see what all the commotion is about.

Rrring.

Quickly, you pick up the can, still dribbling everywhere, and set it in the sink, mindful of the wet floor even in the dim light. "Yeah, the phone just scared me," you say.

Slowly, you glance over your shoulder with narrowed eyes at the offending object. As it rrrings again, dread pools in your stomach. No one calls your landline anymore, except for maybe a telemarketer or the odd crank call. It is Friday; maybe some degenerates have nothing else going on.

Rrring.

"You gonna get that?" Sherry asks as she tips her head against the back of the couch to look at where you're standing in the shadows of your kitchen.

Blinking, you stride one, two, three steps across the floor, the linoleum squeaking under your sock-covered feet. With a grimace, you think you've stepped in some soda. You set the other can of soda down on the counter before reaching for the phone. You don't know why your hand trembles as you pick up the receiver and hold it to your ear. "Hello?"

"Hey," the voice on the other end responds. "It's Chris."

You swallow the lump that forms in your throat. It doesn't sound like him—Chris Redfield talks with warmth in his voice; it's hearty and full, wrapping around you and making you feel at home. This person sounds hollow, as if you could yell into them and hear the echo all the way down.

Ice courses through your veins, frozen tendrils that snake throughout your body. Your mouth goes dry as you greet him without any enthusiasm, "Hey, Chris."

He lets out a shuddering breath, and your world tilts on its axis.

Sherry flinches at the loud thump from your kitchen. Her brows furrow as she glances back, not seeing you standing there anymore, and she calls your name. When you don't answer, fear licks up her spine. Carefully, she sets the bowl down and stands, eyes flicking to the front door of your apartment, where she knows one of her guard details, Matthew, is on the other side. He must not have heard the noise; he would have already busted through the door to sweep the apartment.

Moving cautiously toward your kitchen, only feebly lit by your slightly ajar fridge, she blindly reaches around the corner, sure the light switch is on the other side. After a few clumsy passes, she finds it and flips it on. The sight that greets her under the warm fluorescents is you, curled up on the soda-covered floor, your corded phone clutched in your hands. Your face is painfully blank, eyes staring unfocused into the space in front of you.

When she says your name again, her voice barely above a whisper, you don't even blink or look her way. Panic wells up in her like a rising tide. You've always been the lighthouse atop a jutting, sharp cliffside. Steady and unwavering, even in the most treacherous of storms.

To see you so despondent makes her feel like she's adrift at sea.

Kneeling down, she gently touches your shoulder. "What's wrong?" she asks.

You still don't so much as glance at her, but your mouth opens as if you're trying to say something, but the words have lodged in the back of your throat. Looking down at the phone in your hand, she can hear the voice of an unfamiliar man on the other end calling your name.

She pries it from your grip and holds the receiver to her ear. "Hi—Uh, yeah, she'll—she'll call you back, okay?" She reaches up, slots it back onto the hook, hanging up on the man before he can respond, then takes out her cellphone, scrolling through the sparse list of contacts, muttering to you that it'll be all right the entire time.

The spinning ceiling fan above him provides a rhythmic, hypnotic whir that slowly lulls him toward sleep. Exhaustion weighs him down, and despite how it feels like he's sinking into his mattress, there's no comfort in it, not when his body aches and his muscles feel two sizes too small against his bones.

He couldn't even find the energy to get under the covers after barely dragging himself into the shower to wash the grime from his skin. As he watches the fan's shadows stretch and pull with every turn, Leon closes his eyes, ready to teeter over the edge—the world muffling around him.

For just a split second, his brain quiets, thoughts of horrors and death fall to the wayside, disappearing in the background as another memory surfaces. It's one of tenderness and soft lips against his. If he could live in it forever, he would.

Instead, he's abruptly yanked from it as his cellphone rings, pulling him from the memory and the cusp of sleep. Groaning, he rolls to his side, glaring at the phone on his nightstand as it rings a second time, its screen lighting up his room in an eerie blue glow. He debates ignoring it, certain it's Hunnigan calling him in for the debrief he blew off, but at the third ring, he gives up on sleep. Squinting, he snatches the phone and holds it to his face, reading the name that pops up on the screen.

Incoming Call From…

Sherry

"Shit," he whispers as he sits up, his entire body protesting the sudden movement. Hastily, he accepts the call. "Hey, Sherry, I'm sorry, I just got—" She's rambling on the other end, panicked, and when he hears your name in the jumble, he stiffens. "Sherry, wait, wait. What do you mean? What happened?"

"Please, can you just come?" She sounds like a scared little girl all over again, and Leon is already on his feet, tossing on a probably clean shirt and a pair of jeans as he looks for shoes that aren't covered in blood.

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

He makes it in eight.

The agent standing sentry outside the door nods to him, seemingly none the wiser about whatever is going on inside the apartment he's vigilantly protecting, and steps aside. Leon gives three firm knocks, and it's Sherry whose face peeks through as the door creaks open. She glances nervously at the agent before shuffling to the side to let Leon in.

As she shuts the door behind them, she points ahead. "She's just in the kitchen," she says. "She won't talk to me, she's just been staring into space."

When he rounds the corner, his heart falls through his chest at the sight. You're sitting on the floor, knees curled to your chest, and your face is deceptively blank. There's not even a twitch to show you notice his arrival. "What happened?" he asks.

Sherry shakes her head. "I don't know," she says. "She got a call, and I heard a thud and came in here to find her like this. I'm sorry, I didn't know who else to call. Claire is in South America and—"

Lying a comforting hand on her shoulder, he assures her, "It's fine, I'm glad you did."

A tight smile tugs at her lips, and they both return their gaze to you. You haven't moved at all—Leon thinks you haven't even blinked. Slowly, he approaches, not even noticing the sticky floor as he kneels before you. His eyes take in your appearance. When was the last time he saw you—really saw you? Lately, he's more often than not caught a glimpse of the back of your head as you hurry through the office or of your side profile through a conference room window.

More tenderly than he thinks himself capable of anymore, he takes you by the sides of your face, his thumbs tracing the hollow of your cheekbone. The feel of your skin beneath his fingertips is familiar—like a home that no longer belongs to him—and he stoops his head to try to catch your eye, nearly nose to nose with you.

"Hey," he murmurs and whispers your name. It's only then that your stare finally tilts up, catching his.

"Leon?" you ask, your voice laced with confusion, impossibly small. Not like you at all; you're larger than life, a force of nature beyond his comprehension. An unstoppable, unyielding storm that could lay waste to any walls he built, no matter how tall or sturdy he thought they might be.

Smoothing back your hair from your face, he nods. "Yeah," he confirms. "It's me, I'm here."

It's instant, the way your face crumples—a marble statue splintering and shattering all at once. Your brows pinch together as tears flood your eyes, your lip quivering. As you reach up to grasp his wrists, he notices you're trembling, and you inhale sharply, the breath caught somewhere in your chest, leaving you gasping.

"She's gone!" you sob. It's a broken, heart-wrenching sound. Your face contorts with pain and anguish as you hold on to him tighter, as if you're afraid he'll disappear right in front of you. "She's gone, she's gone!"

He's swiping away the tears, but they're falling faster than he can wipe them away. "Who?" he asks.

You can hardly even say her name. You heave between each letter. "Jill!" you choke. Your hands fly to your face, covering it as a ragged wail wrenches itself from you. It's more animalistic than human, like the forlorn howl of a grieving wolf—a sustained, sorrowful noise rife with misery and longing.

Your body convulses with each sob, gasping for breath as you can't seem to get enough to fill your lungs. Leon gathers you into his arms. He holds you firmly, his cheek pressed to the top of your head as he lets you cry and scream, repeating Jill's name until you're hoarse. He doesn't even wince when you claw at his arms because you don't know what else to do with the pain. He endures it for you.

When he glances back at Sherry, he sees her watching the entire scene, a hand pressed to her mouth, eyes glistening with tears, as if the realization has dawned on her that you are human after all.

Two Weeks Later

Leon is out of his element. Tugging at the sleeves of his suit jacket, which are just a tad too short, he glances around the church—dust motes catch in the sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows, and unlit candelabra chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceilings. It smells stale, like decay and aged wood, with a heavy dose of perfume layered on top by a few heavy-handed congregants.

The dozen or so rows of oak pews are full, or nearly so, leaving him floundering for a place to sit, heat crawling up the back of his neck the longer he stands idly at the entrance despite the cold air that still clings to his clothes from the frigid weather outside. Any open seat he sees would require him to disturb an entire row of people to squeeze into, and he's about to resign himself to watching the ceremony from the shadows under one of the balconies at the back of the church when one of the men standing near the dais catches sight of him.

Leon recognizes him instantly by the smile that spreads across his face; he sees you in the way the man's eyes crinkle at the corners and the crooked tug at his lips. He looks different from the pictures hanging on the walls of your apartment, years apart, and far better groomed and dressed than the photos of a fresh-faced college student.

As he comes within arm's reach, he holds out a hand, which Leon takes, the two men exchanging a firm but friendly handshake. "You must be Leon," he says, the smile not falling from his face. "Can't believe it's taken eight years for us to meet—" He fidgets with the boutonniere carefully pinned to his lapel. "—Although, I already feel like I know you if I'm being honest."

Leon smirks despite the slight dread at the thought of what you have told your brother about him, especially in recent years. "Your sister talks about you a lot."

"All deeply mortifying things, I'm sure," your brother jokes.

He mimes zipping his lips. "I can neither confirm nor deny."

Your brother motions for Leon to follow him as he starts walking back up the aisle. "C'mon, I'll show you to your seat."

He hesitates, pointing over his shoulder toward the wall he was just about to fasten himself to. "Oh, that's alright, I was just going to sit in the back out of the way."

He receives an incredulous look in response, the expression far too similar to one you've given him dozens of times over the years. "Don't be ridiculous, you're sitting up front with my sister—" He scans around. "—She's around here somewhere, been running around like a chicken with its head cut off all morning. Besides," he lowers his voice. "I need all the help I can filling out my side of the pew, it's looking bleak."

Leon sees exactly what he means as they reach the front of the church and spot the nearly empty first row on the groom's side, save for a severe-looking elderly man and, presumably, his wife, who gives him a sweet smile as your brother introduces him as your "good friend, Leon" and them as your grandparents. He sits next to your grandmother, with whom he makes polite conversation with until he hears hurried footsteps down the aisle.

"I'm so sorry. The bride couldn't find her veil, and there was almost a meltdown—" You lean down, pressing a kiss to each of your grandparents' cheeks. "Hi, Grandma, hi, Grandpa."

Your grandfather grunts a greeting, one you seem used to, given how you don't let it faze you, while your grandmother coos at you. "Oh, you look so lovely, dear."

Leon feels his breath catch in his throat as he watches you make small talk with your grandparents, and he can't help but agree with your grandmother. He's always thought you were pretty—he'd have to be an idiot not to.

Sometimes he found himself admiring how your eyes change in certain light, or by the way your mouth shapes words as you speak. A barely there smirk on your lips was usually enough to have his heart rattling his ribcage. He's seen you at twenty-three, twenty-six, twenty-nine, and thirty-one, and you've only grown prettier with the years. Even fresh off a twelve-hour, turned seventeen-hour shift, feeling more like a corpse hung out to dry than a person, you were still radiant to him.

Seeing you now, though, is something else entirely. The floor-length dress clings tighter than scrubs or tactical gear, and with your hair curled and pinned up, he feels like he's been struck dead center in the chest. For a moment, it's hard to breathe. From the way heat spreads up the sides of his neck, he's sure his cheeks are tinged red, but he's unable to take his eyes off of you. Instead, his gaze lingers on your lips, painted and glossed, and his mouth goes dry.

When you finally turn your attention to him, he sits a little straighter. Your smile doesn't slip so much as it softens into something less practiced, less poised, like you don't feel the need to put on a performance with him. "How was your flight?" you ask as you take a seat next to him.

"Early," he murmurs. He'd caught the first flight out of D.C. this morning after returning from a three-day assignment on the West Coast at midnight. So worried about being late, he'd changed into his suit in the airport bathroom and driven straight to the church. He smooths his palms down his pants, hoping the sweat gathering there won't leave any streaks. "You—You look nice."

Your brows rise in surprise, as if you're taken aback by the compliment. "That's—thank you," you mutter, shyly averting your gaze. "So do you."

His ears burn, and just as he opens his mouth to reply, the music begins. His mouth snaps shut as the rest of the room quiets. Beside him, you wring your hands together, and while everyone turns to watch the bridal procession march down the aisle, your gaze remains on your brother, watching him the entire time. As the wedding party gathers at the dais, the song shifts to 'Here Comes the Bride,' and your brother's smile widens almost impossibly, eager to see his future wife coming down the aisle.

When Leon chances a glance your way, he notices your eyes have welled up with tears. He can't know what you're thinking right now—but maybe he could hazard a guess. No mother, no father. Just one set of grandparents you keep at a cordial distance. It's just been you and your brother for as long as he's known you. You mentioned your dad once before, in passing, as if he were a bad memory you'd sooner forget.

You love your brother, though. It's as clear as day to anyone with half a brain, and it's never been more apparent than now, as you watch him and his soon-to-be wife exchange vows, desperately trying to keep yourself composed, the telltale wobble of your lower lip making itself known. Your breath shudders in your chest, a slight, nearly noiseless hiccup, as your brother finishes his vows with "Till death do us part."

As you slide your arm through Leon's, he readily lets you lace your fingers through his, squeezing his hand as you try to keep the tears at bay. Only when the bride and groom share their first kiss as husband and wife, with applause erupting in the church, do the tears finally fall from your eyes.

The reception is well underway back at the hotel. The wedding party receives a standing ovation as they strut into the hall to party music, and then the bride and groom enter and share their first dance. Leon doesn't even have to look at you to know that another round of crying has begun, and he slings an arm around the back of your chair, hauling you closer to him as you dab your eyes with a tissue your grandmother handed you from the arsenal she keeps in her purse—apparently it's not the elderly woman's first rodeo.

Only as your new sister-in-law dances with her father does he finally peer over at you. Melancholy paints your features, as if you're watching something that will never be yours. He rubs a thumb along your shoulder, his expression mirroring yours as he stares at you.

When the song ends, you listlessly clap along with everyone else, the corners of your lips trying to tug up into a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Now, we have a very special request," the DJ announces into the mic. "If the sister of the groom could make her way to the dance floor, your brother would like to share a dance with you."

Attention turns to you, and you instantly sit rod straight in your seat, looking at your brother who stands in the middle of the dance floor, gesturing at you to join him. Hastily, you get up and begin to weave your way through the tables toward him. You're already on the verge of tears while your brother smiles at you, holding a hand out for you to take. When you do, you mutter something to him that no one else can hear, his smile widens, and he drags you to him as the music begins to play.

It's something cheesy—the kind of song no doubt played at thousands of weddings, but it still causes the back of Leon's throat to tickle as his eyes sting with tears, watching you and your brother sway together.

"You're lucky I love you," you mutter, feeling the distinct prickle of embarrassment sear up your spine under all the attention, something you'd been adamant about avoiding during the entire wedding-planning process and the exact reason you'd rejected your sister-in-law's request that you be a bridesmaid for her.

"I am," your brother agrees readily. "I was going to give a full slideshow presentation, but I figured you'd strangle me Homer Simpson-style before we got to dinner."

You snort at the image conjuring in your head. "You figured right," you say.

His brows tilt thoughtfully, the grin on his face fading into something gentler—nostalgic. "I hope you know how much I appreciate you," he murmurs, loud enough for you to hear him over the music. You glance away, and he knows you're about to hand-wave him, to move past this entirely too sentimental conversation, but he cuts you off before you can. "I'm serious."

Your eyes meet his, a reflection of your own, and you see tears misted in them. Your brother doesn't cry, you remember, and guilt twists in you that you've been the one to make him cry twice now.

"Everything I am today is because of you—because you stepped up when I needed you to. You've been there for me through everything, supporting me in so many ways I can never repay you for. You didn't have to do any of that."

You cast your gaze downward, focusing on the awkward shuffle of feet between you. "Yes, I did," you mutter. "It's not like I could've just left you on your own."

"You could have," he argues. You're both quiet for a beat, the music surrounding you, though neither of you is paying any mind to it, stepping side to side in an almost, not quite dance, just slightly offbeat. "I know we don't talk about it—"

You go to interject—today is supposed to be a happy day, not one where you dredge up things better left to rot. Unfortunately, you can't stop what's already been set in motion.

"—But I hope you realize none of it was your fault."

It's a gut punch, the air sucked straight from your lungs at his words. Your grip on him tightens only a fraction as your sinuses start to sting, and just at the base of your skull, the beginnings of an itch start.

"It wasn't fair what happened to us—what he did—but we didn't…" He trails off, looking down at you with more sadness than you feel you have the right to. "You didn't do anything to deserve it, and sometimes I feel like you think you did. Like you're trying to make up for what happened to us when we were children, even though you don't hold any responsibility for it."

Smoke-filled laughter rings out amongst the crowd, distant, but still there, just like he said he would be.

"It doesn't matter," you whisper, and the itch turns into a dull throb, pulsating through your ears and straight into your teeth.

"It does," he insists. "You were a child, too, and you've done more than anyone should ask of a child. But I'm all grown up now, and you don't have to keep protecting me. Okay? I'm a big boy. I can bear the burden. You don't have to carry it all on your own."

When you finally gain the courage to meet his gaze, you, perhaps for the first time, see him as the man he is rather than the boy he was, with scraped knees and tearstained cheeks. It's hard to reconcile with the fact that that version of him is now confined to your memories, memories you often wish you could shove into the deepest corners of your mind and set ablaze.

He's the only reason you still cling to them.

Maybe he is right; maybe it's unfair to both of you that you continue to bear the weight of it all on your own. But you can't deny the fear you feel at the thought of letting go—who would you be without it?

"Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Pain radiates through your skull, and for just a moment, you think you see the shadow of someone behind your brother. As soon as you blink, they're gone, and you're left staring at your brother's hopeful face. "Okay," you reply, summoning a relenting look onto your face to mask the lack of conviction in your voice.

Your brother smiles, relief flooding his face like this is a conversation he's been meaning to have with you for a while. "I worry about you, too, y'know? For as much as I know you worry about me."

"You don't have to worry about me," you lie, feeling more guilt for how easily it slips off your tongue.

In typical little-brother fashion, he quickly changes the subject to something you most certainly do not want to discuss right now. "Leon seems nice."

You huff, pinching his arm through his suit, which only makes him laugh. "Don't start."

"What?" he says innocently. "I mean, you tell me a week before my wedding that you're bringing the guy you've been goo-goo for ga-ga over for the better part of the last decade instead of Jill—" He can feel you stiffen under his touch, losing what little focus you have on the dance and nearly stepping on his toes. "What?" he asks.

You trip over your words. "Jill, um—" Your eyes flick to the ceiling, taking note of how pretty the chandeliers look glittering in the lowlight. "There was an… accident. Her funeral was last week."

His mouth drops open as his brows furrow together. "What? Why didn't you tell me? I would have—"

You shake your head, voice trying to remain steady. "It was a small affair, I mean, there wasn't even a body to bury."

"Jesus," he murmurs. "I'm sorry. Are you doing okay?"

"I'm… coping," you say carefully. You weren't. Another lie to add to the pile of guilt.

He murmurs your name like a warning.

A reassuring smile tightens on your lips. "That's why Leon is here—he volunteered to come so I…"

The words die in your mouth, their implication feeling harsher than you intended, but your brother finishes your sentence, regardless, "So you wouldn't be alone?"

You nod. "Yeah."

"If it was hard for you to be here today, you didn't have to come; I would have understood," he says.

You roll your eyes, trying to ease the tension between you. "I wasn't going to miss your wedding," you retort. "You only get married once, hopefully—" "—Hey!—" "—and besides, I think Jill would haunt me if she was the reason I missed this."

"Still, I worry about you," he repeats.

"I know, but you don't have to, I'm fine," you assure.

"Keep on lying, girl," the familiar voice hisses from behind you. "We both know it's all you're good at."

You keep your face neutral as the song comes to a close and applause echoes all around. After you and your brother share a hug, you turn and make your way not back to your table, but to the bar instead. The bartender doesn't question it when you order two drinks—you'd been the one to pay for the open bar, after all. When you feel a presence at your back, you don't even have to look to see who it is. Instead, as the bartender places the two drinks in front of you, you slide one over to Leon, who takes a seat next to you.

One drink turns into three, then into you and Leon giggling together at the bar's corner. When dinner service begins, your chosen entree sits untouched at your table, an unspoken agreement that the two of you would be on a strict liquid diet for the evening. He knew immediately something was wrong when your dance with your brother ended; the stiffness in your shoulders as you retreated had him on his feet in an instant, following you to the bar.

Neither of you spoke as you nursed your first drinks, and it wasn't until halfway through your second that you glanced his way. When your eyes met, the rigidity in your body melted as you leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder. Conversation followed—easier than it had been in years. The more you two drank, the more it felt like old times, before he had screwed it all up.

He can smell the alcohol on your breath, given how close you are as you talk to him. His arm is wrapped securely around the back of your chair, herding you toward him and acting as a barrier between you and the rest of the reception. One of his dumb jokes, the kind you would normally roll your eyes at while pretending not to smile, makes you giggle, and your hand comes up to cover your mouth. His head swims with the sound of your laughter, his gaze fixed on the way your eyes crinkle at the corners as you look back at him like he's the only thing in the room that matters to you right now.

That's how you always made him feel.

As you take another sip of your drink, his focus turns to the lipstick marks on the rim of the glass, and thoughts of you marking him up with your painted lips boil to the surface, bringing a heat that invades his cheeks. He's grateful for the low light at the bar; he's sure you'd see how red his face has gotten.

He wants to kiss you.

His entire body is begging for him to do it, like it'll relieve the pressure that's been building in his chest cavity all night, but the fraction of his brain that's still sober warns him that it'll only make it worse.

"Have I told you how beautiful you look?" he asks suddenly, voice coming out a little louder than he intended.

Your drink hits the bartop a bit harder than you meant, tinking against the wooden surface. You don't even notice the raised brow the bartender sends you. "You might have mentioned I looked good earlier," you reply—your tone is indiscernible, as if you're trying to keep it neutral.

"Better than good," he elaborates, words slurring together in his haste to get them all out in the way he intends them to. "I mean, you always look good, but this is…" He trails off, eyes dropping to the dress's modest neckline. Even the bare hint of your cleavage has him hot under the collar, like some Catholic school virgin. "Beautiful."

It's meant as a compliment, so he doesn't know why you pull away, shifting back in your seat so your legs are no longer nestled between his. The stiffness returns tenfold as an awkward silence settles over the two of you, and you hastily down the rest of your drink to flag the bartender down for another.

It's fortunate, maybe, that your sister-in-law chooses this moment to appear behind the two of you. "You're coming with me," she declares, a mischievous grin on her face. You're drunk enough that you can't hide the grimace that immediately settles on your face at the prospect of whatever she's planning.

Just then, the music fades as the DJ comes over the speakers with an announcement. "If we can have all the single ladies make their way to the dance floor, it's time for the bouquet toss!"

You start to say her name in protest, shaking your head and subtly trying to lean away from her grabby hands, but she's quick, and you have nowhere to run. "Nope," she tuts. "You're not weaseling your way out of this." Helpless, she drags you from the chair with surprising strength and pushes you toward the dance floor, where other women have begun to gather. Then, with all the gall of a bride on her wedding day, she turns and winks conspiratorially at Leon.

Mouth agape, he watches her take her place in front of the group of women, sneaking peeks over her shoulder as the DJ begins the countdown. While the other women around excitedly yell along, looking more like they're entering an Olympic competition than a bouquet toss at a wedding, you only stand there with a pained expression, as if fighting everything in you not to slink away at the first opportunity.

It's a flurry of limbs as everyone makes a mad dash to the front when the countdown hits zero. There's undignified screeching, and Leon is sure he sees more than one person throw an elbow. He thinks he'd rather face a horde of B.O.W.s than… whatever this is.

The bride seems to have expected such a reaction, faking everyone out by waiting an extra two seconds after the countdown ends before heaving the bouquet over her head. Time slows to a crawl as it sails through the air just over their heads and out of reach, and faces morph into disbelief and disappointment. You, meanwhile, are completely unaware of the ballista heading your way, probably thinking staying in the back was a safe bet. When it hits you square in the chest, you flinch, your hands instinctively coming up to catch it.

There's a mix of cheering and goodhearted pouts from everyone else as you gaze down at the bundle of flowers in your hands, as if bewildered by how they got there, nearly dropping it as your sister wraps you up in a hug. The grin on her face tells Leon this was her desired outcome.

In a drunken haze, his mind wanders to an alternate universe where it's you dressed in white, surrounded by friends and family, celebrating the happiest day of your life. He wonders what it would be like to be standing at the end of the aisle as you walk down it and—

His throat constricts.

You murmur something to your sister-in-law, lips tugging up into a strained smile, before you start to stumble away, like the drinks you had at the bar were finally catching up to you. As you make your way toward the doors to the patio off the hotel's reception hall, your shoulders are slumped dejectedly.

He wonders whether this normalcy seems as far out of your reach as it does his, and if that's why he's caught you with such a sad look on your face so often tonight, as if you're catching glimpses of a life that has been firmly locked away behind a door you've lost the key to.

Like a well-trained dog, Leon trails after you the second you step out the door. He finds you leaning against the wall outside, staring up at the darkened sky. It's a clear night, with not a cloud in the sky, and the not-quite-full moon hangs among the twinkling stars. He isn't used to seeing so many of them, but, so far from any city, they stretch for miles like a great black velvet blanket stitched with glittering gems.

His mind searches for the names of some of the stars—a few come to the forefront: Polaris, Sirius, Betelgeuse. But he could hardly point them out if you asked. Maybe he knew them once, when he was younger, and the only monsters he worried about were the ones he thought hid under his bed. But now, after being chewed up and spit out by the worst this world has to offer, there's no awe or wonder as he gazes up at them—just a quiet acknowledgment that they are there and that, one day, when he is dead and gone, they will still be there, dotting the sky like he never even existed at all.

The cold bites at his cheeks as he rests against the wall beside you. "Congrats," he says, his breath blooming white in the chill air.

You blink, brows tilting with confusion, and he nods toward the bouquet. When you look down and realize you're still holding it, you give a half-hearted chuckle. "It felt more like a set-up than anything else." You pluck a loose petal, letting it fall to the ground. "Doesn't mean anything anyway."

"Why's that?" he asks.

"It's just some flowers," you mutter. "It's not like I'll—" Chewing the inside of your cheek, you sigh, rubbing at the exposed skin on your arm that prickles with goosebumps in the cold. "Nothing, forget it."

"You okay?" he asks, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Did you know that you have only ever called me beautiful while we were having sex?"

His brows furrow at the sudden question, and he stops in his tracks, just shy of touching you. "What?"

It's a vomit of words after that, as if you can't stop them from coming out. "Not once in the eight years that we've known each other have you ever called me beautiful just because."

His mouth hangs open, an objection beginning and dying in the same instant in the back of his throat. His drunken brain tries to sort through eight years' worth of memories but comes up with nothing, though he's sure that can't be right. "That's not true."

"It is," you argue, though your tone lacks real bite, as if you've already accepted defeat. "I don't—" You exhale—it's trembling, and he can hear your teeth chatter, like your body is finally realizing how frigid it is out here. "Never mind. I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm bringing this up now." You draw back into yourself, cradling the bouquet now like a lifeline, your gaze dropping to the pretty arrangement, only slightly mussed by the tossing around.

"Hey," he says gently, rounding in front of you and angling his head down to catch your stare. "Talk to me."

You shake your head, eyes avoiding his as if you're embarrassed. "No, it's just me being stupid." He wants to press, but you look so small and tired, standing in the cold, that he doesn't have the heart to. Instead, he shrugs off his coat, throws it around your shoulders, and draws you to his chest, resting his chin on the top of your head.

"You're not stupid," he murmurs, rubbing his hands up and down your arms, trying to warm you up. "Only one of us is allowed to have that title, and safe to say I secured it a long time ago." He hears you give a watery laugh before letting out a shuddering breath. "Wanna head up to the room?" You two have an early flight to catch back to D.C.

You nod into his hold, but don't extract yourself from him right away; instead, you stand there, allowing him to hold you for a few moments longer, before slowly—reluctantly—pulling away. He tags along as you make your rounds, saying goodbye to the other guests. He's more than a little surprised as your brother drags him into a hug, clapping him on the back, and reiterating how good it was to finally meet.

"Take care of her, okay?" he whispers to Leon.

He doesn't hesitate in his answer. "Always."

The cold did nothing to sober you up, as you wobble toward the elevator on unsteady feet, faintly humming along to the song that you can hear reverberating from the reception hall. No doubt the party would be going well into the night.

"We didn't get to dance," Leon notes almost absentmindedly as you press the call button.

"Didn't realize you wanted to," you reply, obviously not pegging him for the dancing type. The elevator dings, and the doors open.

"I want to," he says as he steps in behind you, spinning you around to face him after you push the button for your floor. A surprised noise escapes as your hands find purchase on his shoulders to keep you from faceplanting into his chest.

He keeps you upright, hands firmly on your waist beneath his suit jacket, which you're still wearing, his thumbs tracing circles into the fabric of your dress. "Leon, we're in an elevator," you chide, though the little chuckle that escapes you as he begins to sway you both suggests you're not as against the idea as you'd like to pretend.

"So?" he murmurs as your hands slide to his back, allowing yourself to lean closer into him. "It's as good a place as any."

You roll your eyes, the corners of your mouth tugging up into an amused smile. He can't resist pressing a kiss to the dimple that forms just under the apple of your cheek. Before he can pull away, you turn your head, and your lips brush against his. Neither of you moves to deepen the kiss—as if you're both content to live in the innocence of the gesture.

You stay a hair's breadth apart. The steady, unpracticed shuffle you two settle into is reminiscent of Leon's senior prom, though he imagines you would've never even given him the time of day in high school. He was too awkward, not yet used to his gangly limbs that seemed to have sprouted overnight, and though he's never seen any photos of you from that time, he imagines you were too pretty to even look his way.

Not that he would ever have been brave enough to talk to you, let alone ask you to the prom.

His nose presses into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. The smell has long since faded from his pillowcases back at home, but sometimes, when he's sitting on his couch, he'd catch a brief whiff of it before it's gone the next moment, leaving him wondering if it was only a trick of the mind.

His thoughts wanders to the future, thinking about what will happen after this, once you guys are back in D.C. and falling back into the unrelenting routine of your jobs. Will you go back to how it's been? The missed calls, plans getting pushed back until they're canceled, and brief glimpses of each other around the office.

His jaw clenches as he holds you tighter. He doesn't want that. He thinks of the last two years, of watching the chasm grow between you, and of how helpless he felt to do anything to stop it. But even in his drunken state, he can't find the courage to say it aloud. It seems so simple.

"I'm sorry, and I miss you," he wants to say.

He takes a deep breath, urging himself to take the leap, to bridge the gap between you before it's too late. Then, the elevator dings again, signaling your arrival. He feels himself deflate, like the spell is broken the moment you pull away from him.

It's warm inside the room, with traces of your chaotic morning strewn about—a makeup bag lying on the desk with all of its contents scattered across the surface, your suitcase open and splayed out across one of the queen-size beds, towels bunched up and tossed into the corner.

With a relieved sigh, you kick your heels off in a random direction, a problem for you tomorrow when you're frantically trying to pack for the 7 A.M. flight. You collapse into a heap on the rumpled sheets of the other bed, and it doesn't seem like you have any intention of undoing your hair or washing your makeup off; instead, you wrap Leon's jacket tighter around you.

He shucks off his own shoes before loosening his tie, then sits on the other side of the bed. Silence fills the room, and Leon almost thinks you've fallen asleep as your breathing steadies, until you reach out and clasp his hand in yours.

"Thanks for being here today," you say, voice tired and slurring.

He rubs his thumb over one of your knuckles, and his response is to shuffle down so he is lying on his side, facing you. Your cheek is squished into your pillow, smearing makeup across the pristine white material.

"You practically begged me to come with you," he jokes.

You look at him incredulously, nose scrunching. "You invited yourself."

He smirks. "Yeah, but if you didn't want me here, you would have said so."

With a huff, you nestle deeper into the pillow. "I would've taken Sherry, but I don't think she could've stopped herself from objecting during the ceremony."

Chuckling, he traces along the lengths of each of your fingers. "She's still got that crush on your brother?"

"She claims she's 'too mature now for childhood crushes', but that doesn't stop her from insisting I call him whenever she visits so she can talk to him." A sly, devious smile forms on your lips. "Besides, Luis was busy this weekend, so you were my only other option."

Leon balks at that, hand shooting to your side to tickle you. The reaction is instant, you curling into yourself to stop his onslaught as laughter tears from your throat. "Take that back," he demands, evading you as you try to swat at him. "I was not a second choice to Luis."

"Sorry you can't—" You squeal as he tickles right under your armpits, trying to roll away from him, but he snatches you by the waist and hauls you back toward him. "—handle the truth!"

You're gasping for breath by the time he finally stops. You can feel the warmth of his body through the suit jacket at your back as he holds you close. "You're ridiculous," he murmurs into your hair, which has mostly fallen from its styling after all your thrashing. "He still has three more years of house arrest, doesn't he?"

You hum in confirmation, picking at a loose thread on the bedsheet. "I'm just teasing," you say, cheeks hurting from how hard you laughed. "Today would have been harder without you here, and you didn't have to come, but you did, so thank you."

There's more you want to say, he can tell by the way you wrap the thread around your finger and snap it from the fabric with a quick snip. He stays quiet, hearing you inhale several times deeply, as if you're about to say something, but then stop yourself.

After a few more tries, you finally settle on the words. "It just doesn't feel real, y'know?" you murmur. "I thought that… we made it out, right? The worst thing that could have happened to us happened, but we survived it." You suck in a quick breath, sniffling as tears rapidly gather in your eyes. "It makes me wonder if you were right to always look at me like I was already dead."

Ice fills his veins; it's not a slow creep but a rush of jutting crystals that poke and prod. A lump forms in his throat at your admission—at how tired you sound. He's brought back to the aftermath of Spain, to how defeated you'd been.

"We're all just on borrowed time anyway," you say in between shuddering hiccups. "Maybe if I'd done the same, if I'd realized that sooner, then—" A cry catches in your chest. "—then maybe it wouldn't hurt this bad."

Your body trembles with each heaving sob. Words spill from your mouth, but they're an indecipherable babble. Leon can only press his lips to the back of your skull, gripping you so tightly he's sure to leave bruises. There's nothing he can say to comfort you—not when tears well in his eyes and his chest feels like it's caving in.

Eight years ago, he asked you whether the two of you would be okay, and you'd been honest in your response, but now he thinks you were wrong.