-`♡´-skimlait-`♡´-

“Morning! What can I get for you?” 

The barista has a corporate smile on her face that's too premature for the time of day it is. He pulls out his phone and zooms in on a screenshot, squinting as he reads, “Yeah. I'll get a… large iced chai latte with four shots of espresso, oat milk, light ice, and vanilla cold foam…” His face twists in mild disgust. “And one medium black coffee. Thanks.”

The barista nods and taps on the POS system. “Large iced chai with four shots, light ice, oat base, vanilla cold foam and a medium black coffee. That'll be $17.27.” She says this as she pushes the card terminal towards him. “Can I have a name for the order?” 

Well, she could just call out the order, but sure, whatever. “It's Leon.” 

He taps his card and steps aside, idling by the counter as he waits.

$13 for something that tastes like melted birthday cake. He can’t wrap his head around it. What's the point if you can't taste the actual coffee anyway? Even so, he's not gonna argue about it with you. It's your drink, and apparently, you like running on caffeine, sugar, and fumes, so all the power to you. Also not the healthiest choice, but he's not gonna argue about that either. Your recurrent post-caffeine migraines always speak louder than his lecturing. 

Two cups find their place on the counter in front of him. “Order for Leon?”

You've also been threatening to sign him up for AA meetings, which he assumes is a joke. But that alone probably takes away his right to tell you what's healthy or not.

He takes the cups and nods his thanks, stepping out of the coffee shop and into the crisp morning air.

The drive to the D.S.O. is uneventful. That's the only part of his day that is. He's lucky if he even gets a minute of peace in his office before someone's rapping on his door to brief him on another mass hysteria incident. None of which were even happening in the US, so he doesn't know why it's now his problem and not something foreign affairs can deal with.

A heavy sigh escapes him. Another stack of anomaly reports is probably waiting for him on his desk.

He parks in his designated lot and traipses through the security gates, scanning his badge as he passes by. Cups in hand, he makes a pit stop by the medical unit before heading to his office.

The automatic doors creak open as he steps through — catching the attention of the unit clerk as she's typing away at the computer.

After walking up to the counter, he sets the cup of liquid sugar in front of her. He clears his throat, which draws another glance from a nearby nurse towards his direction.

“Mornin’. Can you give this to her?”

The unit clerk raises an eyebrow and nods but doesn't say anything. He catches the shift on the other nurse's face as the corner of her lip twitches. She doesn't say anything either. Just continues to untangle some cardiac leads.

Before he leaves, he spots you walking out of a patient's room, dolled up in a mask, eye shield, and a puffy yellow isolation gown that makes you the spitting image of Big Bird. You meet his eyes as he gives you a short wave before walking off to get some work done.

He's not far enough away yet, so he doesn't miss the hushed whispers from the peanut gallery behind him.

“How many times has it been now?”

“At least once a week.”

“It's been months…”

He doesn't wait to hear the end of the conversation. The automatic doors give a resolute clunk as they shut behind him.

"Can someone please turn that shit off."

Your face is buried in your hand, elbow planted like an anchor on the desk. It drags your voice down into a half-mumble. You listen to the persistent beeps of the IV equipment in some distant room, the sound only continuing to aggravate the drilling sensation in the middle of your eyebrows. Apparently the sound doesn't seem to bother anyone else. Nurses continue to shuffle around, tending to call bells and discussing results with doctors who look like they're ready to bite your head off. 

You were finally able to sit down after being on your feet all morning, now even being too exhausted to get up and pee like you had hoped to do hours ago.

Greet, treat, rinse, repeat.

It never takes long for you to fall into step with the routine. The start of the day would always be rough and usually demanded some sort of caffeinated substance (or a pop of adderall) to get you moving at a reasonable pace, but eventually you hit the point where everything was still busy, just no longer personal.

 A sigh leaves your lips and you force yourself up once again, searching around the ward for the source of your headache.

Working on the medical unit at the D.S.O. was never the end goal, or the beginning. If you were being honest with yourself, there never really was one.

Getting accepted into nursing school? Probably where you peaked.

After that, the journey was about as pleasant as frolicking through a sunny field of razor blades. Each year testing your intelligence, patience, and will to live all at the same time. Yet somehow you managed to drag yourself through it all. Landing yourself with a bachelor's degree, a prescription for SSRIs, and an uncertain future.

You eventually decided to follow what you were most passionate about, which just so happened to be a cushy income. Somehow, all that nonsense landed you here: scrubbing in at the D.S.O. 's medical unit, treating people who probably outrank you, and occasionally wondering if all your life choices were really just a long con.

You'd never admit it out loud. Not to anyone. Maybe not even to yourself while brushing your teeth. Always going on about how blessed you are to be making a difference in people's lives and all that bullshit. Good thing the nursing skills were interesting enough. Otherwise you might have pivoted to arson or tax fraud.

The occasional limb loss, GSW, or the latest B.O.W. outbreak — just another day keeping yourself entertained enough to stay alive. Maybe you were a thrill seeker, should have probably become a stunt specialist.

Stepping into the hallway after finally silencing the god-forsaken beeping, you spot a figure down the hallway talking to the charge nurse. From where you're standing, he seems to be a head taller than you. Broad too, not in a bulky way, just solid. You eye the faint grey at the edges of his hair, hands that look like they’ve done too much, and deep blue eyes that seem to measure everything way too carefully. The charge nurse is laughing like he’s harmless, but the way he stands — controlled, untouchable — makes your stomach do a weird flip.

She spots you down the hallway and motions for you to come over. As you get closer, you eye his collared shirt, the shoulder crusted over with blood and sticking to him like a second skin.

"Would you mind taking Agent Kennedy to an exam room? He has a shoulder laceration and needs sutures." She's looking at you like you should have started moving fifteen minutes ago. Whatever. She's always been a cunt.

When you glance over to him, he’s already watching you. Not staring, not rude. Just… assessing. You suddenly understand the feeling behind the phrase, "like a bug under a microscope". Though the name "Agent Kennedy" itches somewhere in the back of your brain, you're too distracted by the independent figure in front of you to even look for it.

Nodding slowly, you choke out, "Sure... right this way." The words sticking like the phlegm in your throat that always builds up overnight. 

Gross.

Anyways.

You feel him keeping in step behind you, his presence palpable enough to eat with a spoon. The sound of his combat boots hitting the vinyl flooring and cracking through your skull were leaving you painfully aware that you would have to turn around eventually.

Your legs finally maneuver the rest of your body to an empty treatment room, your arm holding the door open for him as he strolls through. Your eyes don't seem to be cooperating though, keeping themselves glued to your feet. You can hear your mouth say, "You can take a seat on the exam table".

Seems like nobody's really working together here.

Various assholes in your life would tell you that you shouldn't have become a nurse. That it requires someone capable of interacting with the rest of society. That thought did occasionally bother you in the beginning — mainly because they were right, and you actually were the closed system they labelled you as. 

However, as you became more capable with the overt clinical skills, you were able to pull some façade out of your ass that allowed you to connect with your patients and make them feel well cared for. Ironic considering you nearly failed Nursing Therapeutics 102.

In this case however, that façade you came to rely on stays perpetually wedged somewhere else in your digestive system. Unreachable in the moment where you needed it most. 

He slides himself onto the table, seeming to take up more space than he means to just by existing, as if the air itself is adjusting around him.

Your eyes, no longer interested in your shoes, keep themselves trained on his face, which now appears older up close. There’s nothing remarkable about any single feature. It’s the way everything fits together that makes looking away feel premature. His frame looks built for function more than display, though you find his physique displaying itself very well despite whatever the original intent was.

You clear your throat and introduce yourself, your voice slightly uncertain, as if you're not even sure you gave him the right name. He raises his eyebrows slightly and nods, the corner of his mouth twitching briefly.

"So tell me what's going on." You don't outright address the blood, despite it being painfully obvious (pun intended).

He adjusts his shoulder, wincing somewhat. "Got a little souvenir from my last assignment. Building nearly collapsed while I was still inside". His voice sounds like he's smoked one too many, though he doesn't look like the type.

Your stomach does another flip.

Nodding in a way that hopefully makes you look seasoned enough, you start to pull on a pair of gloves. Despite this, he's probably thinking that you could use another dash or two. “Let's have a look then.”

You glance at the crusted shirt that was most likely bought one or two sizes too small (you wouldn't believe him if he denied it).

"Shirt off please?"

You really hope he doesn't notice the small wheeze that leaves your throat as you speak.

He follows through, thankfully, swiftly running his hands down the front of his shirt with buttons snapping apart like they hate each other. Shrugging his shirt off, you fight to suppress the building pressure in your chest.

Shoulders steady (despite the laceration) and ribs cascading under his skin — not a sculpted six pack on display, more like muscles that flex with the slightest movement. His forearms are lined with veins that look like they're just begging to be stuck with an IV. Scars along his biceps and torso, leaving reminders of history wherever you can see them. God. Stop staring.

Mentally punching yourself in the face, you step forward and bring your gloved hands up towards him. 

"May I?"

He can probably hear your heart jackhammering from where he's sitting. 

He grunts in a way that you assume means permission, so you close the gap between the two of you. Your fingers palpate the wound edges gently. They're jagged, the way a broken zipper would fit together. Most of the bleeding has stopped, though small trickles leak through the clotted tissue, coaxed out by your touch. The bruising bordering the gaps create a mosaic of purples and yellows, making it almost too brutal to look away from. 

"Definitely gonna need sutures." You look up at him, meeting his gaze. His eyes make your vision tilt sideways…or maybe he's making the earth do that on its own.

You rip your eyes away and turn towards the supply cabinet, mentally taking note of what you're going to need. Stockpiling the necessary items on a tray, you turn back to him, determined to at least finish the job before your head eventually greets the floor. Approaching him for the second time, you feel his breath tickle your ear. You need to get close enough to get the stitches straight and he's doing you a favour by manspreading enough that you're basically in between his thighs. You're not complaining, obviously.

"Actually, let me get you some numbing before we start." You begin to turn around again but he shakes his head.

"Just get it over with."

You blink a couple times and slowly pick up the contents of the suture kit. "Ooo-kay then..." 

You wish you had his pain tolerance. He probably would have just sneezed away the migraine you had earlier.

You try to focus on the task at hand and ignore the way his torso moves when he lifts an arm, the little twitch of shoulder and chest muscle brushing against your awareness, but your eyes are traitors. 

Gripping the torn flesh with your non-dominant hand, you guide the curved needle through his skin, rejoining the edges in holy matrimony.

Thread, tie, snip. Thread, tie, snip.

The rhythm helps to distract you, if only a little. Your hard work comes to fruition as his skin starts to look less like a slasher movie and more like the stuffed dinosaur your mom stitched up for you when you were nine-years-old.

He tilts his head as you're working and an expression you can't quite identify forms on his face. "How old are you anyway?" 

Your eyes dart back to his and the migraine you were trying to ignore begins to nestle between your eyebrows again. A heavy sigh leaves your lips.

"I'm twenty-five." 

You weren't necessarily young for your career path, but being surrounded by other nurses with three to five more years under their belt, you found yourself often being scrutinized by the influx of long-serving agents that graced your path.

He raises his eyebrow again, that twitch from earlier now forming into a mellow smirk. "Huh. They really are speeding up the training these days."

You look up at him directly now. Honestly, you can't quite decide whether to snap at him, or tell him that ‘he's absolutely right’ and ‘who are you kidding’! His words are like a parasite digging in your brain.

A soft chuckle escapes his lips before he speaks again. "You always this calm when working around liability hazards?"

"Uhh... I try to be?" You're not entirely sure what he's referring to but judging from what he's here for, you're glad you're not a field medic.

“Good. Because I’ve been informed I’m not allowed to apologize for bleeding anymore. Union rules. Or something.”

Despite his earlier comment, you can't help but laugh, even just a little. It doesn't do too much to suppress the boiling mess in your ribcage but at the very least he sounds mortal enough.

A shaky exhale leaves your lips as you finally get to the top of his shoulder, tying the last knot. Only then you notice that he barely flinched throughout the entire process, just continuing to keep his eyes on you, watching. Not helpful.

"Well... I'm done here. All patched up and good as new!" You peel off your gloves and the cool air from the vents hits your very moist hands.

He lets out a quiet huff and shakes his head. The smirk still playing softly on his lips. "Maybe not good as new. Good enough for now." As he stands up and pulls his extra-small shirt back on, he hesitates for a moment.

"Thanks... by the way. Good bedside manner."

You just stand there, your knuckles turning white as you clasp your hands behind your back. Lady luck must have her eye on you right now as you feel very fortunate that you're wearing a mask, considering it's hiding your mouth hanging open like a gawking dumbass. "Agent Kennedy?" His name comes out tighter than intended.

He turns back as he's about to open the door and your vision gets all swimmy again.

"The sutures. Seven days... please." Holy shit. Put your foot in your MOUTH. "I need to take them out then."

He nods at you, understanding your backwards sentence well enough, and walks out of the treatment room.

You lean back into the exam table, the disposable paper lining crinkling in your grip. You weren't looking forward to sticking your head into that emotional meat grinder again, but you're at least grateful your migraine is gone.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Control isn't the same thing as distance.

Leon's lived long enough to know that. Most things can be handled efficiently enough if you keep moving and leave them where they are. Not compartmentalizing. That only leads to having to deal with the inconvenience later down the road. His experience in Raccoon City taught him that much. He used to think that was the turning point — the thing that made him who he was. Holding onto it with a grip that could crack bone. As he got older, he eventually realized he was wrong.

It was all the fucked up shit that came after.

He shouldn't really complain too much. After all, he should have died twenty-eight years ago, and technically he did. Well... the cop inside him at least. 

Okay, even he knows that's getting old.

Now here he is, a walking corpse. Much like the infected bastards he stomps on for a living. The good thing about corpses is they don't leave anything behind. Nothing that matters anyway. Once you're dead, you're dead. Even if you're stumbling around in a decrepit building. Sure, people might mourn you, but it's not like you're conscious enough to care.

Funny enough, he only realized this after being strung along by Ada for those twenty-eight god-forsaken years. Always within arms reach, always just close enough to touch, then gone again. Same story, same beat. Eventually he learned to do as the zombies do, so to speak. Letting go of the bullshit and focusing on what's important. Walking, hacking, shooting through life. The way the universe decided fit him best.

It's only recently that he's started to compartmentalize.

The assignment was just to gather intel. Nothing more. He shouldn't really have even accepted it in the first place. Any younger, shinier, ass-kissing agent could have done it. Unfortunately for him, it just so happened to tie in with the Raccoon incident, which meant tight lips and sending the one man who knew how to keep a secret.

What was supposed to have been an in-and-out job turned into him nearly getting buried alive and cut open by the fucking ceiling. Fortunately for his operations officer, he managed to, at the very least, get the intel they asked for. 

As if he was gonna come back empty-handed after all that.

Hunnigan made it clear he wasn't walking away until he got patched up. He’d rolled his eyes, muttered under his breath about being fine, but the point landed all the same. The spirit may be willing but the body doesn’t negotiate — aches, bruises, torn skin — all stubborn reminders that even a seasoned agent can be forced to follow orders.

He never really made much of an effort in his career to get proper medical attention anyway. He usually resided in duct tape, sheer will, and getting shit-faced to pull him through the inevitable disfigurement that came with the occupation. Usually it was the hangover that did the trick. It was on this one occasion that he was forced to haul his sorry ass over to get treatment.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, basking the unit in a sharp, sickly glow. It didn't help that every surface practically screamed white, the reflection of the lights making him unable to open his eyes fully. The sterility of the air provided at least some sort of comfort, though in a way that also burnt the inside of his nose. Maybe he was too used to the smell of sewers.

He didn't even make it to the desk before the charge nurse was already sidling up to him, a look on her face he knew all too well. His reputation always preceded him. He would always hear his name float around whenever he walked by. Hushed whispers and lingering stares, his name being treated like a ghost story. That was easier to deal with in reality. It was the brown-nosing that really irritated him.

Then you walk over. A look on your face like you're not really sure what to make of him. He can't help but notice your body language, professional enough, though slightly mousey. Not being able to hold his gaze for too long. You're practically a kid in his eyes, though anyone under the age of thirty looked like a kid to him. But apparently you're the one who's going to stitch him up. Alright then.

He follows you down the hallway towards the treatment room, watching your ponytail swaying hypnotically as you walk. He can't help but notice how fluffy it is, every lock seeming to follow your movements like they're alive. Fluffy... really Leon?

You guide him into the room and he takes a seat on the exam table. The awkward demeanor doesn't let up, though you ask all the necessary questions so he just assumes you're star-struck or something. Still, you never outright address the reason he came in, or probe for details. It's refreshing, in a way.

As soon as you place your hands on him, he has to steel himself for a moment. Your hands are gentle, brushing and pressing against his skin as you assess the wound. He watches and notes the focused look in your eyes, like you now appear to belong in the room.

Your thoughtful expression continues to grow as you work, as if this is the only task you've ever done in your life. Your lashes flutter when you blink. He swears he's seen your eyes flicking elsewhere for barely a second, but not long enough for him to confirm it.

Each touch is measured, deliberate. The way you thread the needle through his skin is precise, almost artistic. Like you take pride in each individual stitch and its placement. Your hands continue to glide along his skin, pushing the ripped edges of his wound back together with care.

He'd asked about your age, figuring you were still a bit green behind the ears. Hearing that you’re twenty-five surprised him only a little. You definitely were younger than most of your colleagues. Brighter too. Less worn out.

After a while you step back and admire him... or your hard work, he doesn't really know anymore. As you peel off your gloves, he notes how you have to wipe your hands on your scrubs. You'd been all precision and calm while stitching him up. Now you stumbled through the follow-up instructions like they were classified intel. Seven days. Please.

He almost smiled.

⋆｡°✩

The week crawled by. No assignments, no emergencies. Just intel reports, debriefing, and the thoughts that continued to drift back into his head.

Day 1-2:

The first few days were easy enough. Focus on resting, finish up the reports, and a little bit of physical therapy (at Hunnigan's demand request). He tells himself he's focused on healing.

Day 3-4:

He's not good at sitting still but he keeps himself occupied the best he can. Spending time at the range. Cleaning, recleaning, overcleaning his weapons. Going on runs at weird hours.

The thoughts creep back in.

The way your hands brushed along his skin. The soft tone in your voice.

It's irritating. It didn't matter. It was just different.

Day 5-6:

There really isn't anything to do anymore. No more reports to hand in (he double checked). He can see his reflection in his Matilda now. He finds himself wandering around the facility, often past the medical unit. Checking his watch again, he wonders if six days is enough time for him to come back.

He sighs heavily, replaying the interaction in his head for the thousandth time. No longer clinical. More personal.

Do you act this way with everyone?

That thought sits heavier than it should.

Day 7:

He walks through the gates of the D.S.O., scanning his badge as he passes and nodding briefly to security. Eventually the medical wing comes into view, his heart rate picking up slightly with each step.

You probably weren't even born yet when Raccoon city happened.

Different generation. Different world. Same fluorescent lights.

The automatic doors creek open and you look up from the desk of the nursing station. Hair slightly tousled, no longer in a ponytail. It rests on your shoulders, framing your face delicately and draping over your chest. Your eyes connect with his and for a brief moment, he wonders if he's starting to develop angina.

"Hi, Agent Kennedy."

Your voice is soft but steady, like you were expecting him but not for a while longer. To be fair, he did show up pretty early. Didn't exactly want to sit through another day.

"Hey there." His voice comes out more gruff than expected so he softens his tone a bit. "Back like you asked."

He notices the blush that creeps up your neck, most of it hidden behind the surgical mask. You nod and get up from your seat, ushering him towards the treatment room. 

"You can follow me."

He trails behind you almost too closely, watching your hair sway gently as you walk. The smell of your shampoo wafting towards him without his consent. Maybe you wouldn't notice if he ran his hand through it–

Great. Real mature Leon.

He shakes his head, as if he could jostle the thought free, and tries to affix his attention on the ceiling tiles. Though the way the light catches a single strand refuses to leave him alone.

He follows you into the exam room, which now feels smaller than it did last time. The door shuts behind you, trapping you both in close quarters.

"Have the sutures been bothering you?"

Straight to the point. No small talk. He had to give you credit for that.

"I've dealt with worse. Most of it unintentional, unfortunately. You did a good job though" He gives you a quick, almost reflexive wink in an attempt to deflate the pressure in the room — one he immediately regrets when it has the opposite effect. Nice one Kennedy. "And... how've you been?"

You seem to bristle at his question. The blush now climbing past the mask and settling in the visible parts of your cheeks. 

"Oh, me? I mean, I've been–o-oh shit-!"

As you're turning around to grab the tray of equipment, you manage to knock it off the counter completely. You bend down to pick it up, effectively starting a small house fire in his brain.

Women. Can't say he hasn't seen it all.

Ada's push-and-pull games? Predictable. Ashley's not-so-subtle attempts whenever she got the chance? Overeager, bless her heart. Claire? Well, that was never going to amount to anything. Even the occasional flirt from the odd field analyst or intel officer barely registers. Mostly exhausting.

And yet...

Somewhere, his better judgement is screaming at him, but his eyes ignore it. He notes how your scrubs hug your form as you bend down. The way your shirt lifts beyond your lower back. Each curve flicking some buried primal switch. His molars press together, the thrum of blood rushing to places that don't usually get a second thought. He's acting like a god-damn teenager.

You get up and he pushes the guilt down into some forgotten corner of his mind. He'll unpack that later.

Probably.

He clears his throat unnecessarily as you turn, quietly grateful for his black pants and a bit of tactical foresight.

"I am so sorry about that." You're brushing your hair behind your ears, hands trembling slightly as you procure fresh supplies from the cabinet.

"It's... not a problem. Can't say I haven't been there." Has he been there? He can't remember anything beyond thirty seconds ago.

You let out a shaky sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Right. Shirt off again please?"

He feels the less rational part of his body twitch at your request, making the front of his pants uncomfortably tight. The hairs on his neck prickle slightly. His hands fumble with his shirt buttons, the process seeming to take longer than when he put it on this morning.

You step towards him with gloved hands and observe the wound. Eyes running along his frame, humming quietly as you lean closer. He's painfully aware you smell like roses.

"It's healing nicely. We can definitely take them out now." Your eyes meet his once again–can people grow lashes that long? He's never cared enough to know the answer to that.

He nods slowly and swallows. "Sure. I mean. Just make sure I live through it. I've come too far to bite the bullet now."

It's the second time he's gotten any sort of reaction out of you. The joke wasn't even that funny, but it's a win regardless. A polite giggle leaves your lips, causing a ringing in his ears and his tongue feeling like he ate tissue paper.

"No worries, Agent Kennedy. I've got you." Your eyes crinkle at the corners. Cheeks peeking above your mask like little apples.

Scissors and tweezers in hand, you work your way from bottom to top. Snipping and tugging at each suture, sending tiny sensations rippling along his nerves. He's gripping the edge of the table like he might fall off at any given moment.

After what seems like an eternity, you pull the last stitch from his shoulder. Soft hands press against the edges of the damage, ensuring they stay where they're supposed to.

"All done. Good as... before?" You tilt your head slightly, seeming to remember his reaction to your "good as new" from the last encounter.

His mouth pulls into a wry smile, a low chuckle brushing past his lips before he can stop it. "Yeah. Sounds about right. Thanks again. 'Preciate it." He puts his shirt back on and readies himself to leave.

"No worries, Agent Kennedy. Have a good one." You wave awkwardly as he steps toward the door.

He hesitates, his hand on the handle. Eyeing you for a moment before making a decision.

"You can call me Leon. If you want."

Something flashes behind your eyes for a moment and you stiffen. 

"O-oh. Alright... Leon."

He nods at you once again before stepping out of the room. As he walks off the unit, he rubs his affected shoulder. The ghosts of your fingers lingering on his skin.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Leon. Leon Kennedy. Leon fucking Kennedy.

You want to rip your fingers off. Set something on fire. Put a shotgun to your head. You don't even know anymore.

Leon Kennedy. God– how could you have possibly forgotten. Memories of your high school days flood your brain and embarrass you in front of nobody but yourself. Hours spent on forums, watching true crime documentaries, saving your favourite photos, conspiring with other homebodies in chatrooms about the latest bioterrorism attack. He was never a big name out there, but to you? Fuck...

Eventually you got a life and started functioning outside of the internet, leaving his name in your past — along with your brief crush on Harry Styles.

It's been over two weeks since you last saw him but you're still kicking yourself. Even while taking vitals on your latest patient, the memories continue to batter your brain. You told him to take his shirt off. Twice.

You groan internally. You're acting like a fucking teenager.

You should have known honestly. The way the other nurses would whisper as he walked by, you figured they were feeling just as gut-punched as you were. His name was in his chart. How did you miss that? You're losing it.

You peel your gloves off and walk out of the room, trudging over to the nursing station and collapsing into a nearby chair. Rubbing your eyes, you hope if you press on them hard enough they'll fall back into your sinus cavities. Not physiologically possible.

Too bad.

Exhaling the intrusive thoughts, you focus on updating your charting. Repeating the previously taken vitals like a mantra designed to keep you focused.

BP 132/77, respirations 19, sats at 96%, heart rate 83, temp 98.4°F. Leon Kennedy. Leon Kennedy?

You have to blink a couple times to fully register the form walking towards you. 

No. Yes…? Yeah. Him again.

He strolls up to the nursing station, leaning on the counter in front of you with a coffee in hand. He's wearing a black leather biker style jacket that ends just below his waistline, the sleeves cracked and frayed from consistent use. His collared shirt is tucked into his dark denim jeans. Hair looks slightly tousled, not in a bed-head way, but purposeful. Like he ran his fingers through it moments prior.

Did he trim his facial hair?

"Hey. Me again." He's carrying a faint, crooked smile, as if the corners of his mouth couldn't agree on which way was up.

With your latest revelation now making its home in your head, you can only stare at him like a fucking idiot. Silently wondering if Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, or an evil unicorn decided to place a curse on you. "Hi... Leon. Did you get hurt again?" Is all you can manage.

His smile deepens, the corners of his mouth no longer being directionally challenged. "No. Not this time. All quiet on the western front." You don't get the reference but you nod anyways.

"So... what are you doing here? Are you visiting someone?"

He tilts his head thoughtfully.

"Yeah. You actually."

What?

Heat radiates off the top of your head. Your ears are practically boiling. You're not sure if you heard him right. "...me? Okay... why?" Nailed it.

He looks down at the coffee in his hands, his fingers drumming against the side of the cup. "I wanted to get you this. To say thanks. For last time. Something to get you through your shift."

He passes you the cup, hands brushing against yours during the exchange and sending jolts of electricity down your arm. His fingers feel well worn, much like the leather jacket he's currently wearing.

"Wow uh... thank you. You didn't need to. Really." Your voice is barely above a whisper.

"Well, I figured I should. I'm usually my own field medic. Nice being on the other side for once."

You think back to the scars gracing his shirtless frame, each one most likely telling a gruesome story you don't want to know. Though at the same time, you sort of do...

"Well, thank you... again. And you're welcome." You glance down at the coffee and realize it's black. You hate black coffee. You'll drink all of it of course. There's probably cream and sugar in the staff room.

His posture seems to relax a little, his eyes lingering for longer than they should. "So... busy shift? Anything interesting?"

You can think of one thing.

"No, not really. Honestly though? Boring is good. It lets me sit down." You run your fingers through your hair absentmindedly.

He leans into the counter further.

"Really? Nothing at all?"

His face is basically above yours, casting a shadow across the desk and onto your body. You tuck your hair behind your ear.

"Well... you're here."

Did you say that out loud?

You did.

You absolutely did.

A look of surprise flashes across his face, but is quickly replaced by the same faint smile from earlier.

"Glad I stopped by then. I'll leave you to it." He gives you a casual wave then turns toward the doors, walking off the unit, taking your only remaining neuron with him.

What were those vitals again?

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

“Well... you're here.”

Your words replay in his head, overpowering his own thoughts.

The days after his follow-up appointment were... irritating, to put it lightly. There was no amount of target practice, jogging, or gun polishing that could distract him from the way he felt back there.

He kept thinking about your scent. Roses. Not the safe, forgettable scents most girls your age went for. That choice alone was… distracting.

He felt like a creep.

Did you style your hair before he arrived? Couldn't have known he'd show up that early. And yet, the way it was slightly mussed... like you wanted it to look that way.

Seriously.

Why were you so skittish around him? He knew his reputation. Intimidating. Though the way you blushed. The quiet giggle at a joke he barely even thought was funny. Things like that never fazed him before.

His brain needed to shut the fuck up.

⋆｡°✩

Sleep wasn't happening. Nights of tossing and turning left him mentally wasted. He would trace the wound with his finger, now scabbed over and flaking — the one scar he didn't mind looking at.

He needed to do something. Anything.

Coffee in hand, he had walked himself over to the unit for the third time this month. A new record. He made sure to at least look presentable — leather jacket solid, stubble neat.

He was being nice. You deserved some sort of thank-you after how you helped him. Probably nothing new for you. Patients did this all the time.

No big deal.

But the way you looked at him?

The way you spoke?

How your body seemed to lean in at the same time he did?

Well... you're here.

God, he couldn't take it.

He quickly excused himself after that. The air felt heavy. Blanketing him in a mixture of captivation and self-reproach.

The automatic doors shut behind him and he makes his way out of the building. Only then does he exhale.

This couldn't happen. It shouldn't.

He chides himself. As if it were ever a possibility. Giving himself way too much credit.

You probably had a boyfriend. There's no way you wouldn't already be spoken for.

Maybe he should try going to the range again.

⋆｡°✩

Fortunately for him, life starts to pick up again, albeit still too slow for his liking. With transcripts flowing in and assignments being sent his way, he's able to tack his thoughts onto something tangible. Less incriminating.

He sits in his office chair, the ergonomic kind. He had requested it after a particularly hellish mission that gifted him with sciatica and thoughts of a career change. The LED light of his desktop casts an eerie glow.

The cursor blinks at him. A document titled "Tactical Engagement Review" sits unfinished in front of his eyes. He types up a few sentences, then deletes them abruptly.

He runs his hand down his face and stares at the screen. Hoping for some inspiration to beat the intrusive thoughts long enough to finish the report.

He thought of your hands. How soft they felt. Wondering if they were any softer without your gloves on. How they would feel running down the rest of his body.

He was screwed.

⋆｡°✩

One evening, he finds himself limping his way towards the unit once again.

His thigh suffered a graze after being caught in close quarters with some bastard firing off shots like he had never used a gun in his life. He was able to pivot in time to avoid hitting anything major, but not enough to let him walk away clean. Rookie move on his part. 

Patching himself up was like clockwork, but the blood that was already soaking through the gauze told him he should probably deal with this properly. Hunnigan would be proud.

As he makes his way down the hallway, he hopes that this is the one time he actually doesn't see you. He's not sure if he could take it.

Of course, for him, luck isn't on his side. 

As he clears the automatic doors, he spots the top of your head peeking over the nursing station. You appear to be deep in thought, typing away at the computer. 

Your mask is off this time, and he realizes that this is the first time he's actually seen your face. Your jawline is rounded and your cheekbones are prominent, giving you a soft and youthful look. Your lips appear slightly reddened and swollen, like you've been biting the skin off. Your large, round eyes remove themselves from the screen and meet his own, peering up at him from over the counter.

"Agent Ken- I mean, Leon?"

Hearing his name fall off your lips does something wild to his nervous system. He wants to hear you say it again. And again. And again.

"Hey you." He scans the unit, which happens to be devoid of other staff. "Where is everyone?"

You sigh heavily. "Short staffed tonight. There's another nurse around somewhere. God knows where she is."

His fingers flex at his sides and his voice drops a half register without meaning to. "Sorry about that. Got a little more work for you if you're up for it." He limps his way around the desk and shows you his leg, the blood now seeping into his socks.

Your eyes widen. "Oh. Um... yeah totally. Here, follow me." You get up from the desk and motion for him to follow. Leading you both to that god-damn room again and opening the door. He takes a seat on the exam table without being asked. 

The door shuts behind you both.

You gather a tray of supplies and set it aside next to him. Movements fluid, signalling that this is not your first time tending to an agent bleeding out onto the floor. Gloves snap against your wrist in time with the beat of his increasing pulse.

Side-eyeing him, you swallow before speaking.

"You're going to have to pull your pants down a bit"

He already saw this coming. Standing up with a grunt, he unbuckles his belt, sliding his tactical pants down to his knees, then hoists himself back onto the table. He’s grateful that the parts of his body he was worried about weren't making an appearance behind his boxer briefs just yet.

You slide over to him on the rolling stool, positioning his affected leg between your knees. Soft hands gingerly run along the edges of the injury. Blood flows in small spurts and runs down the side of his leg.

Was he in pain? Honestly, no. He can't feel anything anymore. Nothing except the way your hands brush against his skin, almost too close.

You look up at him, your doll eyes making his vision blurry — or maybe that was the blood loss. "Lucky you. It looks superficial enough for me to only need to irrigate and dress it. Any closer to the front of your leg and you'd be in a lot more trouble."

As if he wasn’t already.

He lets out a low, unsettled laugh. "Lucky me huh? Should have bought a lottery ticket."

Another lame joke. Yet the smile it brought to your face made it all the more worth it.

Grabbing some saline, you gently rinse out the wound. The cold sensation sending shivers down his spine. You take some gauze and dry off the surface of his skin. Collecting the excess blood as you go.

He's trying his damned hardest not to look at you– the ceiling, the door, the walls, anything but where your hands are. It doesn't help. The light, yet deliberate way you move them. Their warmth doing something unwelcome to his circulation.

His shoulders go rigid and the pounding in his head (and other places) gets louder. Heat coils in his lower abdomen and he adjusts himself slightly.

You tear open a surgical dressing and stick it on top of the wound, smoothing it out and making his situation all the more worse.

You were so focused. Maybe you wouldn't notice.

Then you look up at him again.

Your cheeks are flushed. The breath catching in your throat is audible. The look behind your eyes is telling.

Neither of you move. The silence in the room is only broken by the faint ticking of the clock. Your hands are still resting on his thigh.

Your teeth catch your bottom lip. "I think you're all set." You say in a hushed tone.

His eyes linger on your face.

You stand up slowly from the stool, removing your gloves as you do so. Hands brushing your hair behind your ear.

"Is... there anything else I can do for you?"

The way you spoke. Your voice is laced with apprehension and honey. Sweet enough to give him a cavity. Arousing enough to make him want to close the distance between you both.

He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Words coming out slower than intended. "You need to tell me to leave. I can't have you looking at me like that."

He reaches forward, tilting your chin towards him with his hand. His thumb brushes against the side of your face.

You shift uncomfortably on your feet, but you don't pull away.

Instead, you lean into his touch.

"Maybe. I don't want you to go... Leon."

The clock continues to tick.

He thinks of all the complications that could follow. He had his reputation to think about — the parts he gave a rats ass about anyways. He should get up and walk out now.

You cautiously step closer, but his hand refuses to let go of your face.

Your eyes drift slowly down to his lips, pupils dilated.

And the distance dissipates.

It's slow at first — the energy feeling more like a question between the both of you. Your lips taste like vanilla, smooth and plush in contrast to his own.

He lifts his other hand and hesitates, the moment almost like stained glass that could shatter instantly. Eventually, it finds its home on your waist.

You lean in deeper. The movement of your lips growing in fervor. You rest your hands on his chest at first, then slowly slide upwards — your fingers interlacing around the back of his neck.

He groans softly, playing further into the intensity. He was hungry. He wanted more. All of it.

But not here.

He pulls himself away and the rest of his body curses him out.

Your breath mingles with his as you hold each other's gaze, the ticking clock drowned out by the electricity between you both.

He takes the initiative and breaks the silence, his mind making the decision before the rest of him can object. "I should probably go."

You nod. "Okay." The soft whisper brushes against his face.

He doesn't get up immediately though. Just continues to hold you, his own breathing matching the speed of yours. His hand itches to pull you in again, but the thought of overstepping keeps him frozen for a heartbeat. He settles on giving you a slow, small peck before pulling away. Already missing the warmth radiating off of you.

He pushes himself off of the exam table and pulls his pants back up. Wincing from his leg and the way his pants hug him in all the wrong places. "So uh – when does your shift end?"

You look at the clock and fiddle with the tail ends of your hair, hands slightly unsteady and face completely crimson. "In about two hours."

He nods and clears his throat. The thought of what he wanted to propose was wrestling with his moral high-ground.

"Right. Stop by my office after — 312 — if you're not too tired. No pressure. Just... consider it an offer."

He leaves the room before you have a chance to answer.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

What the hell just happened?

You kissed him. That's what happened.

Sitting back at the nursing station, you fight the urge to scream, throw-up, and bang your head against the wall.

What were you thinking? Were you thinking? No shit you weren't thinking!

He kissed you back.

Yeah you’re definitely gonna throw-up.

His hands had felt sturdy, preventing you from being swallowed by the floor. His lips were coarse, yet his movements felt gentle, like he was afraid he was going to break you. The way his stubble tickled your cheeks. And yeah… he was hard, obvious as hell. And for some weird fucking reason, you didn’t care.

You grip the pen in your hand and look up at the clock. It's only been ten minutes. An hour and fifty minutes left.

The weight of his offer spiraled around your head, sucking the air out of your lungs.

The thought of stepping further into whatever this was left a pit in your stomach. He was technically old enough to be your dad, though your parents are in their sixties so that argument falls flat. Miracle baby. Huzzah.

The thing is, it didn't seem to bother you as much as it should. In reality, it should have grossed you out. Much like that time when your high school math teacher mistook being thirty for permission. That kind of attention felt wrong before you even had the words for why.

This wasn't that.

You were a teenager and your teacher was a creep, so it was weird point-blank.

And Leon? Absolutely not a creep.

It definitely helped that he was carrying that "hot uncle vibe". If hot uncles were allowed to exist in your nightmares and daydreams simultaneously. 

Though aside from the embarrassing research you did when you were fifteen, you really didn't know much about him.

But that could change.

The thought lingers in your mind, a mixture of curiosity, anticipation, and just a slice of insanity slowly wriggling its way in. You check the clock again. One hour and forty-five minutes left.

⋆｡°✩

As you walk down the empty hallway, you have to fight the urge to turn around and go straight home. Your steps echo across the walls, only helping to further your increasing anxiety.

309, 310, 311... 312.

Standing outside his office door, your fist hovers shakily, preparing to knock. You can't believe what you're doing. This has to be breaking some sort of workplace code of conduct.

You inhale and knock on the door rapidly before you have a chance to change your mind. Then you wait.

"Come in."

Hearing the low, muffled voice behind the door makes you jump a little. You take another breath and grasp the handle, warily turning it before peeking your head inside.

Leon's sitting across the room at his desk, working on his computer and twirling a pen between his fingers. His sleeves are rolled up and he's wearing office glasses, the kind with the floating lenses. The idea of you standing in front of his desk with him looking like that feels like you were being summoned to the principal's office. The thought has you pressing your thighs together without you realizing.

You don't make any effort to move. You just stand there like an action figure as peers at you from above his slutty glasses.

"Didn't think you'd show up."

Neither did you. "Well... here I am."

He tilts his head, his expression difficult to discern. "You gonna come over here?"

The door clicks behind you.

You walk towards him, wiping your clammy hands on your pants as you go. Each step closing the distance and making the office feel smaller... and warmer. As you make your way around the desk, he swivels his chair towards you and takes off his glasses, setting them on the desk. You note that he's already changed out of his blood-soaked pants.

The edge of the desk brushes against your thigh. He looks at you thoughtfully, then reaches forward and takes your hands. Gently pulling you in and caressing the inside of your wrists with his thumbs.

He pauses for a moment. "You okay?"

You nod.

His face softens. "You don't have to stay, you know. You could leave. I won't be offended."

You could. You really could.

But you don't want to.

You shake your head decisively.

"I'm not going anywhere."

The expression on his face changes, his brows furrowing. He stands, drawing you to him until your chest meets his. Hand finding your face, his thumb traces your bottom lip like he’s testing something fragile. His breathing is steady. Your's? Definitely not.

As you observe his features, you realize the heat in his eyes isn’t subtle anymore. His mouth parts slightly — like he’s about to say something and decides against it. His nose brushes against yours for a moment.

Then he closes the distance.

It's slow at first, like the last time. Just lips pressing, testing, not pushing any further. His hand settles on the small of your back, fingertips skimming the spot gently — making your breath catch in your throat.

You sigh softly into the kiss and rest your hands on his broad shoulders, nipping at his bottom lip tentatively. You really surprise yourself sometimes.

That seems to wake up something in him. The kiss deepens, lips parting and tongue beginning to trace the entrance of your mouth. You allow him to advance, his tongue brushing against yours in gentle, languid movements. Stubble scraping against your cheeks.

You could practically smell the restraint on him. But he keeps things controlled, just allowing himself to explore your mouth, hands roaming around your back.

He breaks the kiss just enough to search your face, a trail of saliva connecting the two of you together.

You reach forward and brush the hair from his eyes before you can second guess yourself, his head leaning into your touch.

"You're shaking."

Well obviously. You were about to make a wildly irresponsible life choice.

"Just um... nervous, I guess." Understatement of the year.

He runs his fingers through your hair, studying your face carefully. "Still sure about this?"

You nod all too quickly.

His hand hesitates, fingers still woven in your hair. Something unreadable flickers there, but disappears before you can fully acknowledge it. A muscle ticks in his cheek before he swears under his breath.

Without warning, his hands slide under your thighs, hoisting you up onto the desk without so much as a grunt. He then nudges his knee between yours, settling himself between your legs, and pulling you into another heated kiss.

Hands begin to wander, tentatively at first, becoming more deliberate with each fleeting touch. One staying grounded into your hair, tilting your head back as he continues to kiss you. The other slips under your shirt, shifting the fabric up and bunching it around your chest.

You pull away, just long enough to do the work for him and take it off yourself. You wished you had at least worn a cuter bra, but it was a work day and you normally don't give a shit.

Apparently he didn't seem to either. He takes a moment, his eyes dragging over you slowly. Then he crashes his lips back into yours. His hand drifts up your waist, fingers hovering at first. You inhale sharply and lean into him as his hand cups you, thumb brushing lazily before his grip tightens.

Heat coils low in your stomach, making you whimper softly. Your hands grip his collar, undoing the buttons and sliding off his shirt. You hear his breath falter for the first time — a flash of restraint you can almost taste before he leans back in.

His eyes search yours for a moment, looking for any lingering uncertainty.

But you don't look away.

He trails soft kisses along your jaw. Down your neck. Nipping at various spots along the way. Your hands fly up to his hair, fingers entangling themselves in his strands. Damn it’s soft. You'd have to ask him what conditioner he uses after.

As he continues to leave sweet little marks along your neck and collarbone, you eye the scar on his shoulder, the one you sutured yourself. Running your finger along it, you admire how well it healed.

His kisses travel lower, down your chest, all the way to your stomach. He kisses your bellybutton and you have to fight the urge not to giggle from how much it tickled.

He brings his gaze back up to yours, hooking his thumbs under your waistband.

"Lift."

Your breath hitches.

You shift up slightly, allowing him to pull your pants off. The cool air sends goosebumps across your skin.

He rubs the inside of your thighs. Pausing for a fraction of a second and watching your reaction. "You cold?"

You shiver again. "Yeah a bit."

He leans his head lightly against your knee, a thoughtful expression forms on his face as his fingers toy with the inner lining of your underwear. "You need me to warm you up?"

The sound you make lands somewhere between a squeak and a gasp.

"Yes please..."

A soft smile plays on his lips as he kisses the inside of your thigh. He then guides your legs wider and shifts your underwear aside.

Cursing as he takes in the sight, he spreads apart your folds with his thumbs. You grip the edge of the desk and shut your eyes tight, your face now a lovely shade of beetroot.

He pauses for a moment, "Hey, eyes on me."

You nod, peeking through one eye open.

He leans in, peppering your clit with delicate kisses, making your back arch involuntarily. He delves in deeper, running his tongue up your slit and collecting your slick along the way. His stubble scratches against your thighs and you shift your hips further towards him.

Seeing that you're not pulling away, he picks up the pace a bit. He swirls his tongue around your bundle of nerves, adding two fingers into your cunt and curling them inside you deliciously. The sounds you're making are insanely embarrassing. Mewling and writhing on his desk as he eats you out almost hungrily.

"F-fuck– Leon!" Your words only spur him on, speeding up the erotic ministrations of his tongue.

He growls softly into your cunt, the vibrations only pushing you further as his fingers and tongue work tirelessly.

It doesn't take long before you're yelping and writhing on the desk. Your walls clench around him as he fingers you through your orgasm. His thumb strokes your clit simultaneously, the overstimulation making your thighs tremble violently.

You tug on his hair, trying to pull him away. "Shit Leon! Ff-fuck... s'too mmuch…!"

He peers up at you, lips and chin glistening with your release. Not breaking eye contact, he gives one more kiss to your clit before pulling his fingers out and popping them into his mouth, making sure to clean them thoroughly. The sight of it grosses you out, but in a way that makes you want his fingers in you all over again.

He pushes himself up off the floor and pulls you into him, tasting yourself on his lips and tongue. Trailing kisses across your cheek and onto the shell of your ear, he murmurs through clenched teeth. "You're killing me, y'know that?"

He grinds slowly into your wet cunt, the tent in his pants already way beyond a semi. He places a quick peck onto your nose and meets your eyes. His breathing is heavy and his eyes are searching yours.

"You gonna let me keep going?"

You gather enough strength to meet him with the same energy.

"I would have told you to stop already."

His eyes darken and something almost amused flickers across his face. He huffs a quiet laugh under his breath and plants another kiss on your cheek as he mumbles, "I figured." He pushes his papers off the desk unceremoniously and lays you on your back.

You watch him through lidded eyes as he hastily unbuckles his belt and lowers his pants, pulling out his fully erect cock.

On a normal day, seeing a dick wouldn't even register. You'd dealt with enough under fluorescent lights for it to be routine. None of them were anything special or trophy worthy. It was all average at best.

But holy fuck– Leon wasn't average. Not even close.

The sight of him makes your stomach tighten and your mouth go dry. It already helped that he's brick hard but damn. He was hung. Point-blank. The tip is already flushed and the shaft is thick enough to make your brain fizzle. Yeah not average. At all.

You realize you're staring and quickly look up at the ceiling as the redness on your face visibly deepens. Of course, he notices. The corner of his mouth twitches briefly before he leans in, caging you in with his forearms.

"See something you like?"

You cringe internally — at yourself and him. Not that you can blame him. He has every right to be that cocky. Pun fully intended. Again.

He leans in closer, his voice low and husky against your face. "Don't worry, I won't bite... too hard."

You want to groan, want to melt, want to punch him. All at once.

He positions himself, the pre-cum from his tip mixing with your already drenched cunt. As he advances slowly, his eyes stay trained on your face the entire time.

Your fingers tangle themselves in his hair once again, gripping tightly and letting out a soft whine as he pushes himself in. The feeling of your walls stretching around him is almost euphoric, though accompanied by an almost imperceptible stinging sensation.

He finally bottoms out, holding himself in that position for a split second. His breath catches as he hits your cervix. "You still doing okay?"

You nod desperately. "U-Uh huh!" The airy gasp you let out makes him twitch inside of you.

He drags himself out slowly before snapping his hips back in again. Your spine arches off the desk, pressing your chest into his.

He develops a steady rhythm, each thrust making his breathing ragged and your moans higher. You're practically yanking at his hair now, though it doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest. Quite the opposite.

He crashes his lips into yours as he moves, all sloppy and demanding. You perch your heels up onto the desk and adjust yourself, forcing him to hit an angle that makes your eyes water.

"Fucking hell...". His voice is cut between breathy pants. "Good girl..."

Good girl. God, the words nearly make you come right then and there. You bring your head up and kiss him with matching urgency, jutting your hips toward him to meet his.

His lips leave your mouth and attach themselves to your neck, sucking and biting in a way that will definitely have your coworkers raising their eyebrows at you tomorrow. Oh well — fuck them.

You're squirming now, barely able to process the situation anymore. The desk is rattling and the computer monitor threatens to fall onto the floor. If it does, well it's not like he can't buy a new one. Or maybe it's company issued. Even better.

"Keep still... don't make me work harder than I already fucking am." The cool, controlled tone in his voice is long gone. Now replaced by the voice of a man that has something to prove. Beads of sweat are pooling on his face and loose strands of hair are dangling above you, the rest sticking to his forehead.

His movements speed up. The way he's hitting that one spot has you seeing TV static. Your walls start to flutter around him. High-pitched, airy cries leave your throat. It's a good thing most of the building had already cleared out for the night.

After a few erratic thrusts, he groans into your ear, shooting multiple ropes of hot, sticky cum into you. The excess drips out onto the desk and floor. His pace doesn't let up though. His hips continue rabbiting, chasing your release with the same energy he gave his own.

You eventually follow suit as your orgasm hits you like a freight train. Clenching and gasping with tears streaming down your face as your walls milk out every drop left in him.

His rhythm slows to a lazy pace. Just continuing to drag himself in and out as he feels the residual effects of your release.

He plants a soft, lingering kiss on your cheek as your chest heaves. You can barely open your eyes at this point. All you can do is twitch and release drawn-out sighs as you feel him softening inside of you.

He lifts his head up and examines your face. "Damn. I think you enjoyed that more than I did."

An indignant look shoots across your face and you open your mouth to protest but he shuts you up with another deep kiss. Tonguing whatever you were going to say right out of your mouth.

He smiles into the kiss, his words barely above a whisper as they brush against your lips. "It's okay, I enjoyed it too."

Pulling out and getting up with a rough exhale, he admires all his hard work spilling out of you. He helps you up so you're sitting on the desk again, the office now spinning with the change in position and the reduced blood flow to your head.

He grabs a box of tissues that fell onto the floor and helps clean you up, your body jolting from the overstimulation.

Now that your head's not clouded from him being buried inside you, you're suddenly very self-conscious — even though you're literally sitting on his desk in your underwear. You swing your legs awkwardly and clear your throat, no longer able to look him in the eye. "Uhh... soo..."

He side-eyes you as he's adjusting himself back into his pants and raises his eyebrow. "So?"

"So um... I mean. Where do we...? I mean are we...? Uh. Shit, I'm sorry!" You bury your face in your palms. "Look, I-I don't want you to think I'm expecting anything out of this okay? I get it."

He doesn't say anything for a moment and you're fully ready to pick up your clothes and bolt out of there. As you're about to slide off the desk, steady hands grab hold of your wrists, pulling them away from your face.

He's looking at you with a soft expression. After setting your hands down on your lap, he cups your face and gently squeezes your cheeks. A slow, knowing look settles over him. Another quick kiss to the tip of your nose.

"You wanna grab a drink sometime? Probably should have asked before all this. Guess I was a bit too eager."

You inhale sharply. "Oh wow... uh..."

He tilts his head. "Is that a yes?"

You nod.

An actual smile spreads across his face, almost foreign compared to his usual crusty demeanor. He pats your cheek affectionately and picks up your scrubs, helping you get dressed. You look back at the disaster that you both created on his desk.

"Sorry about that." You mumble as you rub your arm.

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. Nothing important."

You chew on the inside of your cheek and rock on your feet. "So I'll see you...?" 

He tucks your hair behind your ear, his hand outlining your jaw. "Saturday?"

"Sure, I'm free!" You're not, but you'll call in sick.

He lets out a low laugh and guides you to the door. Just before you're about to leave, you hesitate.

You turn and plant a quick peck on his cheek before running off — you don't even look back, but you can feel his eyes on you. As you make your way down the corridor, a giddy warmth settles in your chest.

You were probably going to need to buy new clothes.

And definitely clear your schedule for Saturday.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Leon watches as you practically sprint down the hallway, touching the cheek you kissed before running off.

God you were adorable.

He steps back into his office and starts cleaning up. Stacking papers, gathering pens, and wiping up what was left of probably the best sex he's had in a while. To be fair, it had been a while. Not for lack of offers, mind you. Or whiskey dick. It had just been a while since anyone had made him feel as fucked up as you did.

It wasn't even the way you felt, though in your defense, you felt incredible. It was the fact that you were so ready. As if the situation didn't weigh you down in the slightest.

He admitted that he didn't think you were gonna show, and he meant that. He truly thought he had scared you off back in the treatment room. Sure, you kissed him. But maybe he coerced you. Maybe he made you uncomfortable and you felt like you needed to placate him.

But you showed up.

He had been watching the clock, barely getting any work done. Once it hit fifteen past 10 PM, he was already prepping himself to head home. He had told himself he wouldn't be disappointed, and that it was for the best you didn't show.

Then, you knocked on the door.

He could tell you were nervous before you even said it out loud. You were shaking and wouldn't stop rubbing your palms against your pants. He had given you multiple outs, wanting to give you as many chances as possible to leave. It was already hard enough ignoring his responsible side that was yelling for him to leave you alone. He wasn't going to take it any further if there was even a sliver of doubt in your mind.

I would have told you to stop already.

After those words, he wanted to make sure you left feeling like it was the right decision. It was convincing himself that was the tricky part.

He slumps back into his office chair, running his hand across his face. A short laugh leaves his lips and echoes across his office.

He'd actually asked you out.

He hadn't been on a date in god knows how long, considering how he never made the time. The last one was probably... fuck if he knew.

He picks up a pen on his desk and twirls it in his hand.

Should probably get your number first, though.

⋆｡°✩

The days leading up to Saturday were, more or less, excruciating.

He had visited you at work again to grab your number, much to your embarrassment — and the shock of one of your coworkers. Whatever. The look on your face was worth it.

After that it was just waiting. And the waiting was god-damn hard.

Maybe it was the fact that this is the first normal thing he's done in his life in god knows how long. Dealing with Krauser, surviving multiple outbreaks, hell– even the fucking tyrant. All of those felt like cakewalk compared to seeing you this weekend. He felt like a sixteen-year-old taking his crush to homecoming.

Anxious, nauseous, and slightly sweaty.

He had even met up with Claire to ask her for advice. That, however, had proven to be a mistake on his part. She had completely lost it, prodding him for details about who you were and where you met. Insisting on getting Chris involved. He sure as shit wasn't going to give her anything… let alone Chris.

Despite all his overthinking, he realized he had already done the deed with you, which seemed like the hardest part.

So whatever came next couldn't be that difficult.

He hated being proven wrong.

⋆｡°✩

Leon had picked a classy cocktail lounge on the west side of the city. He figured a place with close tables and intimate atmosphere would be the best choice. Not some sticky nightclub where you were bound to get groped at some point or another.

He’d chosen well. Quiet. Controlled. No surprises. He had been there once or twice before. Mainly for meetings that he was forced to go to, though it stood out to him all the same. It featured elegant, antique decor and low lighting that made you need to adjust your eyes when you walked in. There was a live band playing smooth jazz that gave it all a relaxing ambience. The place was mostly filled with people his age, though he saw one or two twenty-something year olds so he figured you wouldn't be too uncomfortable.

You had declined his offer to pick you up, much to his dismay. He'd worried about you getting into some stranger's car and getting abducted, but that was him overthinking. You probably took public transit often and he didn't want to assume you couldn't handle yourself.

He'd reserved a booth off in the back corner of the lounge. Somewhere he could talk to you properly without anyone interrupting or eavesdropping. The last thing he needed was someone calling him a cradlerobber — even though the shoe fit all too well for his comfort. It worked out for him in the end anyways. He had a clear view of all the exits. Old habits die hard.

He had been sitting in the booth for about twenty minutes now. Making sure to arrive a bit early, just in case you showed up and he wasn't there. He was sporting a dark navy button up and black dress pants. Not too different from what he usually wore to work, but enough to show that he cared a bit.

He'd been nursing a whiskey neat when he spots you walking in. The sight of you nearly making him choke on his drink.

He notices the pink first — soft. Unexpected.

The way the fabric falls off your shoulders, resting at your collarbone.

Your taupe skirt swishes at your mid-thigh when you walk.

You look different in contrast to the dark room.

Almost… warm.

You spot him as he waves you over — short, nude heels click against the floor as you walk.

He could swear you were glowing.

You make it to the booth and slide in. He notes that you hang back across the table, not making much effort to move closer.

"Hi Leon." You fidget with your manicured nails and glance at him briefly before staring at the tea candles on the table. "You look nice."

He presses his lips together, closing the distance just a bit. "Compared to you? I look like I just rolled out of bed."

Your face flushes and your eyes return to the “ever so interesting” candles as you smooth out your skirt. He can't help but notice the way it rides up just a bit. How the soft curve of your thighs splays out when you're sitting – okay, now's not the time.

A woman walks over to your booth, taking a moment to look between the two of you. "Hi ma'am I'll be your server tonight. Can I get you started with anything?"

You blink at her slowly. "Um. I'll have a..." You pause for a moment, scanning the drink menu. "An amaretto sour." Setting the menu down on the table, you place your hands on top of it.

The server nods, her demeanor immediately shifting as he turns to him. "And for you sir? Another whiskey?" A sweet smile plays on her lips as she eyes him up and down.

He stares at her briefly. "Yeah that'd be great thanks."

The server takes both your orders and steps away. Leaving you both in the silence that's only cut through by smooth jazz, faint chatter, and clinks of glasses.

He eyes you for a moment, watching you chew your lip and pick at the wood grain of the table. It's clear you didn't drink much. He's surprised you even jumped at his offer. Though he was glad you at least picked something you knew you would like. You weren't posturing, at least not in terms of drink choices. Though, he probably would just finish it for you if you had picked something you hated.

He swirls the leftover drops in his now empty glass, then takes a breath and slides closer to you. Putting his arm around the back of the booth chair.

You peek at him from the corner of your eye, silently watching him get closer  — squirming a bit, but not moving away.

He decides to try and do what he hates most. Make small talk. "Good choice, by the way."

Your head shoots up. "Oh! I mean. Thank you? I don't come to places like this normally. It uh, it sounded good?" A lock of your hair twirls around your finger.

He huffs a small laugh, his voice low and husky. "Sweet."

You cock your head. "The drink?"

He raises his eyebrow and the corner of his mouth quirks slightly. He goes back to swirling the liquid in his cup.

A faint blush spreads across your cheeks. You quickly look down again as you continue to fiddle with the hem of your skirt.

The server returns, carrying the drinks. "An amaretto sour." Then she turns to Leon. "And for you sir, another whiskey neat~."

He nods, barely giving her any attention as you let out a small thank-you.

You stare at your drink for a moment, before taking a small sip. You don't grimace, so he at least knows you can handle your alcohol somewhat. Even if it needs to be laced with sugar. After setting the cup down, you start fiddling with the stem of the luxardo cherry.

You've barely looked at him the entire time. Just the cherry stem, the rim of your glass, the candles. Anywhere but him.

"You always fidget when you're thinking?"

You side-eye him as your lips break into a small smile. "Shut up..."

He returns the expression, pleased that you're loosening up, even just a bit. "Relax. You're doing fine."

"Easy for you to say." You swirl the cherry around the glass.

He moves closer once again. His hand hesitates before reaching over to grab a lock of your hair, twirling it around his own finger.

The booth settles into a now slightly more comfortable silence. You continue to take occasional sips, always going back to swirling the cherry. At one point, you pause mid-fidget. Then pop the cherry into your mouth — stem and all.

He watches you closely, your jaw moving in an odd manner. After a few seconds, you look at him and stick out your tongue with a grin. The stem of the cherry is sitting on the tip.

Perfectly tied.

"Shit..." He has to steel himself for a moment — pressing his tongue to his teeth to steady himself. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

You smile cheekily at him, sticking your tongue out further and plopping the stem onto a nearby napkin. The action sending his lower body into overdrive. "Youtube tutorial. I get bored easily and wanted a cool party trick. Did it impress you?"

He leans in closer, his arms now resting on the table. "Was that meant to impress me?"

You follow suit, your bare shoulder now brushing against his own. "I'd be lying if I said it wasn't."

He lets out a steady exhale before taking your hand in his. His thumb passes over your knuckles, tracing each bump and divot. Your skin felt like velvet under his fingertips. He extends each of your fingers, examining your almond shaped nails, the colour a few shades darker than your top.

"You know these are some sort of health hazard right?" He teases.

You snatch your hand away, looking at him pointedly. "Calm down, they're press ons. I still have work on Monday."

He takes another sip of his whiskey, leaning back, and keeping his eyes trained on you. Your presence was such a stark contrast to the rest of the room. You looked bright, compared to the low, dark atmosphere.

Even brighter compared to him.

Picking up your drink, you take another sip. "Stop staring, creep." You say in a soft giggle.

"Well you make it hard not to. I haven't exactly seen you dressed up like this."

You roll your eyes. "Well the last time you saw me I was looking pretty grubby. I just had to make a better impression."

He hums. "Last time..."

The blush on your face returns, now dusting most of your face. You quickly turn back to your drink, your finger running the rim of the glass. "Y-yeah."

He tilts his head at you before gently wrapping his hand around your waist, pulling you closer. "Hey I'm just teasing you." He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "And for the record, I really wanted to see you again after last time."

You turn your head to face him. "And why's that?"

His hand falters on your waist. Not answering right away.

He couldn't admit to you that he missed you. Hell, he barely admitted it to himself. Taking away all the sexual tension, there was something in him that wanted something more from you. The part of him that hadn't yet been contaminated, if that part even existed. The parts of him that had already been cracked? They didn't want to pull you into that.

He removes his hand and settles it around his glass. His reflection in the whiskey peers back at him before he takes another sip. After finishing off his second glass of the night, he takes a breath.

"You're something else."

You pause for a moment before resting your chin in your hand, propped up by your elbow on the table. "How so?"

His brows knit together. "Maybe, you remind me of myself. When I was young at least."

He didn't want to go there. Being here with someone like you was already taboo enough as it is. Still... some truth rang in his words.

You remove your hand from your chin, crossing your arms on the table. "I don't think I've done much in my life compared to you."

He smiles a bit and shakes his head. "That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

You're finally looking at him head on now. Your face shows some quiet determination that he hadn't seen from you before. He blinks before speaking.

"The world hasn't sucked the life out of you yet. You walk around with an attitude that makes you seem as old as I am, but there's still something alive in there. I used to be like that. Now? Not so much."

Your eyes are steady as you listen. The tables are turned now; you're studying him. You turn your body and lean against the back of the booth chair.

"I don't know about that. I don't think you would have made so much effort with me if that was all it was."

He scoffs quietly. "Please. I can think of thirty men my age who would go after you."

"But not you. You're not the type."

You shake your head, yoursoft features emanate in the low lighting as you rest your head against the chair.

He reaches over and rests his hand on your thigh, squeezing it softly. "And what about you?"

"Me?"

"What made you want to? I'm not exactly someone who can always keep up with you."

Despite the dark atmosphere, he can see the blush spread across your cheeks. Cute.

You look away and watch the bar staff pass by. "I didn't recognize you at first. But once I realized who you were? I remembered how much I admired you. I mean– you meant a lot to-"

You quickly bite your lip, the words dying on your tongue.

He sits up. "Wait– what do you mean by that?"

Picking at the condensation on your glass, you keep your gaze away. "Well I mean... I knew about you when I was younger. At least the stuff they were allowed to talk about."

"Oh yeah? Like what?" 

"Ah well... Raccoon City for sure, the Harvardville airport, Tall Oaks — which was insane by the way, that whole president's daughter thing..." You're counting the events on each finger before squinting at him. “You were sorta…everywhere?”

His mouth flattens slightly, looking down at his glass as you list each event off. Something shifts behind his eyes, though he doesn't address it out loud. Not irritation necessarily, just memory.

“Huh.” A faint huff escapes him. “Guess I got myself a little stalker."

You seem to prickle at his words, lightly punching him in the chest. "I had a lot of free time when I was younger, okay?!"

His expression softens and he rubs the spot where you hit him, as if you wounded him badly. "And what made you such a fan?"

You take another slow sip of your drink before responding.

"I don't know. I guess I thought you were cool? I mean there wasn't much out there, but you were involved a lot. You also... weren't... ugly, or anything." Your words get quieter as you near the end of your sentence.

"You thought I was cool and... not ugly."

You turn to him quickly. "I mean you're still cool! And... not... ugly."

He goes quiet as he processes your confession. He never gave a shit about being in the public eye. It was never about that, anyway. 

But hearing you admired him? That you thought he was… “not ugly”, as you so delicately put it? That hit deeper than any sycophant could.

It shouldn't matter, and yet… it still does.

He nearly says something stupid.

Instead, his thumb brushes your cheek, tilting your face toward him. Your eyes flutter closed and you don't pull away.

“You really did your homework.”

His thumb lingers at your cheek before he pinches it lightly. “Couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

You let out a small yelp, rubbing the affected cheek.

"Okay your turn now."

Your hand pauses on your cheek. "I'm nowhere near as interesting as you."

His hand returns to your thigh, where his fingers make small circles on your skin. "Well that's not what I asked now is it? This isn't the Olympics."

You lean into him, resting your head against his bicep. "Hm... What do you want to know?"

He pauses for a moment. "What's your favourite colour?"

You turn your head up to him, your lips pressed against his shoulder, a smile spreading across your face.

"Pink."

He nudges you gently as he surveys your outfit choice. "Yeah I can tell. Why's that?"

"It's cute. And pretty. I like stuff like that." You look back down, still resting against him.

He hesitates before placing a soft kiss on the top of your head.

"Yeah. Me too."

⋆｡°✩

Leon's never realized how much he's missed listening to someone talk about the future. You spoke like it still existed. Like it was yours to shape.

The faint scent of your perfume mixed with the jazz seemed to put his intrusive thoughts on pause. The way you saw your life, like you had already lived through so much, but still wanted more? He knew that was just the spark in you, the one that hadn't been snuffed out yet. But he found himself being drawn in. It brought him back to how he saw his own life. Before shit hit the fan.

"I used to watch those press briefings and think… someone has to clean up after that." You mused. "I guess I wanted to be useful.”

It was never "I wanted to help people." It was "I wanted to pick up the pieces."

That stood out to him more than you knew.

The more you spoke, the more he began to realize how untainted you truly were. He loved that for you. But it also made him realize you deserved the absolute most out of your life. No mass death. No chaos. Nothing that would make you second guess if your efforts were truly worth it. He desperately wished he could have had that for himself.

But he couldn't be selfish.

You polish off the last of your glass, your body swaying slightly. Clearly your liver was still intact, unlike his. "So yeah. Nursing school was hell for sure. But now it's over and I can finally get paid for all the work I'm doing."

Your sentence drags him back into the present.

He stares at the empty glass in his hand for a second too long.

"Listen."

Your expression drops.

He looks into your eyes, admiring how bright they still are. "I don't want-" He stops himself, closing his eyes briefly. His fingers tighten around his glass, knuckles whitening slightly.

"The last thing I want is my mess bleeding into your life. You deserve better."

Your lips remain pursed, not saying anything.

"How is this," he gestures to himself, "really what you want? You have so much time to do whatever you want. Be with whoever you want."

You tilt your empty glass towards you, as if the answer is somehow in there. His throat works once.

"I’m not letting you wreck your life over this."

This time you turn to him. Your face is calm, but there's something deeper behind your eyes. Something almost annoyed.

"You act like you're already broken."

He stiffens.

And swallows.

Well... wasn't he? That's what he always told himself, in the least melodramatic sense.

"And why do you get to decide that for me? Last I checked you weren't my dad." You say this as you tilt your head, almost mocking him.

His eyes flick briefly to the door as it slams shut.

He brings his eyes back to you, still looking at him with that quiet, discontented stare.

He sets his glass down, the sound disappearing under the low jazz.

"No. I'm not. That's exactly why I'm thinking about this."

The silence stretches.

He starts to think that maybe he should end the night here. It was beginning to feel like a mistake for him to indulge in something like this. Someone like you. He almost stands, ready to take you home.

"You're a coward."

His body stills mid rise and his eyes slide to you. You're still staring at him. But your face is no longer quiet.

Your eyes are glistening.

"Do you ever allow yourself to be fucking happy?" Your voice is choked.

His fingers curl into the booth seat.

"It's selfish of you to think you can save everyone. That you have to save everyone. You're not a god, Leon."

His jaw shifts like he's about to say something.

But he doesn't.

For once, he doesn't have a deflection ready.

"You think you're so special. And you are. But you weren't given some divine calling. You're no more human than I am."

You take a shaky breath.

"I'm nowhere near as capable as you. I'm stupid. I've made so many mistakes. I don't think I'm a good nurse more than half the time." Your eyes for a moment before meeting his gaze again.

"But even I can tell that you're too hardheaded to realize that you can't control everything that comes your way."

You pause.

"Including me."

The sound of jazz, chatter, and glasses are gone. All he can hear is the heartbeat in his ears.

You lean towards him, your movements slow but far from timid. He can feel your breath against his lips.

And you kiss him.

This time, he doesn't push you away. He feels like he's being punched and pulled at the same time. The kind of vulnerability he thought he buried years ago. He shakily wraps his arms around you. Your body is small, yet grounded against his.

Only then does he notice the tears now falling down your cheeks. You hastily try to wipe them away.

He catches your hands. "Hey, stop."

Wiping the tears with his thumbs, he does his best to not smear the makeup that you probably worked really hard on.

You pull away and mutter something under your breath about it being fucking embarrassing.

His gaze hardens.

"I said stop."

Your body flinches and turns to face him again.

He pulls himself back a moment. Looking at his hand resting on the table as he squeezes it into a fist.

"Sorry."

Unclenching his hand, he slowly lifts it off the table and intertwines it with yours. His thumb circling the inside of your palm and giving it a small squeeze.

"I don't do this. I never do this. It's too normal."

You nod slowly and whisper.

"I know."

He continues tracing the inside of your hand. "Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it."

This time, you squeeze his hand back.

His other hand traces the patterns on the whiskey glass. "I'm going to be an asshole. I'm probably going to make you cry again."

He turns to look at you again, his eyes hardening.

"Do you really want to deal with that?"

Your lips part as you meet his gaze. You seem to analyze him briefly before responding.

"Of course."

For the third time that night, the table falls into silence. Not uncomfortable, not tense.

You cautiously shuffle closer to him and curl your legs onto the chair. Resting your head against his bicep once again, you let out a quiet sigh.

He peers down at you. "Tired?"

You shake your head.

He wraps his arm around you, petting your hair gently. "You wanna stay here?"

You tilt your head upwards. Your eyes glinting slightly.

"No."

The corner of his lip twitches. He kisses the top of your head again and removes himself from the booth, helping you out afterwards. He pays the tab and guides you out of the bar while you hold onto his arm.

As you approach his car, he stops suddenly. He should probably ask you directly.

"You wanna head back to mine?"

You raise your eyebrows. "Wasn't that the plan?"

He scoffs quietly. For a split second he wonders if you really mean it — but the sparkle in your eyes tells him he's on safe ground. 

"Well look at you little miss confident. You just assumed that's where the night was gonna go?"

You lightly jab him in the stomach with your finger. "Maybe I’m just starting to figure out how you operate." You pull yourself away from him before skipping around to the passenger's side, letting yourself in.

As he watches, he thinks about what you said — even if it was meant to make fun of him.

And like so many instances with you, he has to hold back a smile.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

You come to rest in the passenger seat, running your hand along the suede interior that contrasts with the firm leather. It's quiet, stylish, and intimidating all at once. Lowkey like him. 

You turn to check out the back seat and see what you believe to be an assault rifle, a few handguns, and various axes. You blink once. Twice. And decide not to ask.

Leon follows in soon after, settling into the driver's seat, buckling up, and turning on the engine.

You're still looking around with a slightly bewildered expression, then notice him side-eyeing you as he pulls out of the lot.

You tilt your head. "Pretty car. Government perk?"

He huffs a quiet laugh. "No. I picked it out myself. You're right though. It is pretty sexy. Figured I needed at least one reliable thing in my life."

His eyes stay on you for a moment, a knowing look on his face, before turning back to the road.

As he continues to drive, you lean your head against the glass, listening to the low rumbling of the engine. The sound is almost enough to lull you to sleep. The smell of the leather conditioner filling your lungs as you inhale and sigh.

A hand settles itself on your thigh, giving it a small squeeze. "Hey don't fall asleep on me now."

He keeps his focus on the road but glances at you briefly.

"Not yet anyways."

You puff out your cheeks but sit up straight, watching the city pass by as rain begins to softly patter against the windows. The road stretching out in front.

He glances at you, something boyish creeping back in. "Wanna see something cool?"

“Sure.” You say as you raise your eyebrows.

He presses down on the gas pedal and accelerates suddenly, sending you flying into the back of your seat. As the car lunges forward, you're sure you left your stomach somewhere on the side of the road.

You mutter curses under your breath and turn to glare at him, though you have trouble suppressing your smile. His eyes are still trained on the road in front.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting that,” he says, voice steady.

He squeezes your leg again and slows down a bit, though he's still driving above the speed limit.

For a few beats, there’s just the hum of the engine, the rain against the windshield, and the two of you in the car.

After a while, he switches on the radio and a familiar song begins to play, filling in the spaces between the white noise...

And when I'm back in Chicago, I feel it

Another version of me, I was in it

I wave goodbye to the end of beginning

You take the man out of the city, not the city out the man

You take the man out of the city, not the city out the man

You take the man out of the city, not the city out the man

You take the man out of the-

⋆｡°✩

You wake up to him shaking your shoulder gently. His soft voice cuts through a dream you can't quite hold on to.

"Hey. Up. We're here."

He pauses.

"You planning on moving, or am I carrying you?"

You blink blearily. "Huh…?"

His face is inches away from yours, looking at you pointedly. Guess you did fall asleep after all. You yawn and unbuckle your seatbelt, taking his hand as he helps you out of the car.

You look around the parking lot as you take in your surroundings. You were at a high-end apartment building in god knows where, much more upscale than where you live. The architecture looks slightly dated from the outside, though you could tell it had been refurbished a time or two.

He guides you by the hand as you nearly trip over your feet, making your way through the lobby and up the elevator. As you walk down the hallway while holding onto his arm, you note how minimally decorated it is. Aside from the odd painting hanging on the walls or potted plants in front of doorways.

You both make it to his apartment and he digs around for his keys before unlocking the door.

Like the hallway, the living area is sparse — nothing unnecessarily cluttering the space.  A large black leather modular sofa faces a wall mounted TV, a fluffy grey rug underneath anchoring a glass coffee table. The walls are dark and could almost be mistaken for black, but slightly lighter than the couch and surrounding furniture. A hard gun case sits open in the corner, its contents laid out with deliberate precision. Various attachments you couldn't name are arranged in neat rows beside it.

A large window stretches up to the ceiling, offering a view of the city skyline. Moonlight filters in, softening the space, though rainclouds mostly obscure the glow. The kitchen table has no cups or centerpieces. Only a brown leather jacket with a fluffy trim lay across it, as if he had just tossed it there.

Against the adjacent wall, stairs lead to an upper level with an indoor balcony, where his bedroom sits tucked away, private and unobtrusive.

A place to live, but not quite a home.

You slip off your heels by the front door and pad around barefoot, running your hand along the couch and stepping into the light from the window. He watches you explore, not interrupting.

After a moment, you spin around to face him.

"Leon, I think you need an interior decorator."

He shakes his head with quiet amusement and walks over to you.

"I'm barely here anyways. Never felt like I needed anything more than this. Can't even remember the last time I used that TV."

He brushes your hair back, hands hovering at your shoulders before sliding upward, slow and deliberate, until they cup your face — like it’s becoming a habit. He studies your face with an almost stoic expression before leaning in and planting a soft kiss on your forehead.

You aren't shaking anymore. Not like the last time. You just stand there. Closing your eyes and soaking in the glow of both the moonlight, and his rarely shown affection.

He lets go of your face after a moment, opting to pull you closer. Deciding to return the favour, you reach up and run your hands along his cheeks, the stubble pricking your fingers. As you observe his face, his wrinkles appear slightly faded. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes are barely visible. Almost seeming younger in the low lighting.

His index finger and thumb tilts your chin up. Swiping your bottom lip and pulling it slightly as he drags his thumb down.

Then he leans in.

The way he kisses you feels different this time. Like there's weight behind it. You can't place it. It's almost as if he's given in to something. Even if it's only just a little.

His lips are warm and soft, more so than your own, considering your lipstick wasn't very moisturizing. Maybe he had learned from last time and decided to start using chapstick. Honestly? You were proud.

You reach up and grip the fabric over his shoulders, pulling him down into you further.

The scent of his cedarwood cologne is intoxicating, filling your nose and making your head go fuzzy — or maybe it's just the reality of what you’d agreed to.

You loosen your grip from his shirt and snake your hands up to the back of his neck, intertwining your fingers with his hair.

A low, rumbling sound vibrates in his throat. Clearly enjoying you tugging on the back of his head.

The kiss breaks, just barely. His lips hover in front of yours, eyes closed. Your fingers still tangled in his hair.

He opens his eyes, almost seeming to look right through you, while his hand makes slow, light circles on the small of your back, like he's lost in thought.

"Come on." 

He whispers so low, as if anything would shatter this moment, his breath tickling your lips with how close you are. Tilting his head towards the stairs, he leads you by the hand.

Didn't have to tell you twice.

Reaching his room, he, once again, pulls you into another kiss. The movements are unhurried but deliberate. His hand glides along the back of your thigh, pausing before reaching under your skirt and gently squeezing the fat of your ass.

A thought slips into your mind. The idea makes your stomach flip but, hey, most of the night has been centered around making him feel something for a change. Might as well continue with the momentum.

You pull away from him. Leaning into his ear and whispering,

"Sit down."

He opens his eyes, studying your face for a moment.

"What are y-"

You gently push him down to sit on the edge of the bed. Placing your hands on his shoulders and preventing him from getting up. Well... not really, but you hoped he would at least follow instructions.

He's still looking at you quizzically, then watches as you lower yourself onto your knees  — sitting on your heels and positioning yourself in between his parted legs. You reach for his belt, unbuckling it while still keeping eye contact (which wasn’t easy considering your heart felt like it was trying to punch through your ribs).

He inhales sharply. "Listen you don't have t-"

You look at him pointedly.

"Are you saying you don't want me to?"

That sure as hell shuts him up.

You continue fiddling with his belt, which was actually kind of hard since it was one of those automatic sliding ones. You eventually succeed and unzip his pants, pulling his boxer briefs down and taking out his already semi-hard cock.

How is it more intimidating now that you're holding it? You trace the faint veins that run along his shaft, briefly wondering if dick veins are IV accessible. Probably not.

His breathing has quickened a bit. Watching you with a quiet intensity that makes you shiver a bit.

You continue running your fingers along his shaft in an attempt to further his erection, which you find to be surprisingly successful. Or maybe not surprising, since he was literally grabbing your ass five minutes ago.

You weren't exactly sure where this confidence is coming from, let alone know where this is going. It could have been the fact that standing up to him at the bar woke something up in you. Or maybe it was the fact that he looked absolutely gorgeous when he was turned on. Actually, no– that made you more nervous.

You tentatively lick the bead of pre-cum that forms from your ministrations, causing his hips to jolt slightly. 

Seeing his reaction, you push down your anxiety and place a quick kiss on his tip. Taking it in your mouth, you start to suck lightly and swirl your tongue.

Clearly this was the right move. He groans softly and leans back on his hands, his head tilted up slightly. You note how his adam's apple is bobbing in his throat, his breathing shaky.

You sink down further, hollowing your cheeks as you bob your head. He hits the back of your throat and you gag just a bit. His body reacts, jerking at the sensation.

The parts you couldn't reach, you worked on with your hand. Bracing the other on his thigh as you continue.

His hand threads into your hair, gripping at your scalp almost painfully — though not enough to make you wanna quit. He nudges your head with a careful push, guiding your rhythm.

You peek at him through your eyelashes. He's sweating slightly and his chest is heaving. The look in his eyes is almost carnal, making your stomach feel all tingly.

You pick up speed a bit, saliva coating him and your lips. Running your tongue underneath his shaft causes a low, gravelly moan to escape his throat. He juts his hips forward slightly, swallowing hard before speaking.

"Fuck... you look so beautiful."

Under normal circumstances, being called beautiful while giving a blowjob would instantly kill your mood. Having it come from Leon? It only distracted you from the aching feeling in your jaw, giving you the energy to keep going.

His hand tightens around your hair before easing up slightly, almost as if he was forcing himself to keep his cool. His breathing ragged and jaw tightened. Eyes never leaving yours.

His hips jerk forward again, causing your throat to flutter. He lets out a chesty grunt, this time less controlled.

"Hey..."

His voice isn't steady anymore.

Hearing this, you quicken your movements just a bit more. Working your mouth, tongue, and hand with determination.

"S-Shit... look at me."

You meet his eyes as he makes an involuntary sound and his chest muscles tighten, followed by thick strands of cum coating the back of your throat. You swallow it, of course. You weren’t about to back out now.

Slowing down just a bit, you ride him out as you feel him softening in your mouth. His chest is rising and falling shakily, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. After a beat, he hisses quietly and pulls you off gently by your hair.

You lean back and place your hands neatly on your lap, a bit of cum dribbling down your bottom lip. You cock your head slightly, giving him a small, satisfied smile.

He bends forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, his expression calm despite the way he was still steadying himself. His hand reaches toward your face, swiping the leftover cum off of your lip with his thumb — lingering before finding its place on your cheek. The way he's breathing is still uneven, but his eyes are clearer now.

He raises his eyebrow and murmurs, "Look at you doing the heavy lifting."

You blush slightly and look at your lap as you twiddle your thumbs, your confident attitude seeming to dwindle slightly as you deal with the aftermath. "Felt like I needed to return the favour after last time."

He hums in an amused tone, helping pull you off the floor and seating you on his lap. His fingers continue to run along your jaw while holding you by the waist, his expression soft. He leans in so his nose is brushing against yours before giving you another slow kiss.

After pulling back, he rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. You run your hand along his neck, placing soft kisses on the other side. Adjusting your position to where you're straddling his lap, you continue to trail kisses down to the exposed part of his shoulder.

His fingers trace the small gap where your top meets your skirt — pausing for a second before slipping it under your shirt, the other hand cupping your ass.

"Fuck, you're gonna have to give me a minute. I can't bounce back like I used to."

Despite this, his hands don't stop moving.

You pull away from his neck, tilting your head to the side.

"So I wore you out already?"

His eyes bore into yours. "Sweetheart, you almost sucked my brains out. You gotta gimme a sec."

You preen at the word sweetheart, though you just don't feel like you've teased him enough.

Huffing and pouting, you try to slide off of his lap. "I mean... I could just leave..."

His grip on you suddenly tightens and a low, husky noise leaves his throat. He doesn't say anything, but he buries his face into the crook of your neck and inhales slowly.

You squirm a bit in his lap. "H-hey. What are you doing?" You giggle nervously.

"Just. Your perfume. It's nice." He says this while nipping lightly at your neck, his face still buried.

"That tickles."

His eyes narrow slightly, lips still against your neck. "And?"

Your eyes meet his briefly before looking away.

"Nothing..."

He holds you like this for a while, hands wandering over your back and sides, never letting go. You don't feel trapped — more like a weighted blanket. Heavy, grounding, warm.

Safe.

This goes on for a bit longer. The movement of his hands, the brief inhales of your neck, and the occasional roll of his hips. His breathing, though much steadier than before, is noticeably deeper.

Eventually, his cock, which was still sitting out of his briefs, starts to firm up under you. Pressing against your underwear.

He rolls his hips at a regular pace now, the friction making you mewl quietly.

His hand slides up your torso, pausing at your ribs before he carefully lifts the shirt over your head. 

The fact that you decided not to wear a bra with the top you picked out was kind of an unintentional power move on your part. You didn't like how it looked with straps anyways.

The way his gaze lingers on your chest and shoulders makes your stomach twist. You try to fold your arms across your chest. Partly from the embarrassment but also because his apartment was cold as hell.

He catches your wrists before you have a chance, placing them on his shoulders instead.

Biting your lip, you tug at his collar. Your voice is barely above a whisper. "Can't leave me on my own here."

He presses his lips together, the corners of his mouth turning upward, before unbuttoning his own shirt and shrugging it off. This is the fourth time now that you've seen him without his shirt on. And yet, it still has your brain feeling like scrambled eggs.

He glides his hands along your waist, his movements excruciatingly slow. Thumbs brushing against the soft underside of your chest. Every movement feels measured, like he's memorizing you. He suddenly gets up with a mild groan, keeping your thighs supported by his hips as your arms wrap around his neck. Before you know it, your back meets the bed. 

You slide your hands along the cashmere quilt. The texture feels almost like butter against your skin.

As he climbs in and settles himself at your side. You awkwardly slip off your skirt and underwear, which was already soaked at this point. Snuggling closer, you lift your head up to rest it on his bicep as he pulls you into him.

You curl up a bit, slightly unsettled at the fact that you're stark-ass naked next to him. His warmth helps a bit though, like a rugged space heater.

He traces patterns on your chest and stomach. Outlining your nipples and pinching them lightly with each pass. You yelp quietly and try to scoot away, but he pulls you further into him. He continues with his imaginary painting on your stomach. Drawing circles and swirls around your belly button, gradually inching lower, and sending chills throughout your body.

His fingers eventually find their destination and begin moving lazily at first — just enough to make you squirm. Every time you try to pull away, he only drags you closer, kissing your temple like he’s humoring you.

"Feels okay?" He murmurs into your ear.

You nod. "Yeah..." Your voice is embarrassingly airy.

His tempo quickens, causing you to shut your eyes tight and breathless noises to leave your throat.

"Eyes on me."

His tone is commanding, yet tender. He pauses his movements, not resuming until you force yourself to look at him, silently wondering if people can spontaneously combust while getting fingered.

You're literally thirty seconds away from cumming at this point, which clearly isn't lost on him considering how you're writhing and melting next to him.

Hearing your moans get pitchier, he quickly pulls his hand away, making your clit ache.

"Leon, w-what the hell?" You whine like a petulant child.

He plants another kiss on your cheekbone before whispering, "Not yet– needy." He hoists himself on top of you, positioning his hips between your thighs.

He stills for a beat, observing your face, as if he was looking for something in particular. Another "bug under a microscope" moment.

"What?" Your voice is hushed, barely above a whisper

"Nothing." He doesn't let up.

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

He leans in, brushing a quick kiss on your cheek. “Thanks… for that.”

“What for...?" You murmur.

"For earlier… at the bar."

You blink at him, nodding slowly. His words carrying an unspoken weight that seems to pass through the both of you.

He positions himself and advances slowly. Peppering kisses into the crook of your neck. The stretching forces your spine to curve into him. His movements are slow — like he’s making sure you feel every inch of it.

There's no urgency in his pacing. You think back to how desperate you both were the first time, how much need was felt behind your actions. This time? It felt like there was nothing to catch up to.

He keeps to the same rate, but the depth shifts. You adjust the position of your legs, bringing your pelvis up to meet his own.

His breathing is humid in your ear, with occasional groans slipping through his respirations. A string of little sounds leave your lips and you moan his name repeatedly, causing him to increase his speed just barely. Driving into you in time with your voice.

He starts to unravel on top of you, grabbing any part of your body within reach. He tilts your hips just enough to hit the angles that turn your moans into gasps.

"F-Fuck– I know. It's okay. I got you." His words are interrupted by deep pants.

His face meets yours and kisses you with a warm intensity that makes you dizzy. Only broken by pants and moans between the two of you.

You feel his thrusts start to falter, though he maintains the same deliberate pressure. Eventually you fold first, letting out a choked cry and clenching around him like a vice.

He rides you through it, whispering praises in your ear that has you turning to mush. As you come down, his body begins to stutter. He's swearing under his breath as he digs his fingers into your waist.

His face disappears into your neck as his movements stop — holding you close as air leaves him in a broken exhale. His hips jerking once more before going still.

You listen to the distant patter of rain as you both recover. The air flowing through the room now audibly present. The calm makes you aware of how stiff your legs are, so you shift and wrap them around his waist. He sighs deeply, bringing his head up to meet yours.

His hair is disheveled and hanging over his face, furthering that 90s boyband look he seems to carry all the time. Through his bangs, the light from the window reflects against his blue eyes, making them appear more vibrant.

He pulls himself off of you with a huff and you could swear you hear at least one of his joints pop. Sitting at the edge of the bed for a beat before getting up, he walks around and pulls the blankets off. 

"Hey. Come on." Gesturing for you to climb in.

You roll over and wobble/crawl towards the head of the bed, your bones having been replaced with licorice. The cashmere quilt feels even better now that you're enveloped in it.

He slides into bed, tucking you in and pulling you close. He kisses the top of your head and rests his chin on it as he rubs lazy circles on your back.

You begin to feel the effects of the day catching up with your body. Ear pressed against his chest, you drift with the rise and fall beneath you, his heartbeat syncing with yours. The rain outside is distant, the world a soft blur — you barely even remember to breathe.

⋆｡°✩

The downpour hitting the window rudely pulls you from your sleep.

As you start to rouse, you wonder why you're so comfortable. Wiping the sleep from your eyes and rustling in the sheets, you feel the softness of the quilt and the plushness of the memory foam pillows.

Oh right.

You sit up, peeling away the bits of hair that glued themselves to your lips and cheek overnight. Stretching a bit, you hear your neck and shoulders let out satisfying little cracks. Your mouth tastes as if sand and dirt had a baby. So you slip out of bed, trying to ignore how cold you are, and head for the bathroom.

You're surprised to see a toothbrush still in its packaging on the countertop. Sitting next to it is a large t-shirt.

As you brush your teeth, you stumble a bit — still feeling slightly wobbly from last night. You really want to wash your face, but you find that his cabinets are woefully lacking any cleanser. You make a mental note to buy Leon some skincare eventually.

Now curious, you begin to search around the bathroom. Opening the shower door, you spot some olaplex conditioner in the shower caddy. No wonder his hair is so fucking soft. You were definitely going to be asking him to share at some point.

After getting dressed, you meander for a bit. Eventually working up the courage to make your way downstairs.

Leon's already in the kitchen when you get to the main floor. He's still shirtless, but now sporting loose grey sweatpants that hang way too low on his waist for your comfort. He hears you sneaking around behind him and looks over his shoulder, a plate of toast and fruit in his hand.

"Here. You're probably hungry. You didn't even eat last night."

You stand there awkwardly for a bit before padding over to the island table and taking a seat. You're surprised he even has real food in his place considering how barely furnished it is. You assumed he only had snakes and booze in his fridge or something.

You take small bites of toast, still reeling from last night's events. He leans over the counter with his arms folded, just watching you eat.

You swallow before speaking.

"You're staring again."

Something tugs at the corner of his lips. "You're in my kitchen. Wearing my shirt."

You have to suppress a grin as you keep on chewing. "Thanks for the toothbrush by the way."

He takes some fruit off your plate and takes a bite, eyes not leaving your presence. "No problem."

You both continue to eat, letting the comfortable silence take over the conversation. The heavy rain outside being the only third party. A part of you still thinks you're dreaming — the Agent Leon Kennedy you once admired is now standing in front of you, shirtless, and made you breakfast. The rest of you, however, just… accepts it. Allowing yourself to enjoy the situation for what it is.

He finishes chewing and wipes his hands.

"Let me drive you to work tomorrow. Probably better than paying for an uber."

Hearing this, the smile you’d tried so hard to suppress comes back in full force.

"You gonna try to kill me again?"

"I'll try to keep the speed a reasonable twenty miles per hour for you. Sound good?" He's clearly trying to fight off his own smile.

You reach over the counter and take his hand in your own, placing a soft kiss against his worn knuckles.