he is an investigator. has always wanted to be. and he'd thought, maybe, he'd have a journalist with him, too — the same one, no less special for it. hell, some sentimental part of him thinks that's the whole reason why he would've been. thought. would've. the one he had in mind is dead. meant to be. presumed to be. but leon is an investigator and he was dead once too, wasn't he? officially. he can put the facts together. still, his heart beats no easier for it, and it colors his tongue distant, blues struggling to reconcile the man before him with the man from back then. they harden, in the end, with his gut's distrust stronger than his hearts yearning, ❝ guess they were right — spend long enough in this job and you'll start seeing shit. ❞ ghosts from his past. it draws a dry huff out of him, a bravado of flippant amusement, ❝ funny, though ... they never mentioned anything about 'em being handsome. job does have some perks. ❞
the revelation hits him like a punch, taking the breath straight out of him. leon. fuck, leon. it’s not that miles has forgotten — how could he forget? everything miles hadn’t said, and every horrible thing he had.
but sharing a head with so many fragmented memories, so many minds forced through the machine like meat on a conveyor belt. tends to muddy things up. seeing leon again is like watching through a camera lens as it shifts suddenly into brutal focus: how he looked before, in his apartment during their last fight. how he looks now.
miles scoffs a laugh. he has the audacity to be surprised, offended at leon’s hostility, even though he knows it’s more than earned. “what job would that be, honey?” still, he’s surprised by the depths of the venom in his voice, the anger he can still find within himself. miles was the one who left, after all. cut and run, like he always does. what right does he really have to be angry?
maybe it’s the walrider; the rush of fading adrenaline always has it on edge. (how long are you going to keep doing this? blaming everything on it: the venom, the rage that keeps you up at night. might have been frank manera’s memories that taught you how to strip flesh from bone the first time, but what about the second? the third? the line between you and everything else that came out of the machine with you is blurry and blood-red, even if you’ll never admit it.)
“here I thought you had some cushy desk gig back in dc. we must really be in a recession now: leon kennedy, doing wetwork.”
and he must look monstrous, too. takes effort to repress the metallic sheen of the swarm under his skin, the black spreading across his scelera. he can do it, if he tries: raise his body temp, appear less like a walking corpse (just like he used to on leon’s couch, a time that feels like a desert mirage). but there’s no point doing it now that leon’s seen him. miles hadn’t exactly been expecting company. not this kind.
the sarcastic tilt of his lips turns downward. suddenly, being angry is exhausting. “what are you doing here?” / @kingfished
