#leon fic

i have yet to find out who the fic ‘midnight cravings’ is from / if they actually wrote it themselves bcs im sceptical of everything. if anyone has read it before and knows who she copied that from, if she did, let me know.

UPDATE REGARDING HER ‘APOLOGY’:

this is funny because i literally had been urging her to make an apology/statement on her own through our dms. i have been the person to suggest it to her, she couldn’t come up with it on her own. which, again, is sad.

she’s still trying to victimise herself and downplay her failed plagiarism. she kept trying to convince me she had apologised multiple times before in her dms with me, but she really hasn’t, until i basically forced it out of her with my own messages. again, she can’t do shit herself.

also, about homophobic/racial slurs being sent to her, i clearly have told her three times i haven’t put up anyone to do this. i even told my mutuals to just block her and not send her hate, and she knows of this, but is trying to pin it on me. what my thousands of followers and the people of different fandoms who’ve seen this post, is not my responsibility as i have never put them up to it. i do not condone using any bigoted language either, which i have told her multiple times, but she’s still trying to villainise me badddd.

i would have loved some evidence on that part of the hate, but she never sent it. her asks, comments, reblogs and dms were quickly all off so i have no idea how she received ‘such hate’ either. she might be lying to get sympathy point lol

anyway, she is trying to sound like she did no wrong. i had to be the adult and stop the convo at one point bcs she kept being more heated about it and trying to downplay everything, so that i did.

i told her, if she makes a new account let it be her own writing. if she plagiarises again, i will not hesitate to use my platform to get her new account too.

fuck around and find out 👋

The running joke in the office is that handlers and agents are work spouses.

You do not know how this happened, nor where this custom came from, all you know is that you’ve been Leon Scott Kennedy’s wife for three years and if anything’s going to change, it’d be his haircut every five weeks, not your work arrangements. This originally did not bother you, as you work a job with stellar pay. However, the agent you’re handling is a pain in your ass and doesn’t understand when to quit.

You should also note that upper management would later take the joke seriously.

For the past two days, Leon has been surveilling a wealthy German businessman suspected of financing B.O.W. research through shell companies. This was great for you and terrible for him. Even if Leon was the star of USSTRATCOM, it didn’t give him immunity to the mundanity of surveillance and intel missions, the types of assignments the agency gives him that you know from years of handling him, bore him out of his mind. You find it bizarre. Because Leon, from whatever you gathered, should probably be in love with mundanity.

"Kennedy, left corridor," on the other side, your voice is rather muffled, static noise accompanying every sound that emits from deep within your vocal chords. You’ve been suspicious for a while now—thirty two minutes elapsed, you counted—that the mansion Leon was in, owned by the man Leon’s supposed to be gathering intel on in one of his (and your) boring surveillance missions, was deliberately blocking signals within his house. Deeper than you thought when you originally assisted Agent Faraday in infiltrating into this mansion to plant bugs.

Over the hazy comms, you hear Leon’s low voice. Somehow, you’re able to decipher the sound of skin rubbing on fabric and the distinct whip of a handgun that he definitely does not need to take out from hidden beneath his tailored suit jacket. "The right one looks faster."

There is a coffee mug at the far left side of the operations room’s desk, untouched and already room temperature cold from your neglect. Operations always smells clean whenever you come in. That is a fact. It’s because the air freshener in the room is a subtle black currant-smelling fragrance that you yourself chipped in for the office—mostly because you couldn’t stand how stuffy the air smelled back when you only just started working. Your hand twitches against the black, slightly unresponsive mouse. Folders upon folders are sprawled on the sleek white desk and the binder you’ve used since a year ago—black, funnily decorated with stickers you’ve collected over the years—is open, showing the sheets of paper with near unintelligible scribbles bound by its ring.

Your fingers jitter and your eyebrow which twitched from a throbbing pain only a second ago twitches again at the statement and you glare at the monitor that hosts Leon’s head from a grainy upwards camera angle, as if he could see you. This is a common occurrence in your professional relationship with him. Leon does not listen to you at first. Ever. It’s annoying, but it’s a simple tumbleweed rolled by the wind which requires a simple solution: you kick them.

You speak into the mic again, a deliberate hiss following, though no real malice strikes in your cadence even as you enunciate every syllable of your words, "the right one also has four armed guards."

Finally, Leon’s voice rumbles back, the audio not improving even a little bit. "You always focus on the negatives," he says, turning his back around and tilting his head up, staring directly into the camera you’re focused on. Casually, he rolls his head exaggeratedly in mock disapprovement, fixing the lapels of his suit jacket right after. Right as your headset dims its audio, you hear one of your coworkers mutter without looking up—he’s arguing with his wife again.

"I'm your handler. Focusing on negatives is my entire job," you mutter.

There’s nothing over the radio for just about five seconds, only static. All at once, the only things you hear, see, and feel are your uncomfortable, red-soled kitten heels digging into your toes, the smell of air freshener, and the distant sensation of not being cooped up in a large but mentally cramped desk all day. You guarantee, even if you stand up right now, with the daze from your constant sitting, your lack of hydration, and the only food you’ve consumed being a buttered croissant you ate one bite of, you wouldn’t even be allowed to by your own body.

"Do you ever wonder what it'd be like if I got a handler that supported my choices?" Leon finally responds to your quip. You see him from the camera briefly glancing at the door on the right but he shakes his head, the motion subtle enough not to draw any attention, not subtle enough to escape your eye. The sudden thought that Leon trusts your judgment always leaves a prideful feeling right in your throat all the way down to your stomach, and the thought that he might’ve stopped because he’s afraid of pissing you off—though, that’s unlikely—also fills you with amusement.

There’s a stubborn knot-like ache at the start of your eyebrow ridge, but you merely press a knuckle to the area, eyes drifting towards the as-accurate-as-it-gets live GPS tracking on the first monitor above, to the CCTV feeds on the third monitor. You switch between the views, then speak into the mic.

"Every day," you nod to nobody in particular, but still, you watch him roll his shoulders slowly on the feed. You close your eyes again and wait for Leon’s response. This time, you don’t open them as quickly and instead you try to envision the layout of that German man’s estate. This has become a habit of yours over the years—over several years of collecting floor layouts and architectural maps, visualizing whatever it is you’re looking at with the half-assed unyielding focus you’d give when you temporarily rest your eyes.

"Really?" he asks speculatively, eagerly, loosening his tie. You don’t know where the hell this habit of his came from but you’ve noticed, Leon always loosens his tie exactly thirty minutes into surveillance.

Your mouth twitches at his keenness, brittle nail tapping against the desk office once more in rhythmic beats. "Every day I thank God you didn't," you murmur. Leon catches the way you’ve started slurring your words, fatigue resting between the microscopic gaps between your bones and deep inside your muscles. "You would hate being with anybody else."

"Calm down, tiger," Leon gruffs into his radio and you leave it at that.

Checking through the feed, you look at each corridor that leads into one another and eventually the main hall. Your eyes snag on the man you were supposed to be gathering intel on. A classic tuxedo, satin lapels; Friedrich Hohenzollern, famously not part of the Hohenzollern family, at least not directly, stands straight in the middle within the frame from where the camera is positioned. It’s only now that the fundraiser event has actually begun and you watch the influx of guests, ones that aren’t early, just right on time, come in one by one.

You squint at the monitor. Two, four, six, eight—you’ve had a habit of counting in pairs, mostly because you have a weird tie-up with the concept of balance. A self-admittedly bizarre reason for counting in pairs when the much more mainstream reason of wanting to count faster was there. Still, biting a peeled piece of skin on your lip, you count under your breath the couples arriving one by one into the estate.

You don’t even register that you’ve picked up a pen, not yours, office given, and begun spinning it around between your fingers. It takes a second, then it registers in the form of your widening eyes. You  remember that previous surveillance only had partial guest lists—this was really the first operation with full coverage. You immediately scatter to check your files. Through the two months of on-and-off investigations you’ve found yourself assisting on, not one man, or woman, that comes near to Hohenzollern comes alone.

"Kennedy…" you call out. The jitters in your body have made way to your leg, bouncing rapidly as you scoot closer in your chair into the desk. "Count the couples."

From the cameras, you see Leon’s face, obstructed by the grain, yet you can see the ridge of his brows, and the fine lines forming as he bunches them up. His eyes take a quick look and you reckon he’s counting the same way as you, then he finally states, like some revelation he finally pieced together. "Everybody’s got somebody."

Sixty seconds and less is all it takes for you to push your chair back, softly calling out to your coworker in the same near lifeless condition as you are until he turns around and gives you raised brows and a smile, frame softening right as you speak. It’s ten minutes and less after you ask him if he could get a file on Hohenzollern’s love life and wife. Your coworker nods and at that, you thank Behavioral Analysis for already having a file on him waiting while Intelligence has been building a case—with you helping closely—on him for months. 

You slump down into your chair, putting on a triumphant smile at your own unproven hypothesis. 

You close your eyes, enough for you to take a minuscule amount of time to sleep right after you confirmed everything with Leon and he was successfully out of that Mediterranean estate, now driving back to his hotel. Fifteen minutes of small REM bliss with your mouth slightly ajar—only fifteen more minutes later, you’re gently woken up by that same coworker, handing you a blue file presumably holding whatever records they had of Hohenzollern. That file is yours, only, one that you bought for your cases and your cases alone (and which you fought your supervisor to use) so you wouldn’t trouble yourself in tracking where the newest info is.

When you take a look at it, you realize four things. The first being Hohenzollern’s wife died seven years ago and he remarried quickly, the second being Hohenzollern had a traumatic childhood involving severe and troubling mommy issues, Hohenzollern has a very strict and bizarre constitution of what a family is, can and should be, and he distrusts anybody who doesn’t have a partner. You let out a dry snort. Suddenly every witness interview made sense. You are taking this to upper management. Well, you have to.

A thought comes: this is probably why Hohenzollern probably found joy in eugenicist B.O.W projects.

"Kennedy," you say into your earpiece, "you there yet?"

"Almost," he says, pulling up to his hotel, some dingy place near a Koreatown that somehow had stellar mattresses. You watch through the camera in his car with slapdash effort, the same lazy smile still on your face. You’d just have to finish the reports today and hope that you won’t get a scolding from upper management because you and your agent managed to extract zero data from the target. This should be the end of it for a couple of weeks. 

Morning in the office came without deliberation. Finalizing the reports took you not as long as you imagined, and yet you couldn’t sleep a wink the next night, even after finishing all of your tasks of the day at the office. Restlessness still settled easily in your muscles to the point where when you did eventually feel sleepy, it was at five in the morning. You couldn’t risk sleeping for two hours and accidentally oversleeping. Three Red Bulls. 240mg of caffeine, 3000mg of taurine.

Leon Kennedy flew back from Germany looking exhausted. 

"[Name]," from a moderate distance, you hear your name being called out. It’s miserable how you’re still cooped up on a desk with no sleep gained, just not the console room desk with the sterile black currant freshener, but your own cubicle. You’re tapping your singular long nail on the surface of your desk at the time. Turning around with suspicions that it must be your agent, you’re not surprised at all when you see the worn out hero of the firm standing right in front of you with three long strides.

"Kennedy," you give him a lax smile. You hoped that your lethargy isn’t that apparent to him, you guessed from your other coworkers not batting an eye at your state, you looked presentable enough for the office. You lean on your desk, twiddling with a pencil. "How’s it going?"

"Could be better," he murmurs, eyes spanning across your rigid yet slightly swaying build. He’s not in his gear anymore, a gun holstered on his hip but that’s about it, wearing a brown leather jacket that you’re sure he absolutely loves to death considering how many times you’ve seen him walk into office with it. "Anything new on the case? Did you finish up—"

"Morning sweetheart," Leon’s cut off mid sentence, snapping his mouth shut with a curious glance to who spoke. You look to your left and you shrug when you realize it’s just a guy from Information Technology, nodding at you with a simper, a plastic cup of coffee in hand. 

Not noticing the soured expression Leon’s got on his face, you greet back. You wave lightly, one hand on top of the heavy glass jar on the far end of your desk, filled with candy. "Morning Grayson."

"...Anything new on Hohenzollern?" Leon carefully asks, the slight rasp in his voice imminent enough that you frown. No doubt the doing of Leon’s lack of hydration habits—and really, the only times he only ever drank properly was… after a hangover.

"You came all the way over here to ask about paperwork?" you lean back into your chair, quirking up a soft, incredulous brow.

"I came over here because you're writing it," Leon responds simply, shrugging his shoulders. Truth be told, it’s not a very rare sight for you to see, hear, and feel Leon flirting with women. There’s a thing about him however. Though you know there’s a very fine line between him flirting for fun, and him flirting because it’s just how he’s wired to be, you’ve learnt over the years that Leon is not a womanizer.

You snort, smile reaching up to your tired eyes. You also don’t realize that you instinctively reach out to his arm, squeezing it fleetingly before trailing down and letting go, some small tick that made the tiny muscles at the base of his hair follicles contract. "Flattered."

One beat passes where you just stare at his eyes and he stares at yours. You don’t look at it directly, but from the peripheral of your vision, you see Leon’s thumb rubbing the knuckles of his pointer finger in mindless, circular motions. Eventually, it gets too unbearable and so, he questions casually, "...Who was that?"

"Hm?"

"The guy,” Leon gestures back, glove-clad fingers motioning to where Grayson was. Right, Leon wasn’t in the office during the morning most times—rest time was special for him, even if he’d eventually become cooped up in his office doing paperwork. You find it sort of funny. The image people have of Leon Kennedy is that he spends 365 days a year rappelling out of helicopters but sadly, Leon spends three days fighting a bioweapon, then three weeks explaining why he had to fight a bioweapon.

"Oh. Grayson?" you look back to the spot which the man was at just a minute ago, then your head gently returns. "IT."

"He calls everybody sweetheart?" there’s no jealousy in his voice, not that you can make out. Just the sound of a coworker being mildly confused why their coworker is being called sweetheart by another coworker. It’s not necessarily a secret that you’re attractive, and it didn’t help tank your allure that daddy was a hot shot in the government. Lots of people wanted to cozy up to you once they knew you were [Name] Cancelloti instead of just [Name]. Still, the sound of someone openly flirting with you rubbed him the wrong way, and he wonders if Human Resources thought this was okay.

"No," you blink. In hindsight, this should probably be a bigger deal to you, especially since you have a boyfriend. Even if he never understood your job and missed your birthday only a few days back, only calling two days later with a hasty apology. "Just me, I think."

For a second, Leon is in thought. His hip, which you’ve noticed has been resting idly on your desk for the many minutes he’s spent at your cubicle, finds itself straightening. He shifts his weight, shoving a hand into his pocket, then mumbles, "...Weird."

You smile at that, the tension in the balls of your shoulders dropping and letting your weight shift onto your spine instead of your arms. "You jealous, Kennedy?" playfully teasing him, your tongue juts out just slightly from your mouth, covering the top row of your teeth.

"What?" he scoffs, "no."

"You made a face,” you spin back, pushing yourself deeper into your desk. Your focus diverts from his eyes, those stupid blue eyes that you’re quite sure have been getting bluer over the years, if that’s even possible, back to your carefully organized binder. Or unorganized, depending on how you look at how you’ve not updated your current operations tab.

"I made my normal face,” at this, a smirk comes onto your lips completely unintended. From your pocket, you retrieve a packet of Hi-Chew, grape flavor, and stick it in your mouth almost discreetly. Leon raises an eyebrow at him but doesn’t comment. It isn’t always grape, which Leon knows, mostly from hearing you chew very loudly on comms to annoy him, last week was strawberry. Before Germany, it had been green apple.

Leon remembers very suspiciously the month you started your communal desk jar filled with Fox’s glacier fruit mint candies. Your coworkers steal them easily, Leon not an exception to this. And yet, he knows that you almost never take from your jar, you bring your own candy that you rotate weekly.

Teeth sinking into the taffy-like candy, you scribble something unintelligible into the margin of your binder, in the gray tab featuring all your personal notes. It simply read call Jacob tonight, just in handwriting that was the result of horrible sleep. You finally look back up at him. "You looked like you wanted to arrest him."

"I don't have the authority,” he mutters in that same deadpan, straight tone of his that you know is joking—a feat your coworkers have asked you several times on—judging from the upwards then downwards cadence of his voice. Across the room, you see Faraday leaving the floor using the elevator. You assume he’s getting his morning coffee.

"Shame.”

"...Did the briefing room call yet?" he regains his footing almost immediately. The smile on your face deepens—that subject change was almost smooth.

"Conference Room B,” you flick your wrist down the hall, pointing to the glassed out space, cringing for a millisecond at your assumption that he didn’t know. Leon’s been working here for four years. Your hand retreats, painted fingers tucked under your thumb. “Ten minutes."

Leon nods with a pleased grunt. You let the silence settle between you for a while. Leon looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to say something that may or may not be a joke, but you also see his eyes darting around your face. It starts with your eyes, dropping down to your lips—the ones he’s joked about plenty, but not enough for it to be real interest, just flirty—then to your cheek.

Finally breaking the thick and fuzzy absence of sound, you unfasten the lid of your candy jar with a loud clink. Someone has been stealing more candy than usual in the office whilst you were busy at the console helping Leon. "You know, for someone who isn't jealous—"

"Leaving,” he says, heel already turning, opening his palm to hastily grab the candy you’ve offered him. “See you in ten.”

"Run away, then."

Seven minutes pass over a quick, shameful run to get coffee from the shop down the street that your coworkers have been complaining about becoming overpriced. You eat like you’re twelve. Your go-to order is almost always vanilla or caramel or both, today is no exception—vanilla sweet cream cold brew. WIth an extra shot, uh, two extra shots to be exact. Or else you’ll die. It’s a little bit pathetic in fact, how you keep trying to preserve sweetness yet the caffeine keeps winning. You take moments of your day to ponder if you’ve not only become addicted to sugar, but addicted to caffeine too.

Your heels click against the marble flooring, holding five cups of coffee in hand. Presley gave you twenty for a mocha, Beckham asked for a latte and some abysmal concoction for his other friend, Frankie wanted anything that was strong enough to kill a medieval child. With a smile, you slide each order to their respective persons—you don’t miss how all three of these men lingered slightly longer than necessary. Not uncomfortably, thankfully.

The projector is already humming when you enter the conference room, coffee in one hand, binder and notebook tucked under your other arm. You take a sip from the cup and frown at the bitter aftertaste coating your tongue. You sit, you wait, you observe the briefing office setting up the projector, then to your coworkers handling the case—Leon Kennedy included—filling the chairs one by one.

Government officers are so uptight about timing. Everyone must be here before 8:40, but somehow the actual slideshow starts at 8:47. It doesn’t really take long for localized chatter to erupt in the room, and it takes even shorter for the officer to clear his throat. On screen, Hohenzollern's estate fades into a photograph of an upscale charity gala and the briefing officer clicks to the next slide.

"We've confirmed Hohenzollern only conducts private negotiations during social functions,” another click. "The problem is guest selection."

Beside you, Leon leans back in his chair. Your eyebrows shoot up at the mannerism, leaning onto the table with your head perched precariously on your hand. "Invitation only?"

The officer nods. “Invitation only,” he clicks several times on the sleek presenter remote and you see the many photographs arrayed. You see a few distinct silhouettes, simple men with women draped over them and adorning lush fabrics while they talk to other guests. You’re technically, very used to this scenery. Your father was a man of high ranking and your mother, god forbid, was a socialite through the mud. "Every attendee arrives with a spouse, fiancée, or long-term partner."

Someone whistles across from you. You take a sip out of your drink, throat dry. The drink doesn’t do much for hydration—coffee does the opposite—but you didn’t exactly have water with you and you forgot to take a cup. The motion gets Leon to notice you and he gives you a look, gesturing to your plastic cup questioningly. You slide it to him easily and he takes an experimental sip.

"So we need a couple,” another agent states.

"Correct."

A few agents glance around the room but you pay no attention to the inherent curiosity the assignment has sparked. Instead, you scribble something in your notebook with the gel pen you put in your breast pocket, then poke on Leon’s arm with the same pen. You look at your drink then him, and he mouths too sweet at you, face contorting into an unpleasant scrunch.

You finally comment, though dismissively, looking at one of the agents. There are a couple of options within the office. Field agents aren’t rare, just Leon types are rare, so you’re positive they’d find someone eventually. "They'll probably pull Stacy and Morales.”

"Or the Kalogeras,” someone else suggests, earning a couple of nods and a discussion you’re not entirely too occupied on. Your head rests on your hand yet again and your gaze drifts down to Leon and the sleeve of his dress shirt that has ridden just enough up his forearm for the muscle there to pull taut beneath pale skin. "They've done undercover domestic before."

You watch from your peripheral as Leon rests his chin on his fist, elbow rested on top of his knee. One of his legs is put neatly on top of the other. His arms are pretty thick from years of shooting and climbing over things no sane person should climb over. It hardly matters to you. His rolled cuff catches just below the widest part, and you find yourself following the line of it all the way toward his wrist before remembering, rather belatedly, that you were supposed to be listening. "Whoever they send is gonna have to sell it."

"They'll figure it out," you murmur, Leon finally looking at you against inquisitively, mouthing out “what?” which you simply smile at. Shameless, you are.

The briefing officer changes slides with a final click and the screen shows white. Immediately, your coworkers all stand up from their chairs, dusting invisible dirt off their laps, immediately running away through the door, or trying to seem civil by waiting for the officer to finally speak—meeting adjourned. "We'll announce assignments this afternoon.”

You tidy up and you’re back at your desk immediately. Half of office work is not doing anything when all your paperwork has been filed, the other half is being rushed and hurried during hectic hours and important field assignments, and a tiny but significant portion was dedicated to more paperwork after field assignments. It’s bearable though. You’re fairly social and you don’t know one person in the office who doesn’t know you nor you don’t know them. You emit enough warmth that people naturally orbit you, enough that not everything bores you.

You are halfway through reorganizing Hohenzollern's financial records when someone knocks twice against your cubicle wall. You’re on your third Hi-Chew you’ve rummaged from your purse and put in your pocket, the fruity candy spread out at the roof of your mouth.

"Agent.” You look up, fixing a stray strand of hair that causes your supervisor’s eye to twitch—and if you were delusional, a smile threatening to twitch. Still, your supervisor doesn't smile. "Conference Room C."

"...Am I in trouble?"

"No."

The room is much smaller than Conference Room B. It’s painfully government, obviously. Fluorescent lighting that makes your head ache, neutral gray carpet, white acoustic ceiling tiles, and no windows this time because it’s deeper inside the building. Cautiously, you take a seat in one of many black ergonomic office chairs, hands settling down in your lap instead of the long table.

It’s just you, Leon, the briefing officer, and your supervisor.

Leon sits beside you yet again. The briefing officer slides a folder over the dark laminate conference table with a smooth swipe. You look at it as it moves, then your eyes come back to look at the officer. "We've selected our undercover pair."

At this, you glance at Leon but he only shrugs once.You almost hiss as you watch his shoulders roll. The folder stops in front of you and you briefly wonder if you’re going to be reassigned to a new agent. Which wouldn’t be life-ending, but would be troublesome for your already attached little heart. You open the folder. Two passport photos stare back: yours and Leon’s.

"...No."

"We need you in the field,” your supervisor states, tone clinical. Beside him, the briefing officer crosses his arms and he looks you and Leon both up and down, assessing you for God knows what. You somehow think this is a fate worse than being sent to a blacksite, or being tortured into information.

"No,” you repeat one more time, lips curving down into a small frown.

"You meet every operational requirement,” your supervisor says matter-a-factly, settling down into the chair across from you, wheels and back slightly creaking at the weight. There’s no malice in his voice, you’ve always maintained a good relationship with him, just the flat administrative finality you’d figure you’d get from your own senior.

"I'm a handler,” you point out mildly and truthfully. You’ve never really wanted to work in the field, never really had any curiosities because even before you’ve seen how agents looked after assignments, you were mostly interested in whatever the nitty gritty had to offer. This lack of curiosity followed through even after you became a handler. Now especially that you’ve got the job, you refuse to get out of behind the chair where it’s safe and relatively predictable. 

"You also maintain active field certification,” the mention makes you frown deeper. Next to you, Leon looks mildly amused at your expression, but ultimately confused and maybe slightly offended at the choice of operatives. Leon rests his leg on top of the other yet again, watching your conversation keenly.

"I maintain it because you people make me,” you lean back into your chair, your black skirt riding up just enough for you to reveal the fat of your thighs clad in high-denier pantyhose. You don’t even notice Leon’s gaze dropping with all the subtlety of a brick for a small moment, then ripping right back to the two men in front of you.

He doesn’t miss a beat. "You passed with distinction."

"Five years ago,” you carefully maintain the flat edge of your voice but it’s proving slightly difficult with the absurdity of their request. Certainly, you did pass with distinction. But passing like that doesn’t mean you’d have real experience on the field.

"It doesn't expire,” instantly responding, your supervisor softens. “You have high social adaptability,” he reasons, then, while tapping his forearm, some tick he’s had you’ve noticed since you first got assigned to him, he adds, “—excellent interpersonal rapport. Conversational German. Behavioral analysis liked your communication. You’re also physically very presentable.”

Your face twitches at the last point but you don’t comment. You let out a soft sigh, turning your attention to the most obvious logistical flaw in this entire plan. "He has an actual partner pool," you argue, gesturing with a slight nod toward Leon. You take the chance, despite your already worsening mood, to joke—your foot kicking at the side of Leon’s calf, enough for him to grunt and send you a glare. Pleased, you smile at him, then you realize how bad that looked.

"We evaluated alternatives,” the briefing officer chimes in, voice level. He has a small smile of his own, the first one of today that didn’t seem forced, nor seemed particularly threatening. You figure they’re both trying to ease you into accepting your reality which you appreciated—even if just a little bit—because at the very least, even if you had no real say in this, you could make something out of it.

"And?" Leon finally inquires. In truth, he’s been trying to stay very quiet, especially since your supervisor essentially called you gorgeous in the most bureaucratic way possible. Because yes, he’s right. He also cannot say that he’s right or else he’ll kill himself.

"You two scored highest,” the briefing officer says plainly, then before you can ask for what, he adds, not even a single ounce of hesitation in his voice, "'for believable long-term couple.'"

For nine entire seconds, granted by the DolceVita wrapped elegantly around your wrist and telling you the time, a very agonizing nine seconds, there is absolutely nobody who speaks. The only sound that fills the room is the airconditioning humming and the clock that sits on the wall to your left. You look at Leon. Leon looks at you.

"...Who filled out that assessment?" Leon slowly croaks out, almost not even wanting an answer. You frankly think it’s bizarre that people think you and Leon Kennedy would work well as a couple when you spend most of your time talking to him through an earpiece while miles upon miles away. And there are tons of handlers and agents here that have way more chemistry than you and him if they wanted handlers and agents.

"Multiple departments."

Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering a curse under his breath in an accent that feels weirdly Ohioan. Right, he’s Midwestern. Sometimes you forget. "Oh, that's humiliating."

The briefing officer and your supervisor look at each other and a small smirk settles upon their faces. With that, your supervisor claps once. “Congratulations Kennedy,” he’s already starting to leave the conference room, giving you one last look. You’re going to burn yourself alive today, you know it. “You’re getting married to Cancelloti. I’m jealous.”

When you get back to your cubicle, the color on your face has drained significantly, not as much as a typical reaction to a pet dying, but enough that it visibly pales your skin. The bags underneath your eyes glowed under the harsh office lights the entire time you were at the office from eight to five. You nagged at Leon to finish his paperwork before Friday right after leaving the conference room—just because you’re trying to process you’re getting deployed with him of all people— and if he couldn’t do that, at least before you two get sent to Germany in two weeks.

With a concentrated look, you take out your fourth wrap of Hi-Chew. Your eyebrows are furrowed into a defined map of scrunches and you don’t realize the scowl that has set on your face. You love your job. Always have, maybe because you were practically born into it. Mostly because your father, that never-home man, also somehow used to walk you through government buildings on quiet Saturdays, pointing out operations rooms as though they were museums instead of windowless boxes where people quietly lost sleep. To be frank, you couldn’t really blame anyone but yourself for pursuing a political science degree then immediately losing sleep because you wanted to work for the country. But still, you were insulted at the ease upper management had in sending a handler that had never gone into operations on the field.

Restlessly, you tap your singular long fingernail on the desk. Eventually your nails, brittle from you subconsciously biting on them at times, had chipped off, but your middle finger’s nail had miraculously survived from your onslaught of nibbling. You should do your nails soon.

Your mind flashes with a list of names you’d even need to call for an operation like this. Weeks in Germany are still weeks in Germany. Well, less than weeks. You sigh, tutting your tongue on the roof of your mouth, then biting the inside of your cheek. Your mother wouldn’t mind, your father wouldn’t mind either, why the hell would that man mind? You had a relatively small circle of friends and the only friend group outside of work you have frequented suddenly going to other goddamn countries without telling you too. That only left your boyfriend.

“Cancelloti,” snapping you out of your already depressing thoughts, a male voice cuts through the self-perceived silence around you. Standing casually, yet again one of your coworkers is at your cubicle, or nearing your cubicle, holding several manila files at his side.

“Oh, hi,” you greet warmly, twisting your chair to look at him properly.

“Coffee run?” he asks, almost expectantly. At that, your smile deepens, which he surely takes to heart. Some people look at your smile like it’s oxygen in a slowly deprived deep sea. You recognize him—he frequently asks you if you want to go for a coffee run and you’ve said yes a couple of times. You appreciate the gesture. But recently you started stopping asking people if they could pick up a drink for you because they always get it wrong. Either they put too little shots or too little sugar.

“Oh, no,” giving him an apologetic frown, one that quickly turns back to your smile, you shake your head. You aren’t sheepish, not one bit, but you’re a bit too tight over your recent assignment and now—how the hell you’re going to tell your boyfriend about all of this—so your voice turns just a tad airy. “I already went.”

“Aw. You always beat me to it,” he sighs playfully. You can see the exact moment he thinks he should step forward again, it’s just something you’ve noticed a lot in people when they talk to you, but before he could, your phone rings an annoying, slightly frantic tone. The familiar three-note Motorola trill buzzed from the bottom of your leather purse. You’ve been meaning to change the cheerful MIDI melody for the past year. “I’ll go.”

For the final time, you smile at him, give him a wave, then joke. Now you’re just confused why your boyfriend called on a Tuesday—and why he called you when you were thinking of him—which he normally never did for reasons you don’t know. Years of profiling makes you pick up on small habits. “You’re just slow.”

You rummage through your purse to grab your phone and quickly slip out into the hallway after the small silver device vibrates for the third time, away from the chatter of the bullpen. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. You don’t really like this particular hallway and nobody else does either. Mainly because it smells like rotten eggs from the darkroom at the end of the hallway—and there was really no use for it besides the darkroom. It has its perks if you want to call family members without having coworkers eavesdropping on you though. 

A blue file rests against your hip as you answer, pressing the phone between your shoulder and ear. You clear your throat, saliva gathering at the end of your throat. "...Hey."

"Hey." Jacob sounds relieved and you could picture the smile on his face, right as he’s cooped up in his own office. Or maybe getting lunch. It’s lunch time. His voice is soft as he speaks into the phone, almost whispering. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

You glance at the main office. Your peers have all but either gone out to get food, coffee, or some other digestible thing, at least you figured, or are still typing away in the office as you hear the soft but overlapping sounds of keyboards clicking. "I'm on a break."

"I figured you were buried in paperwork,” he mumbles, smiling so palpable on the other side of the phone you can hear it in his voice. Banter came easy for both of you. A small laugh escapes you, one that you cover up with a hand.

"When am I not?" you ask rhetorically.

"Fair point,” letting silence fill the space for mere moments, your boyfriend continues, "so… how's your day?"

You hesitate for a fraction of a second. You ponder if you should tell your real boyfriend that you’re going to be sent to Germany for—what you are definitely sure of, with this big of a breakthrough, a week or more—an undercover operation that needs you to pretend you’re married to another man. "We had a briefing,” you say, hearing the curious “oh?” from Jacob’s side before you continued. "I'm getting sent to Germany."

"...Seriously?" he finally questions, in disbelief.  "When? Aren’t you a desk person?”

"I am,” you say, nodding to yourself. You fidget with your fingers, picking at invisible dirt from underneath your nails. Nothing has accumulated beneath your fingernails. “In about two weeks,” you finally go for it, part of it at least, “I’m going undercover.”

"Damn,” is the only thing he utters before another pause settles in the air. There’s a low whistle on his end of the line, then the sound of him adjusting in his office chair. "That's... actually kind of cool."

“I don't think 'cool' is the word I'd use,” you smile despite yourself, leaning further back into the wall. You shift your weight onto your other leg and you straighten your skirt, patting it down with one hand. The faint, sulfuric tang of the darkroom down the hall bites at the back of your throat.

“So that’s why you sound so exhausted,” Jacob notes. You contemplate asking him why he hadn’t come over for dinner the last couple of days, but you remember your own hypocrisy, benign caught up in your own work. You stay quiet and you enjoy the first phone call, that funnily, came earlier than you intended at the start of your day.  “How long have you been up?”

“I’ve been awake for…” you glance down at the sleek face of your silver watch wrapped around your wrist perfectly, tracking the steady tick of the second hand. You grimace as it hits one p.m. and a hiss involuntarily escapes your throat. “Long enough.” You run a hand over your face, feeling the sheer weight of the 240 milligrams of caffeine finally beginning to sour in your stomach. You decide to just drop the other shoe, laughing awkwardly. “I’m getting married.”

“...What?” the spike of confusion in his voice crackles through the small silver phone.

“Fake married,” you clarify quickly, heat rushing to the apples of your cheek. You morbidly think this is funny, at least enough for your cheeks to burn with a slight smile at the thought of Jacob being a teensy weensy bit jealous. Your thumb traces the crisp edge of the blue folder resting against your hip and you continue. “To uh, Leon. It’s an operational requirement. The target won’t negotiate with anyone who isn't partnered up.”

A beat of silence stretches over the line. It lingers just long enough for you to count it out in your head. One, two, three.

“Huh,” Jacob finally says.

“Does that bother you?” you hold your breath for a fraction of a second, searching for something—a hint of protective friction, a spark of the typical jealousy Leon had feigned earlier—anything that might offset the lingering sting of him missing your birthday. To be honest, you didn’t mind. He worked long hours a day too and why should you blame him? Though, it still curdled in your heart when you remembered that Operations hosted a cheap birthday surprise for you. Still more than what your boyfriend did.

“I mean—one second,” right in the middle of his sentence, you hear the gentle creak of an ergonomics chair, his ergonomics chair, then the sound of typing. “Sorry—email. I mean… it’s work,” Jacob reasons, his voice leveling out into a casual, near floaty cadence. You resist commenting on his habits—Jacob is a busy guy, and multitasking has always been a thing he’s done. “It’s not like you’re actually marrying the guy. So, I guess I don’t really care.”

The utter lack of weight behind his words leaves a strange sensation right at the base of your throat, but you brush it aside with the practiced ease of someone who profiles disappointment for a living. You sigh dramatically, easy to regain your footing in the conversation. You didn’t really wanna seem clingy.

“You still surviving on coffee and candy?” he asks, navigating away from the subject entirely. You nearly chuckle. A lot of men these few days have almost smoothly changed the topic with you several times.

“…Maybe,” you murmur, the corner of your mouth twitching.

“‘Maybe’ means yes,” he chuckles faintly. Then, his voice drops an octave, softening into something more familiar. He inhales deeply. “Hey. I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” you say. The words come easily, slipping past your lips like an automated response to a script you’ve both run a thousand times. Three days you haven’t seen him, you’re pretty sure. Caught up in the office, you’ve not really had time to chat, even when you got home right after finishing with Leon’s last Germany run. Your easy smile fades just a little, your gaze drifting toward the bright glass windows of the bullpen. You look at your empty desk, then at the sheer volume of paperwork waiting to be processed before Germany. You let out a whine, “...I think I should head back.”

Through the distant glass of the bullpen, you catch a sudden movement. A flash of a brown leather jacket from a man who’s gotten increasingly worse posture from constantly hauling stuff. Leon walks past your cubicle carrying a heavy stack of case files, his eyes fixed forward, entirely oblivious to the fact that you’ve slipped away into the shadows of the hallway. You watch the broad slope of his shoulders until he disappears around the corner. Secretly, you’re betting with yourself that he’s mumbling curses about the amount of work he’s about to be given and do.

“Right,” Jacob says.

You hum, not knowing what to say, but still—you catch him right before he disconnects or pulls the phone out of his ear. “Okay, bye. I love you,” the words come easily across the line, floating through the static without much effort, but still heavy.

“I love you too,” he replies, voice even, and a hint of a smile in his voice yet again, matching your cadence perfectly. “Talk tonight?” he says gently, adding, “I still owe you dinner.”

“Yeah. Tonight.”

“Can’t believe your coworker got to marry you first,” he jokes dryly. 

You scoff at him playfully, not even realizing your cheeks had gone up in flames by now. It’s stupid; how utterly affected you are by silly banter only by the people you love. You respond one last time, “if you were a government agent, you’d be forced to marry me.”

The line goes dead. You stare at the dark screen for another second, watching your own tired reflection fade back into the black glass. You look entirely like shit. Your hair is a bit out of place and you’re gonna excuse yourself to the bathroom later. The taffy-like candy in your mouth has dissolved mostly. You slip the phone back into your purse, straightening the lapels of your blouse, and tucking the blue file securely under your arm, walking back into the office wearing the same easy smile everyone’s been accustomed to.

Your heels click against the floor again, and you pat your hair softly, as if it’d make the disheveled parts any better. When you return, Leon’s already at your desk, finally realizing you’ve been away for a little too long than usual. You eye him up and down. You really don’t know how the hell his salary pays for all his leather jackets—you’re pretty sure this is the sixth one you’ve seen him wear in… seven months. One got lost during an operation, you think. Maybe that’s why he’s gotten a new one.

"Everything alright?" Leon asks the moment you return. You’ve already completely forgotten about your conversation with your boyfriend and your entire attention has fixed itself on the leather draped upon Leon’s shoulders. Yes, definitely—Leon does not suit biker jackets. He suits the slightly oversized ones more.

You blink at the question, actually confused. "...Yeah. Why?"

"You were gone longer than a coffee run,” he explains simply, leaning against your desk. You don’t really catch the slight haze in his eyes, nor the softer tone he used on you. Because Leon Kennedy also accidentally overheard you talking to your boyfriend while rounding up the corner and his first reaction was “why did you sound like that?” instead of “[Name] Cancelloti has a boyfriend?”.

Your smile returns automatically and you squeeze his arm, hair falling over your eyes just a little as you jerk your head up. Naturally, you tease, your hand lingering just a little over what's necessary. Not on purpose. "Aw. Worried about me, husband?"

Leon hesitates. "Don't flatter yourself."

taglist ꩜ @spectranix | typical taglist form

notes ꩜ hi i got into resident evil again so u get idiot leon fic. yay. this was originally supposed to be a oneshot but i caught it at the tip of spiraling out of control and i didn't wanna make it too long so it's gonna be a three parter! had this in my sperm bank for a while. its just something to get me back into the resident evil headspace. so yeah thank you for reading. i love comments. i love insight. i have taglists. i dont only write for re. i also have an ao3. byebye.

It had been a shock. You were still young in the legal world, too young to be taken seriously, but you were damn good at your job. You'd known that since you started law school. 

The feeling only solidified as you'd worked with the DSO. You have handled cases that would've made other attorneys sweat, heavy with substance and not enough evidence to prove worthwhile. To be fair, you didn't exactly have a choice on what you took on and what you didn’t, but it was enough of a challenge to keep you sharp, tough, and prepared for the worst. 

There were moments that tested you. Your least favorite part of the job was the coaching. The dealing with witnesses, directing what exactly to say and not to say, how to pull themselves together on the stand and not look guilty of whatever was being thrown against them made you want to rip your hair out strand by strand. 

Most of the time, you control the reactions well. Field agents and HR employees are used to dealing with people who openly wanted them dead. Those who worked in Logistics, Operations, or Intelligence are not. They're the hardest to work into stoicism.

Usually, the agents are good. Most of them are too exhausted from the vice grip the world has on them to care about sentencing or lawsuits. The cynicism that hangs over them is second-nature. You’ve even requested witnesses from other agencies, and they listened to your extremely important, valuable legal advice. 

Except Leon fucking Kennedy. 

For some reason, Leon doesn't obey your very clear, stern rules you lay out about presentation and wording. Or maybe he likes being defiant. Maybe he is worn down by the world of bioterrorism in a way that bleeds into the very facet of his being that he doesn't feel any guilt about losing a case. 

Maybe, more accurately, he just likes pressing your buttons. 

Because he isn't disrespectful and insubordinate all the time. Just when he knows that your eye will twitch, and your chest rattles with a sigh deep enough for your pelvis to feel, and it makes him smirk. 

When you first meet, it's in the hell that you call your office. Dark circles cling under your eyes, heavy enough to weigh on your limbs, too, from the countless late nights at the office over the last week. 

I love my job, you remind yourself. You love the pliancy of it all. The fact that the crux of your world revolves around how well you can talk, how swift you think in the moment. How you can mold whatever you’re working with into a certain narrative. 

At times like this, you really can’t forget how awful it is. How exhausting it is, carrying everything with you, unable to unentwine the concepts of home and work. 

Whatever's in your hands is long forgotten as the knock reverberates through your office. You jump. The papers fall through your fingers and land on your desk in a heap.

Fuck. Of course you forgot. You emailed back and forth with an agent from downstairs, someone in the field. Agent Kennedy had returned from a mission three days ago, and he is already back in the office. 

It's only ten o'clock, and you somehow felt like the floor was already falling out from under your feet. 

“Come in,” you call out, loud enough to be heard but soft enough to where the words didn’t scrape your chest. 

The hinges of your door creak open, slowly at first, a reminder that you need to send a request to Maintenance because it is driving you nuts. Every time an intern opens your office it sticks with you like nails on a chalkboard. 

You hardly register standing up and smoothing your hands over your slacks, straightening the collar of your blouse like it’s a habit buried deep in your muscles. 

He steps tentatively into the room, loafers first, and your breath falls short for just a moment. 

You had known Leon Kennedy was an attractive man. You work in a government office: people gossip. Interns whisper, excited that they got a glimpse of the DSO legend, the golden boy who saved President Graham's daughter from Spanish occultists and apparently backflipped while doing it. 

Murmurs go through departments, circulating like wildfire, until they reach your office through your coworker, Miles, who drops files by your desk with a small smirk and gives you details quickly, hushed, like he knows you'd be embarrassed to be tied in on office drama. 

You knew Leon was hot. You did not know that, despite that fact, he looks so haunted. 

The first thing you notice are his eyes. His light blue eyes are surrounded by deeply furrowed brows and lines that seem etched into his skin, echoes of ghosts that cling heavy on his conscience. You wonder for a second how he looked when he was younger. Did he look so angry? So exhausted? Or is that something that comes with the DSO's control of him?

He looks like he wrangles ghosts in the dead of night with willpower and occasionally a pistol. 

Usually, this unnerves you. But strangely, Leon seems harmless. 

Leon gives you a small smile that somewhat resembles a grimace. His eyebrow is held together with a butterfly stitch and a fading bruise lingers on his jaw. Obviously, he feels like shit. He shouldn't have even been cleared for desk duty yet with the way he's leaning to one side, like bearing the weight fully is too much. 

You wouldn't notice if your whole job didn't revolve around attention to detail, but his shirt is slightly untucked and wrinkled, like he didn't have time or care to iron it. Or maybe he was too tired to do so. 

He closes the door behind him and approaches your desk, steps unbelievably light considering his broad frame. 

"You must be Leon." You hold out your hand, grasping his firmly, and avoid the rush of emotions that come to you when you realize how large he is. "How are you? Can I grab you anything? We have coffee, water, I think tea-"

"I'm fine," Leon replies quickly, convincingly, like the idea of being taken care of is embarrassing. Then, somewhat more gently, he says, "Thanks though."

You squint across the table at him and take a seat, hand reaching out towards your keyboard as you open a document. The agents are easy, you reminded yourself. They take everything in, too unbothered to care about sitting in court. 

But his gaze is heavy on you across your desk as he scoots his chair in, and he rests his folded hands on your desk before clearing his throat. 

Leon is interesting in a way you can't quite decipher. Your whole life is reading people. 

You can't read him. 

That fact…makes you sort of nervous. 

"I'm sure you've been through this before with Miles so I'll try to be brief." you write down a couple of notes at the top of the document and narrow your eyes in his direction. "I'm surprised you're back so soon. You're healing from a hip injury."

Leon tries to hide his surprise. "Think I'm running them out of PTO."

"Right," you offer him a small smile that does nothing to hide your disagreement with his words. "Let's go over some things before I get too into this."

With a clinical clarity that you typically carried everywhere, but especially in your job, you prompt Leon to tell you, exactly, what happened in North Dakota months ago when he was on an assignment. Logically, you have all of the information you need. There's no way this guy isn't getting sentenced. But it matters how Leon views this case, how he remembers it, because the way he talks on the stand is important. 

He recalls the events through furrowed brows, gaze burning a hole into your desk, hands never leaving their spot on the particle board. You never interrupt. You never do, not in the first go of the story, at least. Seeing the spots where he hesitates, where he ponders over his words, was crucial. Because you have to make sure he doesn't do that on the stand. 

And there is something interesting about Leon that you don't see in other agents. He cannot hold eye contact, even though his words are clear and level, like he had somewhat rehearsed it, or maybe because he reduces all experiences in his life to terminology akin to a report. 

When you think you've gotten a grasp on who he is, his tone shifts, a wall flies up in his mind, and you're back at square one. 

"Listen, Agent Kennedy–"

"Leon," he says. "Please."

"Leon," you oblige him. "I'm going to be honest. You are one of the most difficult people to read I have ever encountered. I don't care. But a jury does," you lean forward in your chair and force him to meet your eyes. "Because if they can't read someone, how are they supposed to trust what they say?"

Leon tilts his head a bit, like he is caught off guard by your bluntness. "They probably shouldn't."

"Don't say that on the stand. God, that's horrible." You reach toward your keyboard and type out a couple of notes on Leon: defiant, closed-off, cynical. After consideration, you add a fourth. Sad. "The defense will take hesitation as a lack of allegiance. I don't care if you believe in your job or not. Just don't make it sound like that."

"You…" Leon churns over the words. "You're very upfront."

"I'm good at what I do." You mentally wave his discomfort away. "Go again. From the top. Be more…I don't know. Sensitive? Look like someone a jury could sympathize with."

"Am I?"

"That's up to you."

For the next hour, you give him notes, ignoring the blush that creeps up his neck when you grimace at the tone that bleeds into his testimony at times. You prepare him to answer your questions, ones that had been polished in the dim light of your living room with a horrible reality show droning on your television. 

He does well enough. You dismiss him with a, "Get some rest, Leon," and a bottle of water to take to his office downstairs. 

You don't think much about Leon Kennedy until the trial comes up a couple weeks later. There was too much to do. You'd figured he'd been on the stand enough times before, with his line of work surrounding breaking federal laws and shooting things. 

On the morning of the trial, you look around at your team. "Martina, you okay?" You ask one of the employees you subpoena'd from Logistics. "Hang on, I'll go grab you something. You're too pale." 

For most people, the courtroom is an edifice of walnut wood and anxiety, arching doorways and columns of finely-carved mahogany. For you, it's, strangely, comfort. Here, you’re completely in your element. 

You slip out of the conference room where your witnesses sit huddled around a table. Your gray pantsuit is tighter than usual, the white blouse under your vest properly pressed, and you resist the urge to undo the top button as it scratches against your neck.

When you return, it is with an armful of water bottles and pockets full of granola bars. You pass them out. When Leon Kennedy grabs one from you, his fingertips brush against yours, and he gives you a small smirk that makes you narrow your eyes suspiciously.

The cut on his eyebrow had faded into a light pink scar and there is no evidence of a bruise on his jaw. He cleaned up rather nicely, too, you notice. The dark blue suit outlines his physique nicely in all the ways that matters. Leon is a large man, no hiding that, but the silhouette of the wool makes him look small enough to seem meek. 

Good. 

Your eyes scan over the clock on the wall. "Okay, we're starting in fifteen. I'm gonna get out there. Any questions? No? Okay." 

At the time, you don't think much of the look Leon was giving you. You probably should've. 

When he is called out, he does a decent enough job of answering your questions with the tone you made him practice in your office, words calculated and level, and he actually makes an effort to hold eye contact with you and at times, the jury.

It's hard to ignore the thought that he is really handsome like this, but he is. Especially when he pushes away the harsh edges to his personality that often frighten others. From what you heard. 

It is when he is called out for cross examination that you begin to regret not being harsher on him. 

"Agent Kennedy- sorry, can I call you Leon?" the defense attorney asks, though he wasn't expecting an answer, which is obvious by the shock on his face when Leon interrupts him. 

"No, Agent Kennedy is fine." 

You don't like that. Not one bit. And Leon can tell, based on the way his eyebrow raises ever so slightly in your direction. 

"Okay, Agent Kennedy, let me ask you some questions about this experience in North Dakota…"

The attorney is grasping at straws. You can tell, because you've had to do it before. There isn't much for him to do besides try to claw himself out of the hole the evidence has dug, because it is so damning. You hadn't been too nervous about the outcome of this case, until right now. Because Leon's posture changes ever so slightly. He leans back in his chair, head upturned, and an easy smirk graces his lips. 

"Agent Kennedy," the attorney paces, turning towards the jury intentionally. "Do you enjoy your job?"

You suck in a breath and wait for the answer, which comes without much thought. 

"Not particularly, no."

"No?" 

"No."

"Why do you keep doing it?" 

You stand up, fingertips pressed against the desk. "Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant." 

Leon gives a small, almost imperceptible, amused smirk in your direction. This is exactly the perspective you do not want to give: the cocky agent who doesn't care about his job, how he does it, or who gets hurt. 

Every detail matters. The way he is sitting matters. He knows that.

The fact that the defense is grasping at straws had been a comfort when you'd already brought in four witnesses and an expert to back the DSO up. Now that Leon is practically handing the straws to them, you start to sweat. 

You are pissed. 

As far as you know, Leon can absolutely tell. And he is deeply amused by it. 

The judge raises an eyebrow in the defense attorney's direction. 

He says, "Your Honor, trust me."

"Overruled. You may proceed."

Leon sighs and gives the jury a glance that makes you want to rip him off the stand by his ear. "I… I think that it feels good doing the right thing. There's a lot of bad in this world."

A surprisingly real answer. You adjust in your seat. 

"It's also nice seeing my gym membership pay off when I'm doing the right thing."

There it is. The big thing you told him not to do. Joke around. The jury gives a couple of quiet, half-hearted laughs. 

You clench your jaw. Hard. It’s enough for Leon to see your disapproval. 

The questioning continues, but you don't pay much attention, sometimes offering an objection to a leading question or an answer that was a non-answer. The contempt flooding through your bloodstream drowns out the proceedings. 

When the defense lawyer decides he's done, Leon is escorted off the stand. He sends you a small smile as he passes by. You didn't even give him a glance. 

What an incredible first impression he's made with you. You had been nice when you were in your office, when you were in the conference room before the trial. You gave him patience. 

You were not going to do that again. Because you know this isn't going to be the last time that you have the misfortune of working with Leon Kennedy. 

Leon's horrible performance in the cross-examination is not enough to throw the case, thank God, and the jury finds the mercenary guilty on all counts. He is sentenced to forty years in prison. 

Which is so fortunate for Leon, considering if you had lost the case, he would've lost the ability to reproduce. 

The next day, you storm through the halls of the DSO, footsteps heavy enough to be felt through the floor like an earthquake. Somehow your badge lets you into Field Operations, which doesn't quite make sense and frankly feels like something someone could get in trouble for, so you don't mention it to anyone. Especially since it's fueling a good purpose for you.

It isn't too hard to find his office. The DSO doesn't have too many field agents—hence why they are so extremely overworked and difficult to reach—and the majority of them are out on assignments at any given moment

The light of his office floods into the hallway, door propped and blinds open. His office is on the east side of the building—lucky bastard—meaning that he gets the sun in his office until about noon. 

Even though you can see him sitting at his desk, brows furrowed at the computer, file open in front of him, you check the name on the plaque outside of his office just to be safe. 

Leon S. Kennedy.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Your voice is loud enough to make him jump, and if you weren't so infuriated, maybe you'd tease him about his lack of vigilance for being a field agent. He probably has a sidearm in the drawer of his desk, because that is weirdly allowed for him, but he doesn't keep an ear out for those walking down the hall in his department. 

Leon barely looks up at you before something like a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "What?"

"Don't what me, Leon Kennedy." You march, boldly, further into his office, standing between the two chairs opposite his desk. "You know exactly what. Do you think it's fun to not listen to me?"

"Kind of, yeah."

You sharpen on him. "I'm being serious."

"So am I." He finally leans back in his chair and gives you a proper look-over. If your blood wasn't already boiling, you'd maybe flush. "You still won. I don't know what the issue is."

"You could've completely," for some reason, you look over your shoulder to make sure no one's near, "fucked that up for me." 

"Do you want me to say sorry?"

"No, Leon, I want you to be sorry." 

He clicks his tongue. "No can do. It was fun."

"You can't just get on the stand and say whatever you want because it amuses you. That's not how it works."

"Says who?"

Your palms come down to bear your weight on his desk. You hope the height difference intimidates him, but it only seems to further entertain him. "Says me, you dumbass. This isn't funny. This is my career."

"You're highly argumentative."

"My entire job is arguing, Leon. I hope I'd be good at it by now."

Leon interlocks his fingers over his desk. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, which isn't something scandalous enough to tempt you as it is. He tilts his head toward you, and for a moment, remorse flashes through his eye. You think it's like seeing a part of him that's real. 

"Okay, fine," he utters. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again." 

“Thank you.” 

Finally getting what you wanted, you turn on your heel, feeling Leon’s eyes on you as you begin the trek out of his office. 

At the last moment, Leon calls out your name, successfully grabbing your attention. “How did you have clearance to get up here?”

You stop in your tracks. Then, you turn towards him, bracing your weight on the doorframe. “Who knows. Think someone messed up. Don’t say anything, though. I like to snoop.”

He chuckles. “Have fun, hotshot.”

You want to start the fight again. Instead, you curl your lip at him, heels echoing against the tile of the office with a distinct click-clack. 

The second time you work with Leon, you think it will be different. 

Granted, he shows up to your meeting in a leather jacket with a horrible black box hair dye job, so you don't know exactly what you should expect. 

You give him a once-over before commenting, with an extreme lack of sensitivity, “I'm pretty sure you are actively sweating whiskey right now.”

He shrugs. “Whatever.”

"Want me to comment on the hair?"

"Please don't."

Rain splatters the window of your office, making the white room somehow ever more gloomy. You had recently hung some paintings up on the walls and stuffed a cactus in the corner by your filing cabinet, though it doesn't do much to brighten up the space. 

Leon is very convincing about changing and listening. He leans into your questions, plays through the scenarios, and even asks his own questions about how to hold himself. 

You're…surprised.

In hindsight, he is definitely just trying to get around you interrogating him about his drinking, the dark circles under his eyes, the considerable amount of weight he has lost since you've last seen him, or the way his shoulders slump with something heavier than exhaustion. 

Because somehow he already knows that, if he acknowledges it, you will prod until he breaks. And Leon cannot handle breaking in your office.

So, he plays your game. And you play his. 

When the time for him to testify comes around, you maybe start to believe that it will be different. 

Until he cracks a smile and says, “I mean, I don't think it's fair to call him a criminal.”

Out of the corner of his eye, you shake your head, and a laugh fueled by annoyance leaves your lips. Leon smirks slightly like he enjoys your frustration. 

Luckily for him, his testimony isn't enough to sway the jury to deliver a not-guilty verdict. 

When you go to work the next day, you don't barge into his office to yell at him. Which, to him, feels worse than when you did. 

The DSO headquarters have a way of making you feel like you are in some sort of purgatory. 

No matter how often you repeat the I love my job mantra, the feelings creep into the edge of your being, carrying a certain type of shadow you regularly attend therapy to get rid of. 

The files that accumulated at the edge of your desk in the days of your absence have been about halved in the time between when you first sit down and when you stand up to get your lunch. 

You’d left D.C. for a friend's wedding in the middle of last week, which meant you had three work days away from the office. Somehow, in that time, your desk managed to collect about a dozen files with information for the six cases you were juggling. 

Miles is on paternity leave, which leaves you with double the amount of work you normally handle and a horrible, aching pain in your chest at the fact that you were not yet married or pregnant. 

Which, frankly, doesn't make sense, as you never particularly valued those things until you turned thirty. But everyone around you is celebrating milestones, and every time you open your phone and see a new post on Facebook, you want to crawl into a hole and die. 

The day is a blur and you're running out of steam. Information bleeds together. Things that usually stuck with you like cattle branding fall through the cracks. Every so often, you get pages into a report and realize you had no idea what you’d just read. 

Around three o'clock, a timer goes off on your desk, a horrible screeching sound that makes you wince. 

Meeting with Leon in 10. 

Fucking hell. Just when you think it can't get worse. 

You reach over and grab a handful of files, a pink tab in the corner indicating which case they were for. Even when absolutely drowning in work, you have a system that makes your life functional. 

The elevator in the DSO doesn't even play music as it descends. It feels sort of purposeful, like they limited the amount of life that could be had within the building, the amount of joy that could be felt. You'd take jazz over silence any day. 

The doors open. You take a turn to the left, then the right, then pull your badge away from its home on your belt. With a green light and the buzz of an unlocked door, you're into Field Ops.

You don't even knock on Leon's office, which is a fact that flies past you as you open the door and shut it behind you. 

The smell is what hits you first. Cologne is the strongest, a dark, woodsy scent that does little to hide the lingering stench of B.O., and whiskey that sticks to him. 

When you turn around, you can't help the shocked "What the hell are you doing here?" from leaving your mouth. 

Leon falters. His mouth opens and closes like he's finding the words. "Uh. This is my office?"

"No, Leon, I mean here. At work. Why are you here?"

"I'm…getting paid?"

You sharpen your gaze on him. "Obviously." The files fall against the grain of his desk. You gesture towards the bandage around his arm, at the blood that has dried on his shirt since he got back from a mission this morning. "You're hurt."

"When am I not?"

"I can try to work something out to get you some time off. God knows you probably need it." 

"I'm fine," Leon responds, which pulls at a certain string in your heart you thought you'd buried years ago, and the realization that you care has you wringing your hands together. "Let's talk about the case."

Begrudgingly, you do, though you get up halfway through your coaching to yank the cords on the blinds and push a large opening into the window to get some sunlight and fresh air into the cramped space. Leon doesn't hide his grimace well.

"Head pounding, champ?" You comment before pulling your chair back in. Someone honks on the street below. Leon doesn't reply. "Good. Stay focused."

You return to the files in front of you with an impressive amount of precision. Leon smiles at you, and it's the first time you've seen him smile in months. 

Leon pushes your buttons and goes off script. You win the case. You can't particularly say you hate his antics anymore. 

This is the tenth time Leon has helped with one of your cases, and he's starting to feel pathetic. 

He is thirty-eight years old. The black dye is fading from his hair, though Helena tells him that it's probably not going to go back to his usual blonde until it grows out. He still spends every night drinking until he falls asleep. 

On days that he knows he has a meeting with you or a hearing at the courtroom, he wakes up a little easier. When he gets to see you, he goes to bed feeling lighter. 

Leon Kennedy has a crush and he is pushing forty. 

It's something he realized after probably case number five, though he was caught off guard by your beauty the second he met you. 

Your office faces the west, meaning that you have sunlight in your office from about noon to when it sets, and you were cast in an insane ray of light that made you look heavenly when he barged into your office for the first time. 

Now, he prefers when you come up to meet him and you have the sun on your face. He likes seeing your jaw tick when you're mad at him, or the smile that prods at your lips when he offers you a snack in the form of a stale granola bar from his desk. 

You don't say anything when he buys a new box and the stale granola bars suddenly taste new. 

Leon is pushing forty, and he asks Helena Harper that afternoon if you have a boyfriend. 

It's in the breakroom and Helena has a forgotten paper cup of burnt coffee discarded to the edge of the counter as she hammers away at a report. Leon sits across from her, silent, as he pushes around whatever he brought for lunch with a fork. 

When he asks it, Helena almost chokes on her own spit. "Leon Kennedy. Are you serious?"

"She's not married," he elaborates, like it helps his case. "There's no ring."

"Oh my God." She leans back in her chair. "You can't be serious."

"Embarrassed enough already, Harper." 

"You like her. She complains about you all the time and you like her."

Every word is punctuated enough to feel like a punch to his ego. "Yes, Helena. Can you answer my question?"

After a couple seconds, she leans back and looks at the ceiling. "No. She does not. Hasn't for years."

Leon almost asks how she knows that part, then remembers that the two of you are somehow friends. Like, outside-of-work friends. Go-to-each-other's-houses friends. Which didn’t always make sense to him. You were too…not like Helena. Soft in ways that mattered, rigid in ways that sometimes didn’t. 

"She really can't stand you, Leon."

"I know."

"So what's your plan here?"

Leon gives a small smile and his usual, cocky charmer persona slides into place. "I don't have one. That's what makes this fun."

So, Leon ends up in your office. Ever since Miles returned from paternity leave, your workload has halved, and it is apparent in the way your shoulders are straighter and the pinch to your eyebrows have somewhat eased. The top buttons of your blouse are undone, showing a tempting amount of skin and bone. The gold pendant of your necklace hanging in the hollow of your throat almost makes his jaw drop. 

He thinks you look beautiful. 

Which isn't a new revelation, just one he lets himself entertain before you go into work-mode, all focused words and narrowed eyes. 

"Can you grab some papers I just printed?"

“Hello to you, too.”

You don’t look up. “Yes, Leon, hello. Can you please grab the papers for me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He turns down the hallway back to where he came, and swiftly grabs the stack of paper off the printer. Miles is in his office with someone who definitely has never been inside of the DSO headquarters before, and when he catches Leon’s eyes his brows raise in a hey man, what’s up? gesture that Leon returns without much thought. 

Leon shuts the door to your office and drops the papers onto your desk, which evidently you don't like, as you gather them up before they can flutter askew with the air. You let out a huff of breath and turn your attention to your computer. 

"You mad at me or something?" Leon asks, sitting down in the chair across from you. 

A smile, or something close to it, pulls at the corner of your mouth. "I always am. You know that."

"Yeah, whatever." 

The look he gives you across the walnut desk is impossibly soft, and you are not stupid. You shift slightly in your seat, spine tingling, and open a folder on your desk, trying desperately to pretend that Leon is not the most attractive man you've ever laid eyes on. 

When the two of you first met, he was obviously going through some shit, with the horrible dye job he gave himself, the eyeliner, and the remarkable amount of weight he lost. 

Something changed between then and now. He packed on weight again, and though some of his pants still look too small, you think it is unbelievably hot. The black hair is growing out into his usual dusty-blond, which brought a youthfulness to him that you really enjoy. 

He doesn't come into work smelling like whisky and regret anymore. 

Bottom line: Leon is doing better. And it looks good on him.

Instead, you clear your throat and say, "Should I even bother with the usual lecture?"

"Definitely not," Leon leans forward in his chair. Something is different about him, even though you can't exactly place it, which as usual, makes you a little unsettled. "Can we just go around to the questions? I don't necessarily need to jog my memory here."

"Leon, if I'm thinking correctly, it seems like you don’t want to spend time with me."

"I'm thinking that I have a hot date with my couch, a shitty movie, and a twelve pack of beer. Nothing to do with you."

"What's your movie of choice? I bet you love a rom-com."

Leon immediately flushes red. "Absolutely not."

"You probably always side with the men. Especially when the woman overreacts about it."

"Sounds like you know a lot about rom-coms."

You give him a look. "Sounds like someone is dodging the question."

"Speculation."

"Leon, you can't just throw in courtroom objections when you're losing an argument and backed into a corner."

"Are we arguing?"

You run your tongue over your teeth and ignore that he follows the movement with his eyes. "No. We're riffing. And wasting time. I had you grab some papers that are going home with you."

Leon lifts an eyebrow. He didn't even bother to look at the contents of the hefty stack when he took them from the printer. "You're giving me homework on my rom-com and booze night?"

"So you admit it's a rom-com." You narrow your eyes and a triumphant smirk stretches across your lips. Leon smiles, half knowing you snatched him in a trap, half knowing he walked in willingly. "But yes. I'm giving you homework."

You can't pinpoint when this, exactly, began. The joking. The banter, the light-hearted jokes that ate too much into your meeting times. But you don't…hate it. So you don't stop it. 

You spend the next half-hour going over information and clarifying his answers. He always gets tense, like most of his life isn't about performance. You'd read the reports that you definitely did not need to acquire clearance for, but applied for access because you were curious. Evidently, they don't really know what you do in the legal department, because you haven't been rejected yet. 

Leon is still an enigma to you. At times, truly seeing him is like looking through glass, so glaringly obvious it sometimes hurts your head. Most of the time, though, it's like wading through thick mud, the answers buried deep below. He smiles at you in such a charming way that it's nearly possible to forget all of the times that he pissed you off in the courtroom. 

The case you're working on is a huge one, one that will result in either the sentencing or acquisition of a DSO executive with conspiracy and securities fraud. You are not usually stressed about work, but this one has you a little uneasy. Rarely are you a defense lawyer, and rarely are you unsure of whether or not your client is lying to you. 

Leon makes you nervous in a way that makes you reconsider even putting him on the witness stand, but his perspective is really important. He helped found the DSO and has been working in bioterrorism for over fifteen years. 

Either way, you're rolling a dice here. And hopefully Leon doesn't fuck this up for you.

When Leon leaves your office, it's with a small wink and a manilla envelope tucked under his arm. You hold off your smile and blush until he's far, far away, and Miles shakes his head at you when he catches your eye in the crack of your door. 

You don't see Leon again until the hearing, and he touches you for the first time in the conference room in the courthouse when his fingertips ghost against the small of your back as he passes by to use the restroom. 

It lights you on fire in a humiliating way, the heat coursing through your veins in the confines of the courtroom intense enough to make you down a Gatorade from a vending machine. You don't even like Gatorade. 

Once Leon is on the stand, you think you have it secured. Maybe giving him homework is good. 

The confidence is short-lived, however, until prosecution cross-examines him and he begins to explain how the DSO itself has corrupt ideals that bleed into the executives, and that the government itself is concealing so many things that would make the world stop. He doesn't stop talking, even when you give him a look so intense, he can feel it in his bones.

You can't hear most of it through the rush of blood in your ears. You are going to kill him. He's not wrong, to give him a little bit of slack. Like any government agency, the DSO glosses over life-ending, horrific events with an efficiency that surprises you. The morality of it hangs with you at times. 

You lose track of how many times you object. It's enough to get a scolding from the judge, and when you sit down, the floor sways under you. 

For once, Leon looks apologetic on the stand. You want to strangle him. 

You lose the case. 

The director sits you down in his office to discuss your position, though it's not in a 'you're-getting-fired' way. Just a 'you're-being-monitored' way, which is somehow worse. 

You take two weeks off and barely get out of bed. 

Miles brings you food about six days in. 

He didn’t call beforehand, which doesn’t surprise you. Miles has always been that kind of guy. But he knocks on your door, firm, and for half a second you’re worried it’s Leon. 

When you look through the peephole, your shoulders drop an inch with relief. 

“Miles,” you mutter as you open the door, wearing your Very Hungry Caterpillar t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. Your hair has… seen better days. 

Miles says your name and his gaze flickers fleetingly over your appearance. For being a lawyer, he has a horrible poker face, which was one of the first things you ever said to him. It’s probably why he’s predominantly a civil court attorney and not a criminal one. 

“Hey,” he finally says. When you look down at his hands, the tin-foil covered Pyrex dish steals your attention. “I told Angie what happened. She wanted to do something nice.”

Angie is Miles’s wife that he met five years ago when she rear ended him at a red light. She’s a teacher. Elementary school. They dated for two years, then got married when they hit three. You weren't a big crier, but you had to wipe some tears away at their wedding. They welcomed their first child months ago and you’ve never seen Miles happier. 

They’re the textbook happy, married couple, and as happy as you are for them, you’re a tad bit resentful, too. 

It’s also funny to you that Miles blames the act of kindness on Angie, when you know that he’s definitely the one who proposed the idea. 

You let it pass. Embarrassed Miles is worse than Nonchalant Miles. 

“Thanks,” you say, and when he passes you the dish, it’s warm under your hands. Freshly made. 

You really, really don’t deserve them. 

Out of courtesy, you ask, “How is she? And Liam?”

“Oh, they’re amazing.” Miles gives you a smile and shoves his hands in his pockets, comfortably, like he doesn’t mind standing on your porch when it’s eighty degrees. Somehow, he never shies away from intimacy. “Liam’s sitting on his own now. It’s great.”

“That is great,” you say, and even though it is, you still sound far away. 

Miles’s gaze hardens slightly and he tilts his head. He’s five years your junior, and you never really think about it until he looks so young. “How’ve you been?”

You swallow hard. “Fine. I think I’ve watched half of Pretty Little Liars.”

“Oof,” Miles winces. “It’s been six days. That’s…gotta be a record.”

“Whatever. I’m depressed. I deserve it.”

Miles raises his eyebrows in a sure gesture, then his shoulders stiffen slightly. “He’s been asking me about you.”

Suddenly, you regret having this conversation on the porch. You feel so exposed. But having Miles inside of your house is much, much worse than standing in the heat. 

You don’t have to ask who. “What’ve you been saying?”

“That you’re fine.”

“I am fine.”

“The three thousand hours of shitty T.V. says otherwise.”

You can’t argue against it being shitty. “Whatever.”

Miles pops the joint of his ankle and you barely even register it before he sighs and says, “He’s worried.”

“I think you’re worried.”

Your coworker looks like he wants to walk off the porch. “Yes, I’m worried. It’s not bad that people care about you. Even if it’s me and Leon Kennedy.” 

The words hit deep. The casserole dish is making your arms ache, but that’s not primarily what wants to get you off of this porch and back in the solace of your bed. It’s the panic rising in your chest, a familiar sensation that would have your hands shaking if not for the Pyrex. 

One of Miles’s hands reaches out and grazes the fabric of your Hungry Caterpillar shirt before his hand locks onto your shoulder with an unyielding strength. “Just keep me updated, okay? Once in the morning and once at night. To let me know you’re fine. But if you’re not, send me the word apricot. I’ll be here.”

You would be crying if your body wasn’t entirely depleted of its water intake. This is pathetic. You’re almost forty pouting on your porch while your younger coworker comforts you. 

Either way, you nod in compliance. Miles gives you a big hug like he’s used to it (which is really weird, considering you don’t exactly hug much) and then retreats back into his car. 

The casserole Angie made you is the best you’ve ever had. You fall asleep with the dish on your nightstand and the light from Pretty Little Liars bleeding into the stillness of the night. 

When you return to work, there's a bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase on your desk with a note attached to them. 

You don't have to look at the card in the bouquet to know who they're from. They're mostly lilies, reds and whites, which is a strangely accurate piece of information that he couldn't have just guessed. It makes you think that one of your friends is a mole who somehow has a soft spot for Leon Kennedy. 

With a huff, you push the vase to the corner of your desk and pull your folders out of the briefcase you house them in, diving into your work in the only way you know how: head-first.

It only takes an hour into the day for Leon to show up to your office. He knocks on the door, soft, tentative, so much like the first time you met him that it makes your chest clench with deja-vu. 

You don't invite him in, though he opens the door anyway. 

"I don't want to talk to you." The words leave your mouth before you can find a way to sugarcoat them a bit. Usually, you try not to be so harsh with him. He can be sensitive. Your family used to tell you that it's very good for the world that you didn't become a therapist. 

Leon doesn't listen to your words, and instead closes the door behind him and pulls out the chair across from you. 

"Leon. I'm serious. I do not want to talk to you."

He says your name like a plea, and for a moment, you forgive him. Then, the anger rushes through you like water breaking through a dam, and the walls fly back up. His eyes are so blue in your office and it takes a great deal of effort to not look at them. "Please. I'm sorry."

You scoff at the papers you're marking up with a red pen. "I've heard that one before."

"I mean it this time." 

"You didn't mean it all the other times?" 

Leon's getting frustrated. You can see it in the way his neck turns pink and his hands grow restless. In the large chair he's sat in, he looks impossibly small. "I did. I do. You know that."

"Do I?"

He clears his throat. "I know you're mad—"

"That is the understatement of the century."

"I know I fucked up, and that I pushed it too far, and that—" his head tips down to see your eyes that are burning holes into the paperwork. "—can you please look at me?"

You do, and the sight almost breaks your composure. In the years you've known Leon, he has never looked at you like this. You can't place it. His brows are pinched together and his eyes are pleading with you in such a gentle way. 

"I'm so, so sorry. I hate that I did this to you. You don't deserve it, you never have. And I…I feel so bad that I put your career on the line."

The words are so genuine and imperfect and so him that it finally breaks you. With a breath, tears blossom on your waterline and you look up at the ceiling to try to keep them at bay. Leon, for once, looks like he does not know what to do. 

"Close the blinds," you order through the thick emotion in your voice, something tired and humiliated at the fact that he's seeing you cry. "Don't want the interns having more to gossip about."

"Oh, no, we can't have that." 

Leon gets up and yanks at the cord of the blinds, pulling both sets shut before he scoots his chair around to your side of the desk. He takes care to not let the legs scrape against the cheap laminate. Somehow, he knows that bothers you. 

You open a drawer to your desk and snatch a tissue out of a box and dab at the tears before they can fall. "Leon, I know you don't always get it because this is such a small part of your job. The courtrooms, and testimonies, all of it. But this is my life. And I know it's fun for you to fuck with me but…" you swallow hard. "I am damn good at what I do. And it's so unfair that you did this to me."

Leon wants to reach out and touch you. His finger twitches with the urge, but he doesn't act on it. Instead, he lets you cry. Somehow, you still have tears left after the last two weeks. Not a lot, but enough to make Leon's chest clench. 

His elbows rest on his knees and he looks up at you like a sinner being forgiven. He's not, not yet, at least, but this is a good start. You'd truly forgive him once he started listening to you. 

You don't know when your relationship with Leon changed from that first time in the courtroom. You still didn't really get along with him all the time, but between now and then, he seems to understand you a little better. Which, to be honest, is a little ridiculous. The most time you've spent together is hour-long meetings in the restrictions of your walnut-clad offices with stale air. 

It's the most seen you've felt by anyone in a long time. 

You don't realize you've been sitting in silence until he says your name, delicately, like he can't bring himself to do it any other way. "I'm sorry. I really am."

For the first time, you believe his apology. But it's too much, too overwhelming, having Leon in your office, inches away from you, looking at you like that when you were so fucking mad at him.

The words are heavy as they leave you. "I think I want you to leave, Leon. Thanks."

Leon has not felt guilt like this since he was twenty-one. 

It feels stupid to admit, but it's true. At least he thinks it is. The game he played with you was fun when you always came out on top, and he looked a little dumb. But it's not the case now. Now that your eyes are red and you've tracked tears into your makeup, he feels like the most awful person on the planet. 

He doesn't drink, though. No, he knows you don't approve of that. You'd been hungover before one of your meetings, just once, and something tells him you aren't a big drinker. That, coupled with all of the comments you make in passing when you can tell he had a rough night. Somehow, you can always tell. 

He likes that you're so perceptive. He supposes you should be used to it by now, but it still manages to catch him off guard when he meets your eye and feels stripped bare. 

Leon cries to Helena over dinner once before you return to work. She laughs at him and calls him stupid. 

The next case Leon is subpoena'd for is a petty sentencing for someone he'd brought into custody months ago. Well, petty might not be the right word. Insensitive. But it happens a lot, and most of the assignments blend together. 

It's almost summertime, and the window in his office is cracked open enough to get some fresh air in the room. He never used to do that before…well, before you. 

On the way to his office, you stop into Helena Harper's, and you giggle loud enough that Leon can hear it from his ergonomic desk chair. 

If he could bottle sound, this is one he'd like to keep. Your laugh. 

So, this is salvageable, he thinks. 

You don't knock. To be fair, you never do. It doesn't really matter, since the door is open, but you walk in, hurried, like you own the place. 

As a matter of fact, you do this everywhere you go. Fill up space. You have quite a presence. 

It’s one of Leon’s favorite things about you. 

You drop your files on his desk and pull out your computer. For once, you have your glasses on—a couple of months ago you told him the computer screens gave you headaches. They frame your face nicely. It’s his first time seeing you with them, and it makes Leon feel probably too turned on. 

You sit down without even looking at him.

“Hi,” Leon offers, gently.

“Yes, hi, Leon.” you hit some keys on your laptop. “You’re staring.”

"Hard not to."

Finally, you look at him, thoroughly unimpressed, though he has a proud smirk and a light blush dusting his cheeks. "Ha ha. Can we talk about work?"

Leon tilts his head back. "Ah. My least favorite subject."

"Leon, I need you to listen to me this time." You lean forward in your seat, enough to try to grasp his attention from the spot on the ceiling. "Look at me. My job might be on the line. I can't…I can't do that again." 

Leon meets your eyes with a look that is sort of foreign to you. At least on him. You've seen it before in bars, clubs, in law school whilst buried in books at a library, but not ever in the DSO headquarters. It's…soft. Longing, maybe, if you read into it. 

"I have a proposal," he says, and the way he laces his fingers together on his desk makes your hands itch towards your papers, the keyboard, anything. "I'll be good."

Your stomach twists. "Oh, God. There's a but. Or an if."

"If," he emphasizes like you did, "you let me take you out on a date."

There is no fucking way. You know Leon is cocky. You've worked with him long enough to hear it firsthand. This is next-level douchebag behavior that you hadn't expected from him. 

But when you look at him, it doesn't look like he's trying to be a dick. Or just trying to get in your pants. His eyes are too soft, his brows too relaxed. He seems… genuine. It makes heat flash through you.

You sigh. "Leon, I'm being serious."

Leon smirks in a way that reminds you of the first time you met him, when he was a little more broken, more desperate for connection. Maybe more earnest, too. "So am I."

"I could report you to HR."

He doubles down. "You could. Or you could let me make it up to you."

You want to argue. One of your major rules about working in an office is to never, under any circumstances, date your coworkers. There are (somehow) too many people with too much time on their hands, who want nothing more than to stir up drama. Miles is embarrassingly one of them. Weirdly, a lot of ladies in Intelligence, too. 

You want to say no. Your brain is hardwired for logic, and there's no way to avoid that the majority of the paths Leon and you could go down would not end well. Nothing sounds worse than having to sit in this office with him if things fall through. 

But a part of you manages to come in through the noise of what's reasonable to say, but maybe this could be nice. 

Leon is an extremely good man. He's kind, too, if you avoid the times he borderline commits perjury to get a rise out of you. And something in you likes that he waited to do this until he was…better. Until he didn't roll out of bed and throw on his clothes, still reeking of vomit and alcohol from whatever hour he stopped drinking. If he stopped drinking. For some reason, you appreciate that. 

You haven't had a nice date in awhile. Or a nice man in your life. 

And you like Leon. God, you really do like him. It's possible that's why you were so upset over losing that case, because you felt so betrayed by him. As much as he gets under your skin, and is annoying and insubordinate and borderline rude, you feel a stupid sort of affection towards him, because you have a slight feeling that you understand him better than anyone else. 

So, you ignore every instinct in your body that has your skin prickling, and say, "Fine."

He seems to celebrate a little bit, by the way his hands reach back into his lap to twiddle with his thumbs, like he always does when he is a little bit nervous, but a bit giddy, too. 

"But," you interject. "I plan. You pay. I'm picky about my dates."

"Deal," he responds without hesitation. It makes your stomach flutter. 

Leon reaches a hand across the walnut desk and waits for you to shake. Your palms connect, and his is a little bit clammy. You smile at him, a real, excited smile. 

"We're doing lunch. Casual. I'm going to wear jeans and a t-shirt, because I'm tired of dressing up every day. We'll go to some pub with awful, greasy American food that will most definitely sit in my stomach wrong and I'll complain about it the whole time. No movies. Something… I don't know. Fun. Exciting."

"All of your requests are completely doable."

"I know. I don't fight for things out of reach."

"You do that all the time," he reminds you. "In court."

"Well, I always reach them, don't I?" 

He tries to smother a smile. "Yes. Yes, you do. Saturday sounds okay?"

"Fine. I'm half doing this because I want to, half because I know the DSO will take your side if I refuse and report you to HR."

Leon gives you a deadpan look. "You would never. Bethany intimidates you."

"Bethany should intimidate everyone," you whisper, on the fact that the blinds are still open and these offices are absolutely not soundproof. At least, yours isn't. Maybe Agent Kennedy is an exception to the cheap government infrastructure. "She has the eyes of the devil. I swear."

"Whatever." The words are squeezed out through his teeth as Leon gives you a big smile. "Let's talk about the case. Gotta have time tonight to draft an itinerary tonight."

"Have you ever drafted an itinerary, Leon?"

"No." He shrugs. "But you have. Plenty of times, I'm sure."

You roll your eyes and open a document on your computer, pretending like the excitement swimming in your bloodstream doesn't make you feel twenty years old again. 

You get a text around eight o'clock from an unknown number. You're in bed, pajama-clad, with a facemask drying and a Diet Coke in your hand. You sip it from a straw. 

Hey. It's Leon. Got your number from your file in HR.

You grin at the screen and write out a text in record time. I see we're just violating employee code of conduct left and right.

The bubble takes way too long to disappear before you get the next message. Leon is not tech-savvy, and it sometimes makes you snicker at him. 

Technically, I pulled some strings. Ingrid is especially helpful.

I don't see how this isn't proving my point. You could've just asked Helena. You two are close. You just wanted an excuse to see that photo of me from when I was thirty.

You can imagine the look on Leon's face and it brings a stupid amount of warmth to your chest. Dumbfounded Leon might be your favorite Leon. But maybe Date Leon will take the cake soon. 

You aren't sure when this happened. The contentment with Leon. At first, you had been annoyed by him asking you out, even though he was long forgiven. But you were far from dumb—it was painfully obvious Leon has liked you for a long time. He’s not good at hiding it.

You also can’t exactly pinpoint when he became so transparent to you. The first few times you met, he was painfully closed-off.

Finally, Leon replies. Yeah, whatever. I need your address to pick you up on Saturday.

You didn't pull that from my file while you were snooping around in there, too?

Can only do so much with what limited connections I have here.

The idea that Leon S. Kennedy has “limited connections” anywhere makes you roll your eyes. I'm a little concerned about your lack of thoroughness for being a world-renowned fed, Kennedy. 

This bubble comes faster. I hate that you just called me a fed.

The laugh tears out of your throat before you can stop it. It's probably the first time your house has heard your laugh in months, and it echoes off the wall and almost scares you. Your cat, Barty, jumps up next to you, looking slightly concerned at the sound, before letting out a comfortable chirp and curling up next to you. 

You ARE a fed, you reply, and your thumbs move in circles above your keypad as you think out the next one. 

Leon beats you to it. FED sounds so gross. I'm an agent. 

That sounds worse. Like you're James Bond. Which you're not. They dropped you in Spain with a full magazine and a dream. I'm surprised you had enough gusteau to backflip. 

Leon's reply takes a second. You hope it's because of your use of the word "gusteau." How do you know that?

You hope he can feel your smile through the screen. I get the office gossip too, Leon. I know all your dirty secrets. 

For some reason, you snap a picture of Barty, belly-up, against the green fabric of your comforter, and press send.

Sorry to cut the party short but Barty and I must retire to our chambers. I'll see you on Saturday. Don’t be a stranger. 

You send him your address and turn your phone on silent, not letting yourself see his response, or else you'll be up all night, grinning like a teenager. 

Leon is pushing forty, and he thinks he’s going to throw up. 

Earlier in the week, he had sent back: Barty is a horrible name for a cat. What’s his full name? Barthes? Bartholemew?

He didn’t think much about asking you out until it happened. For being a government agent, he sure does have a lot of anxiety issues. Shannon, his appointed therapist, talked him off of a ledge yesterday when he wanted to cancel from sheer panic. He’s almost forty, and he hasn’t been on a real date in well over ten years. Which…is kind of sad. But he wasn’t the type of man to date back then. He wasn't someone who could be a partner. 

You make him want to be different. Which, for the most part, is why he stopped drinking. 

Well. He mostly stopped drinking.

He’s not a liar. 

You, on the other hand, never seem nervous about a thing. The only signs he picks up on when you’re uneasy is the muscle in your jaw and the way your fingers twitch, like they’re itching for something to grab. 

Leon’s dabbing away sweat from his forehead with a towel in his bathroom and holding an ice cube in his hand when you call. 

It’s a sudden sound, one so jarring he almost jumps out of his skin. Humiliating for a government field agent, but whatever. His phone almost vibrates off the table before he grabs it and answers before he can compose himself. 

“Hello?” He asks shakily. 

“Hey,” your voice crackles through the speaker of his iPhone 4 like it’s a casual Tuesday. “Need your input. Is this a graphic band-tee occasion or a…something else.”

Leon pulls himself together to crack a small smile. “I cannot believe you own a graphic tee.”

“It’s practically the entirety of my closet besides my work clothes.”

He’s surprised by this for a second, until he’s not. He guesses it makes sense. Under your hard-ass exterior, you probably feel very passionately about your hatred of synth music. 

“Wear a band tee. I’ll be in linen.”

“Oh, you are so annoying. I’ll be in an Alicia Keys tee shirt and you’re wearing linen?”

He blinks. “I don’t see the issue.”

“Leon, you are already extremely out of my league. You can’t look better than me.”

“I guarantee that I never look better than you. Plus, we’re getting burgers. It’s not like we’re meeting the Queen.” 

Leon doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean, and it’s especially true right now. In what world is he more attractive than you? 

“Whatever,” you concede, obviously getting flustered, but Leon can only tell because he knows your voice too well. “What’s your sitrep? I can be ready in 15.”

“First of all: I can’t believe you just used sitrep semi-correctly. Second of all: I’m about to leave.”

Leon absolutely is not. He is trying not to hyperventilate in his bathroom, with his perfectly steamed shirt hanging behind him, waiting to be put on. The ice cube has successfully turned his hand numb and is fully melting through his vice grip.

“Just text me when you’re on the way,” you say, and then lower your voice gently. “And Leon? You don’t have to be nervous. This isn’t make-or-break. We’re good.” 

It’s the first time you’ve said we’re good since he lost you that case. The words feel like sun on his face, warm and forgiving, and the cage around his chest loosens enough to get a good breath in. 

“Okay. I’ll be there soon. Text you when I’m on the way.”

“Bye, Leon.”

He hangs up and dries his hands. When he turns around, he considers what you said about his blue linen shirt, but disregards it. Hastily, he buttons it up, fingers somehow no longer shaking, and when he gives himself one last glance in the mirror, he feels okay. 

Better than okay. Good. Excited. 

You throw open the door when Leon knocks and promptly turn the other direction, leaving him to utter, "Uh. Hi?"

"Come in!" you call behind you, and he tentatively steps into your foyer. "Gimme a sec. I just need…" your voice fades away as you duck into a room. 

Leon is abandoned in your home. He tries not to stray far away from the spot he's been invited into. Your place feels… comforting. It’s clean, but lived-in, and there’s that lingering scent of jasmine that usually follows you around prevalent in the air. 

Something chirps underneath his feet, and when he looks down, there's a small, grey cat twisting around and rubbing against his calves. Barty, he remembers. 

"Hey, buddy." Leon crouches and lets Barty sniff his fingers, his voice going an octave higher. "How are you?"

Barty meows and thrusts his head into Leon's palm. With a gentleness Leon didn't know he had, he scratches Barty under the chin and behind the ears. 

"I see the terrorist of the household has you fooled," you say as you shove an earring into your ear, evidently what you were looking for. "He's evil."

"You're his lawyer. Whose side are you on?"

When Leon finally looks up at you and away from your cat, surprise flashes through his eyes. You're wearing, as promised, your Alicia Keys Song in A-Minor t-shirt, which is french tucked into your jeans.  

It's the most casual you've ever been around him. And, Leon thinks, the most beautiful. Relaxed. 

He wants to say something. You’d be stupid to not realize. 

"This is not my client," you deny, though you have a grin on your face. You reach out and grab your purse from the console table by the front door. "Okay, let's go. Stop coming onto him, Barty. He doesn't want you."

Leon hides a smile at that and smoothes his hands over his jeans once he stands. A habit. 

You lock the front door behind you once you manage to pry Leon away from your cat. You hate that he's in linen, but God, he does look really good. He always does, which isn't fair, but something about seeing him in jeans and a shirt fit for Grecian sunsets is enough to have you… considering things. 

You are almost forty years old. You’re not admitting that Leon’s turning you on just by existing. 

You land eyes on his car. “Leon.”

“Hm?”

“This is your car?”

He smirks. “I don’t see what’s wrong with it.”

“You are a federal agent. You make probably triple what I do. You drive a Buick from 2002?”

Leon opens the passenger side door for you and gestures for you to sit down. “I know what I like. And I like this Buick.”

You really, truly, severely misjudged Leon Kennedy. 

And you are still trying to be a stick in the mud about this date. But in all honesty, you were really looking forward to it. Your friends joke that you’re married to work, with how often you take cases home to mull over with a glass of wine. It’s nice to… be normal. 

That, and the fact that Leon’s stupid smirk makes your stomach flip, is making it hard to act annoyed. 

You duck into the sedan and Leon makes sure you're secured before he closes the door. On the inside, the car is polished clean and looks recently vacuumed. Part of you wonders if Leon keeps it like this, or if he cleaned it up for you. 

Leon hands you his phone. "Play whatever you want."

You stare at the device in your hand. "This is powerful."

"That is a phone with my Apple Music open."

"An unlocked phone has power. Plenty of evidence." 

"You're a lawyer. Everything is evidence to you."

He's not wrong, so you shrug, and he puts the car in reverse. "Fair." You go to the search bar and say, "You must trust me a lot."

Leon's lip upturns slightly. "Something like that, yeah." 

You click on a playlist and hit shuffle. Leon's face contorts in an approving look, and he rests his arm atop the center console. 

This should feel weird. Awkward. You've never seen each other outside of work, let alone like this, and you're managing to act pretty normal considering it's a date. 

And Leon’s obviously freaking the fuck out. But it’s not inhibiting your mood. If anything, it’s making you like him a little bit more, if it’s even possible. 

“You look like a scared dog at the shelter," you comment teasingly, eyes slightly squinted in a smile that only feels slightly out of place. 

"I absolutely do not."

"Leon Kennedy, DSO golden boy, national superhero, is shaking in his boots at going on a date with an overworked, exhausted, cynical attorney. I don't know whether to be flattered or a little upset."

Leon rolls his eyes at you and his fingers tap along with the song you've played from his phone. "I'm used to handling explosives and shooting things and breaking bones." 

There's an unspoken thing here that this is foreign to him, and the thought warms your chest a little bit. You'd read files upon files, mostly full of little black rectangles redacting information that you did not need, or necessarily want, to know, but there was enough substance in them for you to read between the lines. 

You had a grasp on who Leon was when you first started working together. Over time, that shifted, and the Leon you know now isn't the Leon you had any clue about years ago. 

"And you should be flattered," he adds, quieter this time. "Very flattered."

"I hate to say this," you cross your ankles, "but I am. And you should be, too. I don't… I haven't gone on a date in years, I think." 

Leon cracks a smile, so different from the shy blush he had before, and it reminds you of the Leon that first charmed you. "So, you must like me."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"When did that change?"

You pause. "Hm?"

"When did you stop hating me?"

You want to laugh, and a small huff escapes your nose, amused, before you can stop it. "Leon, I never hated you. No matter what Helena said. You piss me off, yes, but you're too cute to stay mad at."

After that, the ride is full of teasing comments and flirting that would've made sixteen-year-old you proud. At one point, your stomach growls so loudly Leon cannot hide the laugh that escapes him. He pulls into the shitty brewery you requested, and before you can even unbuckle your seatbelt, he's yanking the key out of the ignition and jogging to your side of the car. 

God, he looks good. The sunlight catches in his hair, the blonde peeking out through the strands of brunette, and you have to remind yourself to swallow. 

He is stupidly good at this dating thing, you realize as he opens the door and gives you a hand to pull yourself out of his low-rider. 

“You’re suspiciously good at this,” you say as you place your hand in his and grab your purse with the other. “Makes me think you practiced or something.”

“You’ve given me homework before. Is it so bad that I studied, too?”

You narrow your eyes and let him lead you into the pub, hand still grasping yours, which makes you smile slightly. You have to slap his arm when he goes to pull out your barstool, and you don’t miss the way his lower lip extends in a pout. 

“You’re ridiculous. This is casual. Let me do it.”

He retreats to the other side of the table. The waitress comes over and you order two sodas. Before long, you’re stuffing a burger into your mouth, successfully smearing sauce all over your face. 

“I got a question.” Leon looks up in contemplation, burger in one hand. 

“Well, that's never good."

“What made you want to be an attorney?”

Instinctively, you get defensive. “What made you want to be a field agent?”

Leon senses the mood change. Then, with a breath, like it hurts him to be vulnerable, “I didn’t want to be a government agent. I just wanted to be a cop. But I ended up in Raccoon City and… Y’know.”

You do know, and immediately, you feel bad for the tone you used. You pause. “My brother was a cop.”

“Yeah?”

You wipe at the corner of your mouth with a napkin. Then, feigning casualty, you say, “Yeah, he died when I was… Eighteen? Jesus. Twenty years ago.” You clear your throat and get back on track. “And the guy who killed him got off on a very generous plea deal that I would never offer. It was my first year of college, and I was so upset, I changed my major to political science the day after the trial. It’s cheesy-“

“It’s not.” Leon’s voice is firm, eyes conveying his sincerity. “Really. It’s not cheesy.”

“Thanks. I guess I just didn’t want any families to feel how I felt about my brother. He was only twenty-two.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Been a long time.”

Leon catches your eyes in an expression soft enough to tug at your heart. “Doesn’t mean it’s any easier.”

He’s got you beat, so you shrug and make a face that’s not decipherable to him, ignoring the twisting of nerves in your chest. His hands wipe against his napkin. “My parents died in a car crash when I was young. The cop that first showed up saved my life. And I feel cheesy, too.” 

“You shouldn’t. That’s important.”

“Exactly.”

Now that you’ve made it weird with the dead-brother talk, you take a moment to bask in your shame before bringing another fry to your mouth.

If you ignore the discomfort of being normal (as in, not filtering your words with legal terms and courtroom jargon) and borderline vulnerable with Leon, the date is going really well. It's not like the two of you are strangers by any means. You've known each other for, what? Three years at this point? And for some reason, you feel most comfortable with Leon at any given time. 

He gives you space. He's too present. He annoys you. He makes you laugh. The most turned on you've been in years was at the feeling of his fingertips ghosting over your back. You think he might understand you better than any of your friends do. This… sticks with you. 

“Wish I begged to see the itinerary,” you say through a mouth of food. “Should’ve made you get a gold star from me first.”

Leon chuckles and the sound makes you smile in an embarrassing way. “Isn’t the surprise half the fun?”

“No, Leon. Surprises are what catch me off guard and make me scramble in the courtroom.”

“We aren’t in the courtroom, sweetheart,” Leon drawls, and if he realizes the pet name he just called you, he doesn’t act embarrassed, even though you almost choke on your food. “It’s just us. And I think I did a pretty good job.”

“You always think you do a pretty good job.”

Leon gives you a look. “That’s not true.”

You take a sip of your beer and shrug. He’s right. “Yeah, whatever. I just like to push you around a bit.”

When the waitress comes back around to check on you two, Leon slides her his card, and you clock the black metal almost immediately. A teasing smirk stretches across your face. Of course Leon has a black card. He’s a government field agent. 

“Don’t comment on the card,” he says, giving you a knowing look. 

“Wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“Those are two different accusations, Leon.”

He smiles. The waitress returns with the clipboard of paperwork for him, and Leon quickly scribbles down a number and a signature and escorts you out of the restaurant. 

When he opens the door to his Buick, you collapse into the passenger seat. He turns the key in the ignition and when he looks over at you, the fondness in his eyes is enough to melt you. Just a little bit. 

The heat coursing through your veins, pooling in your abdomen, starts when Leon pulls you out of the car and wraps an arm around your waist as he guides you into the second brewery of the day. It comes off as casual, though you can sort of feel his heartbeat (or maybe it's yours) and you know that it's anything but. 

“So, I'm confused," you say, at the fact that you just left a brewery. 

"Shh," Leon's fingertips shift against your waist. "I'll explain once we're inside."

You're a little nervous, though you're used to suppressing it over the years of uncertainty behind a desk. Leon opens the door and steers you inside with a hand to the small of your back. Your eyes narrow as you examine the bar. 

"Leon."

"Hm?"

"Is this what I think it is?"

Leon's cheeks are flushed, and for a moment, you think about kissing him. He says, "If you're thinking this is trivia, then you are correct."

Your first thought is: He is such a nerd. But then you realize that he wouldn't have brought you here if he didn't think you were a nerd. And admittedly, you love trivia. Probably too much. 

"How'd you know I love this?"

"Because," he leads you to a table, "I know you."

Truthfully, you think he talked to Helena, or maybe Miles. But either way, he truly hit the nail on the head, and you are stupidly excited. You feel somewhat laid bare in front of him as you let the joy wash over you. Usually, you'd take a moment to feel embarrassed. But this is Leon. You've seen all shades of him. What do you have to be nervous about?

You sit down and stick on a nametag. It's just you and Leon on your team, but when you look around, it does seem to majorly be couples, so it's not like you're at a disadvantage. 

Leon leans back and rests his arm against the back of your chair, leaning closer to talk to you over the music. It makes your stomach lurch in an embarrassing way. "You excited?"

You nod, and an unguarded smile washes over you. 

Leon's eyebrows furrow. "I did good?"

The words are light, but you notice the serious undertones. Leon, shockingly, is a rather nervous guy. Probably because his cortisol levels are shot from the twenty years of government work and near-death experiences. You don't fully know what goes on in the field, but you've gathered enough to understand why Leon is the way he is. 

"Yes, honey. You did good." 

Leon flushes bright red and immediately takes a sip of the waters he grabbed you at some point. You giggle at him being flustered and a man's voice is broadcasted over the speakers, explaining the rules. You don't listen to much, as you're far too focused on Leon's arm behind you and the feeling of certainty in your chest that says, yes, this was a good idea.

As you expected, you and Leon blow trivia out of the water. 

He did a great job with the geography and travel categories, which made sense, given that he is regularly deployed to other countries. You nailed history and literature, and sometimes Leon would say, “How the fuck do you know that?” when you’d scribble out an answer without much thought.

Combined, you’re a great team.

When it's announced that the two of you win, you let out a squeal and Leon picks you up in a hug. 

You think, I am so fucked.

“You’ve read King Lear?” Leon says incredulously, one hand on the steering wheel and the other suspiciously close to your thigh. 

“I took a lot of Shakespeare in college,” you explain and swallow the lump in your throat. “I’ve forgotten most of it by now. But some stuff sticks.”

Leon makes an impressed face. “I forget sometimes that you went to college and weren’t just born like this.”

“What does that mean?”

“No, no not like that,” Leon backtracks and it makes you smile. “You just seem so naturally smart. Sharp. I’ve always really liked that about you.”

Something in you flutters. “I have a question.”

“Hm?”

“How long… have you wanted to do this?”

It’s the first time you’ve asked him a question without your lawyer voice bleeding into your tone, and it kind of makes your head spin. 

“What? Go on a date with you?”

“Mhm.”

“Uhh,” Leon pretends to consider your question. You can tell the motion of it is fake. “Since that first time in your office. When you noticed my hip.”

You think back to that day and what you wrote in your notes about Leon. Sad. Cynical. Defiant. Closed-off. You’d make some revisions now. Hopeful. Lost. Maybe one more: Loving. 

Leon has so much love in his heart. You can see that from miles away. The issue is that everyone he’s ever trusted has betrayed him or thought poorly of him because of his addiction. You never did that, and you still don’t. 

You make a noise in the back of your throat. “So, this is more than a case to you?”

What you mean is unspoken, and in that moment you realize why you misread Leon at first: because you saw parts of yourself in the reflection of him. Cynical. Closed-off. Sad. And you haven’t exactly been feeling like that since you came back to work. 

Leon huffs, humored and breathless. “It’s always been more than the case. Over the years.” He glances away from the road and looks at you for a long second. “But I think you know that.”

You nod. “I know.”

Leon swallows and you follow the bob of his Adam’s apple with your eyes. “Is this… more to you, too?”

He is almost forty, just like you are, but with this look in your eyes that he’s giving you, he looks about ten years younger. A smile stretches at the corner of your lips before you can truly process it, and you’re laughing slightly.

“Yes, Leon. I would’ve said no if not.” You settle your hand against his arm that’s resting against the center console, and gently pull his hand to splay against your thigh. “You’re shaking again.” 

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“Whatever.”

“Do I make you nervous, Leon?”

He makes a choking sound deep in his throat. “God, you’re upfront.”

“You’ve told me that before, yes.” You bat your eyelashes and keep your same expecting stare on him. When he glances over at you, you can visibly see the restraint pulling him back. “So?”

“Yes,” he relents with a sigh. “You make me nervous.”

You chuckle, though it sounds light of humor. The rest of the drive home is full of comments about trivia that are half paid attention to from both of you, considering Leon’s fingertips are lightly brushing against your denim jeans and sending bolts of anticipation through you. Sometimes, you get so lost in it that you realize you didn’t listen to a word he said. 

This feels so natural. Too natural. It’s a bit unnerving, to be honest, but you don’t necessarily care. It’s been… a long time since you’ve gotten laid. Not that that’s what’s going on. Obviously. 

When he pulls into your driveway, you move to gather your purse that has found a home at your feet. Leon puts the car in park and gives you a soft smile, like he's a little optimistic that this isn't it. 

You look at him for a moment. Your facade falls. Then, you say, "Do you want to come inside?" 

His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline and he quickly intakes a breath. "Do you want that?"

Your face contorts into something sly, and it obviously affects Leon with how he looks away from you. "Yes. I do." 

When you reach over to undo your seatbelt, Leon kills the engine and undoes his seatbelt like he's getting shot at. You climb out of his Buick and shut your door, pretending not to notice him adjusting his pants before trailing behind you to your front door. 

You pull your keys out of your purse and unlock the door with a steady hand that sort of surprises you, considering you have enough anxiety to permanently fry your nervous system. 

Once you swing the door open and successfully herd Leon inside, his hands are on your hips. 

"This is crazy," he pants. With one step, your back is flush against the door, and his head hangs close to your neck. 

"And highly unethical. Fucking your lawyer."

"Jesus Christ. Don't say it like that." His body betrays him at that, though, because his grip tightens at the idea of fucking you. 

"What do you want me to say, then?" Your voice has a cheeky edge to it that feels soft enough to hold, and it's a certain type of gentleness you didn't know you still had. With one hand, you brush away the hair that has fallen into his face. 

Leon smiles, then gets a little serious, because of course he does. "I don't want you to think this is a weightless thing. I've wanted this for a while, and I'm trying to be the person you deserve to have."

The honesty strips you raw, and your eyebrows "Do I have you, Leon?"

"Yes," he confesses, and it makes you feel weightless. "Always have."

You tilt his head with a hand on his jaw, and when you pull him down and your lips connect, you think, this is incredible.

At first, the kiss is gentle; tentative and soft. Something you've dreamed about while watching movies and reading books. Before long, though, he's untucking your shirt with impatience and splaying his palm flat against your back, tugging you closer into him and moaning into your mouth. Each move sends waves of want through you and you yank him closer to you via his shoulders. 

You move in tandem, each chasing the feeling of the other like you need it to live. He licks a stripe against the crease of your lips, and immediately you're opening up and letting him deepen the kiss into something more.

When you finally reach down and yank his shirt up to feel his abdomen, he pulls away from you, breathless with swollen lips. "This is okay?"

"I'm actively throwing myself at you, Leon. Yes, it's okay." 

He dips down to press a kiss against your neck, open-mouthed and desperate, and you let out a whine when his teeth grazes the vertex of your neck and shoulder. Leon's hips buck, and you arch into him when you feel the imprint of his cock. 

He pulls back far enough to look you in the eyes. "Where's your bedroom?"

"Last door on the right." You point with your hand, and before you can look back at him, his hands are locking under your thighs and lifting you up into his arms. You yelp. "Leon!"

"What?" He grins at you. "I won't break anything."

Sometimes you forget that Leon is an absolute unit of a human being, built of years of government training and field exercises that have successfully hardened his muscles beyond human perception. When he does shit like this, though, it's impossible to ignore. 

His lips are on you again, wet and hot and everything you imagined it to be, and he kicks the door shut behind him before laying you flat on your back on the comforter. Down the hall comes a disgruntled mrrp from your cat, who is obviously very upset about getting his spot taken. 

Leon's hands come up to push your shirt away from your abdomen, revealing your skin inch by inch. "Can I—"

"Please," you manage to breathe out, and you sit up slightly as Leon pulls the fabric over your head, leaving you in your red lacy bra. You tug at the hem of his shirt, too, and he undoes the top two buttons enough to yank it over his head. At the sight of his skin, you sigh. "Jesus."

"You're one to talk," Leon mutters before lurching toward you again, lips connecting with the skin of your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave marks. 

Instinctively, your hands reach towards his head, threading through his hair and tugging at it gently. Leon groans against your skin and presses down into you, eager to relieve the tension in his pants. 

"Take them off," you order as seriously as you can, but your breath betrays you and you let out a moan when Leon's lips graze your breast. "Leon."

"Be patient," he muses, and the teasing tone makes you throb. "I've waited long enough."

"I thought you were making it up to me," you comment, lips close to his ear. Your breath fans his skin, making goosebumps rise, and you can immediately tell his resolve is crumbling fast. "Or are you not?"

"I am," he says, bordering on a whine. "Please."

"Thought you wanted to be good for me," you coo, and his head drops against your stomach. With one hand, you reach behind you and unclasp your bra, removing it swiftly and exposing your breasts to the cold air of your own bedroom. "Don't you want to be good?"

Once again, Leon's tone is insistent, "I am." 

"Then prove it to me," your finger traces the skin under his chin, tilting his head up to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his lower lip extended in a pout. "Take them off." 

He sighs something broken and quiet, before lifting himself off of you and unbuttoning his jeans. You follow suit, undoing yours and kicking them down your legs, revealing your matching lingerie set. Your eyes never leave him. 

God, he's beautiful. Something straight out of Ancient Rome, you think as he shoves his jeans and briefs down his legs in one go. Carved marble, or an oil painting, something delicate and hand-made and breathtaking. You've never let yourself think about him like this—so raw and passionately and unguarded. It undoes something in you. 

"Leon, you're perfect," you gush before you can stop yourself, and you're too horny to be embarrassed about it. 

Leon cracks a smile and climbs back on top of you. "Couldn't hold a candle to you, honey." 

You roll your eyes. "You're stupid."

"You love it."

You recoil at the word for a moment, before letting it settle over you. You do love it. And you love Leon, in some naive way. So, he's not wrong, and you let yourself be right. 

"'M gonna take care of you, okay?" Leon runs a hand down the side of your head tenderly, brushing your hair away from your face. "Just tell me to stop and I will."

"I trust you," you respond, borderline eager. 

"You do?"

You smile. "Yes, Leon. Against my better judgement, I trust you. Get to work."

He does without much thought, kissing chastely down your stomach towards the apex of your thighs, only stopping to breathe every couple kisses. Slyly, he hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them down in one swift motion, and the feeling of the air on your core makes you clench, desperate and impatient. A chuckle escapes him, low and humorless, and you groan in anticipation.

Finally, he settles between your legs and draws your thighs over his arms. You're trapped underneath him, his grip on your hips tight, but you can't complain. No, you're exactly where you want to be. 

He starts slowly, kisses and kitten licks to your folds, easing into you like he can't tell you're drenched. You mewl something obscene, and when you arch, Leon takes it as an invitation to dive in. He takes one hand away from your hip and pulls it under him. 

Leon attacks your clit like a man starved. He learns, quickly, and a spike of jealousy flashes up in your mind when you think about where, exactly, he got this information from. But a hard suck has your head thrown back against the mattress, erasing any thoughts from your mind. 

When you reach down and grasp his head, pulling him firmer into you, he lets out a groan, and it's then you realize that he is grinding into the mattress and seeking some release, too. 

"God, Leon, you're doing so good."

Leon's whine is high pitched against your cunt, and it sends a jolt of pleasure through you. Before long, you're shamelessly grinding against his face, seeking an orgasm you didn't know you were capable of having so fast. 

"I'm—fuck, Leon. Please."

He uses the opportunity to finally slide two fingers into you. Your toes curl at the sensation, and without much warning, you're tipping over the edge, moaning and groaning and saying words, you realize at some point. They're unintelligible to you through the rush of blood in your ears, but they really do a lot to Leon, you realize, who is whining against you as you ride out your orgasm. 

When he pulls away, you crack a smile, still gasping and experiencing the aftershocks. He wipes his face off with the back of his hand and crawls back up to you. 

Leon's eyes pinch together in a pleading way, and when you realize what he wants, you giggle. "That was stupidly good, Leon. Thank you."

He grins and dips his head down to kiss you, slow and passionate. Words bleed into it, unspoken but still understood, and you nearly want to cry at the meaning and vulnerability of it all. 

"Can I fuck you?" Leon asks. His eyes bounce between yours, looking for a doubtful look or a flash of remorse. He finds none, apparently, and you nod eagerly. "Do you have…"

"I'm safe," you sputter out. "On birth control, I mean." 

Leon exhales. "You're sure this is okay?"

"Leon, if you don't fuck me right now, I'm going to take matters into my own hands."

He grins and wraps a hand around his cock, pumping a few times to get fully stiff. He groans at the contact. "Who says I won't like that?"

"We both know you would." You lean up to kiss his cheek. "But I think I deserve to lay back. Don't you?"

Leon makes a shuddering, broken sound at your tone, and lines himself up with your entrance. Every time he seems to get lost in his own pleasure, he remembers yours. You note this mentally. "If it hurts—"

"I know, sweetheart. It's okay."

He rolls his eyes at your impatience, but begins to press into you. The stretch is immediate—Leon is big, and you knew that since you started kissing—and you gasp with each inch he pushes into you. He's whispering, too, comforting you with every move he makes. He kisses your neck; you turn to catch his lips with your own. 

His hips lurch and he's bottomed out, tip kissing your cervix. You feel so full. Of him, of life, of love. It’s everything. It’s too much, but not enough. At the sensation, you moan, and when he begins moving, the sound itself is so lewd you're somehow close again. 

"Christ," he chokes out. "You feel good." 

"Fuck." You press your face into Leon's shoulder. You're still sensitive from your first orgasm, and every drag of his cock inside of you has another fire lit in your abdomen. "This is so worth it." 

Leon is breathless. "Yeah?"

“Yes,” you insist. “God. Leon—“

“I know. I know. I’m here.”

Leon snakes a hand under you to wrap around the back of your neck, not hard, just enough to secure you to him. It gives him a new vantage to thrust harder into you experimentally. You yelp out a moan but grab at him, pressing your thumbs appreciatively into his shoulders. 

Obviously, Leon had tried to stay focused to bring you over the edge again, but his breathing was hurting shallow, and short moans escaped him, some bordering on whimpers. 

His grip on your neck tightens and it has the coil in your belly wound completely tight. “Please, Leon, I—“

“Come on, sweetheart. I can take it. I’m right here.”

“Leon—“

“I know. It’s okay. I’m here.”

He keeps murmuring in your ear, and he’s so trusting and gentle, when you tip over the edge once again and fall head first into your orgasm, he kisses your neck and keeps talking you through it. Your body is pulled taut, a live wire coursing through you, as Leon slows his pace slightly. 

“Fuck,” he grits out. “I’m—“

“Flip me over,” you command, somehow able to talk through the aftershocks. 

Leon whines your name. “Please. I’m close. I—“

“Leon.” You grab his chin in your hand. He looks destroyed when you catch his gaze. “You wanted to be good for me, right? You took care of me. Let me help you. Be my good boy I know you are.”

He shudders at the words, blood running hot in his veins. Somehow, he has the energy to grab onto you and roll over, scooting up until his upper back hits the headboard. 

You’re still secure on top of him, his cock buried deep inside of you, and you press a kiss to his forehead. His eyes follow your every movement, and when they land on your face, he thinks he’s seeing an angel. 

Leon has scars that you know you may never get the story to. There’s one on his shoulder, the left one, that’s deep and sensitive to the touch, you notice. That one’s the most prominent. But God, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man more beautiful than him. 

You give an experimental roll of your hips since Leon has adjusted to the new position. He looks up at you like you’re something to be worshipped, and when your hips move again, his hands land on your hips. They grip hard enough to bruise. 

“Thank you,” he grits out. “I— Please, I—“

“It’s okay, honey. I’ve got you.” 

And you do. Leon wants you so bad it hurts, which feels ironic, considering he’s inside of you. But this isn’t all there is to you. He wants everything. The rough nights, the late hours at the office, the arguments over taking out the trash and watching horrible movies together. He was worried this would feel like the end. 

No, it’s just the beginning. 

You find a rhythm, hard and unrelenting, and it doesn’t take Leon long to reach his own climax with how you’re grinding against him, uttering encouragement in his ears like second nature. Your hands naturally explore. They run from his shoulders, down his pecs, then trace his abs lightly, over and over again, as you bounce and grind on him. 

Logically, you could cum again. But this was better, you think, watching Agent Kennedy absolutely fall apart under you. Your tone is slightly mocking.  “Leon, I’m doing all this for you. Don’t you want to cum?” 

“Shit. Fuck, baby, I’m—“

“Yeah?”

He whimpers. “Please. Yeah, pl—“

The words die in his mouth as he spills into you, lips parted. You have to remind him to breathe. His hands grab at you, your hips, boobs, shoulders, before finally one hand grabs you by the back of your neck and pulls you in close. Leon groans something primal and you nip at his earlobe. 

You two lay there for a moment, absolutely spent, and Leon’s neck is bright red, either with lust or embarrassment or something else entirely. 

Against your biological wishes, you lift slightly off of him, his softening cock falling flat against his abdomen. Your combined juices leak out of you, but you can’t be bothered as you drip all over him. 

Leon kisses the junction of your neck and shoulder lightly before rolling you over, laying you flat against your sheets. You aren’t sure when the comforter got pushed down. 

Whatever. 

“Where’s your bathroom?” Leon whispers and the tenderness of the moment is not lost on you. 

You point with one hand. “Over there. I think I’m gonna die now.”

“Could I be charged with murder if that happened?”

You huff out a laugh. “Manslaughter at the most. Negligence, maybe.”

“You’re too smart for me.” He calls over his shoulder as he makes his way to your bathroom. When he opens the bedroom door, Barty comes trotting in, rubbing up against Leon’s ankles. “Hi, buddy. Yeah. Let’s…go out here.”

Leon leads your cat away from you and you hear the rustling of a cabinet before the tap starts to run. Before long, Leon’s returning to you, and you realize he left to get a washcloth for you. 

The intimacy of it all brings a tear to your eye. You sniffle as Leon parts your legs, this time with a gentleness you didn’t know he had, and he caresses the towel between your folds and over your legs. When you whimper, he utters, “I know. I’m sorry.”

He wipes himself down and collapses next to you. When he pulls you into him, you're pliant, like putty, under his touch, and tuck into his side without any argument. 

“You okay?” Leon whispers into your hairline, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. 

You nod. “I’m great, Leon. You’re great.”

You want to tease him on the whole praise stuff, but you like it. So you swallow your words and let yourself melt into Leon. It’s the safest you’ve felt in years. 

Leon pulls the covers over you. “Did I make it up to you?”

You snicker. “Leon, you were forgiven a long time ago. You know that.”

“I know,” he murmurs. He swallows thickly. “Are we…”

“Yes, Leon. You can call us together now. I’d like that.”

“Really?”

You give him a look. “Yes. Really. Stop arguing with me and let me take a little nap here. You’re warm.”

Leon gives out a noise of contentment, and when he settles beneath you, his heartbeat is steady. “I meant what I said.”

“Hm?”

“About wanting to be better for you. I hated the way you looked at me back then. I wanted to be the kind of man you deserved.”

The confession makes you tilt your head up to him, catching his eyes in an honest trap. You press a kiss to the stubble on his jawline and pretend the tear leaking from the corner of your eye is from yawning, which Leon doesn’t believe for a second. 

“I know, Leon. You’re amazing.”

Just when you’re drifting off to sleep, four little paws climb over your back, settling on Leon’s chest. Barty has found a home here, and admittedly, you have, too. 

taglist: @night-scare @leonsbestgirl @lysol1201 @eclairlvr @deadlyecstasy @nambii @cakewinswars @shortcake356

Now as if time was personally testing you; every-day crawled by like time had transformed into a turtle and decided to take a scenic route through your suffering. But no, seriously. Why the hell were the days so long? Why is he not texting? And somehow, despite yourself, you felt disappointed.

Which was absolutely ridiculous.

And now; every time your phone lit up, your stomach dropped; every time your phone beeped, a part of you thought it was Leon. Of course it usually wasn't.

Because Leon was taking this whole "giving you space" thing very seriously.

He only texted occasionally, asking small things. Have you eaten? Is your arm fine? Sleeping okay? And every single time, you answered with a simple yes, no, or fine before the conversation died again.

Honestly, it felt like both of you were being miserable on purpose.

By the fifth day, you were actually restless. So restless that you ended up texting Claire instead. Maybe to confront her. Maybe to ask for advice. You honestly didn't know.

So you sat on your couch with your phone in one hand and a book in the other, though your attention wasn't actually on the book.

With a long defeated sigh you opened Claire’s number and you typed on the message box; Why did you give my number to him?

Your phone buzzed instantly.

Claire: He looked like a kicked puppy when he asked for your number.

You snorted immediately, the sound escaping before you could stop it. Shaking your head, you drop your head back against the couch; already picturing Leon standing there with that miserable, wounded expression Claire was describing.

Claire: I know I should've asked you first.

Claire: But I knew something happened between you two and I just wanted to help.

Claire: Did I make it worse?

You pressed your lips into a thin line, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. And somehow, without even seeing her, you could already picture Claire on the other side of the screen grinning triumphantly at her phone, entirely too pleased with herself for this conversation. The thought alone made it impossible to stop the small smile from growing.

You: No.

Claire: Knew it.

Claire: You like him.

You groaned loudly and muttered something under your breath as heat crept up your neck. But you didn't reply; there wasn't really a point, because Claire already knew the answer, and you sigh as you stared at the ceiling in complete defeat.

Then your phone buzzed again; pulling you out of your thoughts. You straightened slightly on the couch, forcing your attention away from the ceiling and back toward the screen.

Claire: That idiot does too.

Claire: I hope it works out between both of you.

Your heart practically somersaulted at that text, and you immediately tossed your phone onto the couch beside you before dropping your book onto the table in front of you; and with a tired sigh you sinked deeper into the cushions.

Because damn it.

Claire wasn't wrong.

Later that night on your last day off, you lay alone in your bed, while finally admitting to something you had been avoiding for days.

You missed him.

A lot.

And honestly, that realization was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Because somewhere during those five days, you had stopped pretending it wasn't true.

The truth was painful as it always is; that you knew you missed his stupid face terribly. You missed his stupid remarks that somehow always managed to get under your skin. You missed the way he would say something infuriating and then look entirely too pleased with himself afterward.

Hell, you even missed arguing with him.

Because now that he wasn't there, and somehow changed; the silence felt wrong.

You wanted to see him. You wanted to hear his voice. You wanted to roll your eyes at whatever ridiculous comment he would inevitably make. And, if you were being painfully honest with yourself, you wanted to kiss his stupid lips again. "Fuck..." You groaned, rolling on your stomach on your bed.

And now lying alone, all you could think about was what happened between both of you. Of course it wasn't ideal or anything, but you also knew Leon had been sincere. After his confession, after everything he said in that village, you had actually started accepting your feelings.

At least now you knew what you wanted.

And that was giving him an answer.

Not just an answer, but the truth. Because in the past five months, despite all his ridiculousness, his constant criticism, the arguments, and every single moment he managed to get on your nerves, Leon Kennedy had become important to you.

And maybe for the first time since all of this started, you were finally ready to stop pretending otherwise.

With those thoughts weighing heavily on your mind, you eventually fell asleep and the next morning, when you returned to HQ; it should have felt normal.

But it didn't.

Because the moment you stepped out of your car and looked up at the familiar headquarters building, every bit of confidence you'd spent the last five days gathering immediately began evaporating. And with every step you took toward the entrance, it got worse.

Your stomach twisted violently against your will.

And suddenly all those brave speeches you'd given yourself at three in the morning about being mature and having a conversation with Leon seemed completely useless right now.

"Darn it!" You muttered under your breath.

Because if there was one thing you wanted right now, it was to avoid him; because you knew you were getting cold feet to even look at him. The realization hit you so hard that it nearly made you stop walking and you groan at the thought of talking to him.

After everything.

After the mission.

After the alley.

After the confession.

After admitting to yourself that you missed him so much it physically hurt.

"Okay," you muttered to yourself. "You are not this pathetic." But unfortunately you knew, you absolutely were.

So you made a decision; or your cowardice won that you decided you would talk to him later.

Definitely later.

Giving yourself a firm nod, you pushed through the entrance and headed inside. Secretly hoping you wouldn't run into Leon.

The universe immediately decided to laugh at you. Because the second you turned toward the elevators, your entire body froze.

Leon was actually standing there waiting for the lift. One hand shoved into his jacket pocket. The other hand was holding a coffee.

You laughed at the ridiculousness of fate “are you kidding me?!” You whispered to yourself before looking up at the ceiling of the hq.

Nope.

Then you remembered; stairs existed for a reason and you immediately decide to turn around. Unfortunately, Leon spotted you before you could.

"Hey." Leon's face immediately brightened as he saw you and that effortless grin made your heart flutter so violently it felt embarrassing.

You froze on the spot; but still you tried to maintain your poker face though you honestly didn't know if you were doing a good job at it.

Your heart began beating rapidly after seeing his absolutely breathtaking face and it felt like you were sixteen years old again with your first crush.

Fuck, your stomach started to turn in ball of nerves; the heat burning deep into your belly.

"Hey..," Leon repeated in his familiar soothing voice, as he said it he was already walking toward you.

And suddenly breathing became way too difficult. "Oh. Uh."

Excellent. Dumbass. You thought to yourself.

"I was actually..." You pointed vaguely behind yourself. "...stairs."

Leon blinked.

"What?"

"Stairs." You said.

"You were going to the elevator." Leon furrowed his brows immediately tilting his head.

"I wasn't."

"You were literally looking at the elevator."

“You got it wrong” you said hastily and immediately started backing away.

Leon looked genuinely confused at your reaction; and before he could say another word, you turned around and practically fled.

Behind you, Leon stared after you in complete disbelief. "What the hell?"

Meanwhile you were already halfway up the stairs. "Fuck," you groaned, shaking your head, "This is harder than killing zombies."

The rest of the morning wasn't much better. Because every single time Leon appeared, you mysteriously found somewhere else to be.

When he walked into a room, you walked out.

When he headed toward your desk, you suddenly remembered urgent paperwork.

At one point, you were fairly certain you had hidden behind Carlos just to avoid Leon. Thankfully, Carlos didn't immediately question it. He simply looked between you and Leon with growing confusion while you pretended to be intensely interested in absolutely anything that wasn't the blond agent searching for you.

Eventually Leon gave up and walked out of the room, and the second the door closed behind him, Carlos slowly turned toward you with raised eyebrows. "Whoa..." he said, drawing the word out as realization started dawning on him. "What exactly is happening here?"

And you chuckle nervously like you were in danger, “nothing.”

You were sure Carlos didnt believe you but he didnt push. Thank god to that.

By lunch, Leon finally caught you near the break room. He stepped directly into your path and you nearly walked into him but luckily you didn't. "Can we talk now?" he asked softly; his voice was patient.

"Maybe later." You muttered.

Leon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "...Okay." And somehow the disappointment in his eyes made you feel worse.

Yet unintentionally or intentionally you avoided him again.

You knew it was embarrassing–but you just could not help it.

By mid-afternoon, your thoughts were becoming too much so you escaped to the rooftop terrace hoping the fresh air would calm you down.

As you stepped into the open space the cool air hit your face instantly and you sighed heavily before turning and moving towards the railing at the end; as you went there; you curl your fingers around the railing; your eyes settling on the setting sunset; the amber hues fell upon everything and the city stretched endlessly beyond the railing.

For a few precious minutes, you just stood there breathing. Trying to organize the disaster currently happening inside your chest.

After standing there for a few more minutes and finally feeling somewhat composed, you let out a long sigh. You decided you were finally going to talk to Leon. Properly this time. Because, honestly, you were being a little childish and you knew it. Avoiding him wasn't helping anyone.

So, with a muttered pep talk under your breath and what little courage you could gather, you pushed yourself forward, determined to finally face him.

And just then before you could turn away a deep familiar voice suddenly spoke behind you. "There you are."

You closed your eyes already feeling cold feet, but you stood there and whispered under your breath. “It's now or never.” though your heart was already betraying you.

Slowly, you turned around, and found Leon standing by the rooftop door. Looking equal parts of relieved and exhausted. "I've been looking for you."

You gave him a small nod, and the moment you did, a sly smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It only widened as he began making his way toward you at an unhurried pace. “I've never seen somebody run from me this much,” Leon remarked, amusement evident in his voice.

"I wasn't running." You quietly confessed.

"You fled from an elevator," Leon said, finally stopping a few steps away from you. You were strangely grateful for the distance; it gave you just enough room to breathe. Yet he didn't look away. His blue eyes remained fixed on yours, steadily as if he was determined not to let you escape this conversation quite so easily.

"...I don't want to talk about it." You sighed but a smile appeared on your face anyway.

His smile widened at your comment, and for a moment neither of you spoke. You simply stood there, staring at each other as the late afternoon sun dipped lower behind the city skyline, bathing both of you in a soft amber glow. The world around you seemed too quiet, leaving only the gentle rush of wind moving between you, carrying away everything except the tension neither of you could ignore anymore.

Then Leon's expression softened. "You know," he said quietly, "for somebody who fought an entire village full of infected without blinking, you're surprisingly bad at this."

"Shut up." You said, rolling your eyes.

"There she is." Leon says with a smirk.

“I meant what I said,” Leon murmured, his voice low as it slowly drifted between you with the breeze, carrying a sincerity that made your heartbeat falter.

Your heartbeat stumbled at his comment.

"Back in the village." Then his voice dropped lower, "All of it."

Your knees felt like jelly as he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. “You don't have to answer today, but I need you to know I wasn't lying.” Leon swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly as he gathered the courage to say the words he'd clearly been carrying for far too long, then he sighs his voice softening. “I love you.”

You opened your mouth to say something but all you could manage was a small gibberish sound that escaped your throat and you feel the tears already welling up in your eyes but he shakes his head as he continues. "I love your attitude." A small smile appeared on his face. "Even when it's driving me insane."

You laughed through the tears that finally fell down your cheeks.

"I love how stubborn you are." His voice softened further. "I love how you always protect people."

Your vision blurred and you now congrats you were finally crying: and leon gave you a small smile.

"And if you'll let me..."

He stepped a little closer, moving carefully as he raised a hand to gently brush the tears from your face. Then he dropped his hands lower his fingers found yours, holding them softly in his own. “I’ll stay,” Leon said quietly.

His fingers tightened around yours but you didn't pull away, "I'll stay through every argument."

"Every mission."

"Every bad day."

"Every good day." His eyes never left yours as he spoke his entire frame was relaxed like he was finally letting himself be vulnerable, "And I will be here forever, through it all, until even the end falls short."

That finally broke something inside you, and a small sob escaped your lips before you could stop it. Because no one had ever looked at you the way Leon was looking at you now. No one had ever said things like this to you. No one had ever made you feel so seen, so wanted, so important. And the worst part was that he wasn't saying any of it like it was some grand sacrifice. He said it so naturally, so sincerely, as if staying by your side was the easiest decision he had ever made.

“Leon...” Your voice broke halfway through his name, and for a second you had to look away just to steady yourself. The emotions sitting inside your chest felt too large, too overwhelming, like they had been waiting for months to finally be spoken aloud. You swallowed hard before looking back at him. “I feel the same.”

The words came out quietly, but they were enough to make something soften in Leon's expression immediately. A shaky laugh escaped you. “Honestly, I don't even know when it happened.” Your eyes dropped briefly to the ground. “Maybe I started liking you the day you scrunched up your face when you first saw me.” A small smile tugged at your lips which made him laugh too. “Or maybe it started when every time you criticized me and still somehow managed to make me angry enough to think about you for the rest of the day.”

Leon groaned quietly still he listened patiently as you continued and laughed shakily, “Or maybe it was later. When you finally stopped hiding behind all of that and started letting me see who you actually were.” Your voice softened. “When you instinctively covered my blind spots” You took a slow breath. “Then the kiss.” Your heart stumbled at the memory. “The…alley…” you were actually full on crying now, but still you managed to speak, “The confession.” You shook your head slightly. “And somewhere along the way, all of it started meaning something to me too.” Your eyes found his again.

“I forgive you, Leon." The admission came out barely above a whisper, his hands were now actually trembling beneath yours and you gave it a firm squeeze and continued, even if your eyes stung, “And during those five days off, all I could think about was you.” A smile appeared on your face.

“Your stupid remarks.” as you said it, leon mirrored your smile instantly his eyes were now glassy too.

“Your stupid face.” you chuckled briefly before continuing, “Your stupid habit of getting under my skin.”

Leon huffed out a laugh.

“And the worst part?” you said your smile widened through the tears gathering in your eyes. “I missed all of it.”

“I missed you.”

For a moment neither of you moved. Then your fingers intertwined with his naturally, like they belonged there. “I don't know what will happen next.” Your voice trembled.

“But I know I don't want to keep running from you.”

Then finally you said the words that had been waiting inside your heart for far too long. “I love you too.” A watery laugh escaped you. For a moment Leon simply stared. Like he'd forgotten how breathing actually worked then he sighed in relief and the biggest smile you'd ever seen spread across his face.

And somehow seeing that smile felt better than any confession.

Then a soft grin spread across his face. He rested his forehead gently against yours before pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. His calloused hands rose to cradle your face, warm and careful, and somehow the simple touch felt like coming home, and with a smile still tugging at his lips he whispered, "i will love you until the end of my days."

Your heart warmed at his words, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt content. You felt okay. Whole, even.

The constant knot in your chest finally loosened, leaving behind a quiet kind of peace. And as you stood there with Leon's warmth against yours, you realized that for the first time since this entire mess began, neither of you had to keep running from each other anymore.

You are feeling a little... unnecessary. And that's putting it mildly. The white walls stand in sharp contrast to the colors on the paintings and the smiling faces of all the other artists stand in sharp contrast to yours. 

And why did I think this was a good idea?

You chose painting from the Department of Fine Arts as an elective course because your curriculum had 2 mandatory non-technical electives in it and you definitely do not want to try to learn playing an instrument. For a 3-credits course. No, thank you. That shit is for the strong-willed.

Now you are in the final exposition. Everyone who brought their paintings in gets a straight AA, others FF. Good bargain, so you keep telling yourself. Good bargain. Paint something. Anything. Just spread the color on the canvas.

You felt exposed when you brought your paintings in, put them up, waited in front of them as visitors began to walk in through the door one by one. Now though, you are feeling something worse than exposed, no one is interested in what you made a big deal of sharing.

You fiddle with the hem of your skirt. Black tie formal. Serious. Elegant. 

Unlike you.

Christ.

You are told specifically that looking at phones is forbidden. So, you just watch as people swim back and forth in the sea of shared ideas and feelings. You wish you could share yours to an audience that listened.

"Hello."

You avert your gaze from the nothing in the middle of the room and look at the person greeting you. You must have a stupid look on you right now, you are sure of it. 

"Hi." Your motor skills kick in, betraying no grouchy crybaby behavior. 

"Are you the artist of this painting?" The woman asks with a kind voice, like she is happy to see more about the painting if you want them to, and sorry to bother you if not.

"Yes. Yes, I am." Everything you say feels weird.

"It looks interesting." She says, and you immediately console yourself.

This is what people say when they mean it is not shit.

“Thank you.” You respond politely, with a soft smile.

At least someone is acknowledging you. Be grateful, you lunatic.

“It is very different from the other paintings.” The woman tells you. You wait for a moment, thinking there is more coming, but turns out that was merely a conversation starter.

"Well, there wasn't any particular task they gave us. So, yeah... I guess everyone just went free-style." You say, not giving much to build a conversation on, but the woman looks interested all the same, attentive even. 

"Would you like me to tell you what I was trying to do here?" You ask shyly. Explaining your art is such a shitty thing to do, it is the literary equivalent of a cook making a brave yet otherwise inexplicable dish and saying "so this is my pizza", but today is a shitty day apparently, and why resist with so much force and end up tired?

 "Yes, please." The woman answers with an even brighter smile and you feel yourself getting more confident. 

"So, I had Sartre's existentialism in my mind when I was painting this. You see, Sartre said that there are two types of things. For-self and in-self. The latter is something that is precisely what it is. A table, a car, a shoe... It doesn't matter what it does or where it is. Even if you try to use the shoe to clean a window, it will still be a shoe. It is a thing that is in-itself. And the former is, well, a man is a good example for the former. A man is a husband next to his wife, an employee where he works, a god in the eyes of his dog. The for-self thing is recreated constantly by the relations it forms with its surroundings." 

You look at your painting and point at it vaguely. "You see, the light reflecting off the building, the pavement and the cars is sharp. At every direction of this space, the same information of color propagates in the air so everyone is delivered the same image." You look briefly at the woman to weigh her reaction; you really hope she is not bored.

On the contrary, her mouth is slightly agape and her eyes rapidly move on the canvas, supposedly on the points where there are sharp brush marks indicating the absoluteness of the colors. 

You smile slightly and continue, "But I have painted people like they dissipate colors that are not actually on them. It is like they radiate off their skin, all the colors. So, the observer is free to choose from the selection." You once again turn your attention to the woman. "So, yeah. That's the idea."

"Wow, that's... That's really beautiful." She extends her hand to you "I am Ashley. You?" 

You introduce yourself, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

She smiles, and gives one final look to your painting. “What’s your major?” she asks as she turns her attention back to you. You are beginning to think she has an offer to make.

“Physics.” you answer her with a tone that betrays no feelings of pride and confidence that used to accompany you when you were a freshman. You were going to be a girl scientist. You idiot.

“Oh.” She laughs softly, “that explains the radiation.”

You smile back with a small little something that’s close to contentment. The contentment of being seen. “Yeah.”

And a moment passes where it feels like something forgot to do something. You feel some unease from the silence. “Yours?”

“Philosophy.” 

Your eyes widen slightly from realizing that you just explained Sartre’s existentialism to someone who studies philosophy. Like you weren’t feeling enough awkwardness.

“I didn’t know about Sartre’s existentialism.” she says with a sheepish grin. Your mind immediately drifts off to think about how fucking disoriented in the head you are. So, she doesn’t know about existentialism. So what? You see her rubbing her palms on her thighs every ten seconds? She just embraces her lack of knowing and throws in a sheepish grin. Like a fucking grown woman. Why can’t you be like her?

“That was very interesting for me.” you hope she didn’t say anything in between, because you definitely were not paying attention at that moment. 

“I am glad you liked it.” 

She smiles again and reaches for her phone. “Are you interested in philosophy in general?” she asks you with a tone and gesture that look impossibly sincere. You feel a rare sense of welcome that just makes you relaxed to the extent that you say what exactly you want to say.

“I am interested in ideas that have depth and insight. But I am not one for history of philosophy I am afraid.”

She smiles again. “Believe me, that’s the best way to be interested in it.” She takes her phone in her hand and opens her lockscreen. “Uhm, I’m just looking for a good excuse to ask for your number.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’m looking for reading-buddy. Someone I can share and discuss books with. Would you be interested?” she asks you with home-made courage she does not expect you to see right away. She is shy too.

“Yes. Yes, I would like that very much.” You dial your number on her phone and let it deal with the rest. 

“I guess I’ll see you around.” she says, before flashing a small smile and turning around to walk away.

a/n: My first fic lol, feel free to give advice and i'm so open for requests!

It a was dark, snowy evening in the late November. Wind whistled against the windows, though it was nothing that could draw attention to itself anymore as the sound of water running and dishes clattering filled the warm air of your home. But perhaps this white, two-story house is not yours, and you indeed are an impudent brat (as your aunt Karen always hisses). One’s mind always wanders to most sacred places when doing the dishes; you were no exception. A few months ago, you realized your mom’s voice had become more muffled, more distant in your head; the thought never failed to form a limp in your throat. Dad and mom always were some kind of fog in your brain, though it was oddly comforting to know you once had a family of your own, not being a liability. Your aunt never spoke of your parents much, but when she did, only insults were sourly spewed at your mother. Uncle Andrew married your aunt for a reason: he always joined in the fun, not forgetting to highlight how your mother’s skanky genes passed down to you, how you’d probably end up on highway, sucking all sorts of men off to make a living. But maybe that’s just what his always red, overly fed head fantasized about.

If only your parents didn’t get into that horrific car incident, maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t feel so shitty about yourself.

<...>

After yet another family dinner without you, auntie and dear uncle sat you down, two of their beloved boys giggling in the background. Karen clears her throat and glances on her husband, both of them with tight smiles on their faces.

“So,” He starts, his usually narrowed eyes now not traveling down your body, but instead darting around the ground, TV and his wife. “Me… We,” he gestured to himself and the woman sitting right next to him, who had this creepily 'nice' look on her wrinkled and poorly maked-up face, so uncharacteristic of her nasty persona.

“Sweetheart, you know how we’ve been struggling financially,” the freshly bought Nintendo 64 winked at you from beside the TV screen (the one you weren’t allowed to touch) “We’ve decided, me and Andrew, that we aren’t able to feed three kids at once, and besides the boys are growing up: it’s almost a punishment to try to fit two young, growing gentlemen into one room!” She nervously laughed and looked over uncle Andrew’s smug face. He looked like a pig, you thought, tearing your stare away from his panting form. He lost his breath every time he merely spoke.

“Do you know what childhood’s home is?”

Your stomach dropped at those words. This couldn’t be happening. Hell, your craziest thought was them moving you into the pantry room, not giving you away for foster care. The last thing you remembered was your eyes watering pathetically.

In less than a week or so, came the final lunch. Cake and everything, fancy. Were they celebrating getting rid of you? You could tell by their glimmering faces and impatient squirming of the 7-year-old Jonny, sticking his tongue out to his brother Michael, who was 4. The ride to the ‘childhood’s home’ was long. What a stupid name for a place like this. You gripped your backpack with the little amount of trinkets you own (polaroid of Mom and Dad with newborn you; ‘Jane Eyre’ book alongside with your dearest diary; few old clothes and one pair of undies) when the seemingly… cozy building came to sight. It wasn’t quite big, red-bricked, 4 floor house that resembles library. You’d imagine it to look like prison. Paperwork, and here you are left alone. You didn’t love your Uncle’s family and yet you felt like you’ve been orphaned for the second time.

A kind lady, Ms. Brown, showed you around: it’s called a ‘group home’ as you found out later. Big kitchen, a living room and a lot of bedrooms, each for two or three. As she was showing you around you caught a glimpse of few kids around here. Some pre-teens, some looked almost your age. They seemed okay, at least at first sight.

“Here, baby, there is your floor.” The earlier mentioned old woman wrapped in a soft, grey shawl murmured. “Pick between these two rooms, 409 and 411. You tell me on the dinner which one you picked, alright? The dinner's at 6.30. Do not be late” She motions to the doors down the hall, speaking and suddenly her eyes soften further (if that’s possible) when a blonde, broad shouldered boy appears on the staircase, going up. Your gaze falls on him, greedily studying every inch of him. You were desperate to get at least the slightest grasp of how kids are here.

Well he isn’t exactly a kid. Maybe your age. The moment his soft, blue eyes settle on the caregiver and then you, your gaze adverts down almost immediately. His footsteps nearly silent, against the grey, endless rug as he approaches.

“Leon, here’s the new neighbor, please love and favor!"

A comforting laugh from Ms. Brown fills your ears as you glance up at him to find him looking back at you with sheepish grin on his face.

<...>

“So you just moved in today? What’s your room?” The boy, Leon, says, walking down the hall with you. He chuckles and glances at you again curiously, though not disrespectfully. “Don’t tell me 409.” That earns a curious hum from you, making you steal yet another look over his handsome features.

“W-Why?” Your mouth moves so fast, it’s pathetic.

Leon chuckles once again and you don’t miss the way his adam’s apple bobs when he gulps slightly. He has an awfully pale neck. That did something to you.

“Amanda lives there,” his voice drops to a low murmur as he explains. “She’s kind of a nympho.”

Giggling, you relax the grip on your backpack a little. His boyish grin makes your chest flutter (and you silently scold yourself for it). “Is she?”

“I’m pretty sure whole downtown been in Amanda” He snickers and stops by the door. 411. Is that his?

“So where you staying?” Leon’s curious eyes found you again, making you shrink. The question hanged in the air and you swallowed your spit down. “I.. um, I dunno yet.. I uh,”

“Stay with me. I don’t have a roommate.” He responded momentarily, his tone ever so calm.

“I-I can? Oh, I’m… Thank you, Leon.” The name rolled off your tongue so soft, it couldn’t get past Leon’s ears. Cute thing you are, newbie, he thought. Leon opened the door, extending his arm. “Ladies first.” A low cackle escaped his chest.

The room was fairly normal, two beds on each side of the room, table with two chairs and a large closet. Wasn’t exactly new but you weren’t complaining. The window was revealing quite a sight on the downtown part of the city.

You set your backpack down on the bed and sat down beside it, unzipping it. “’s all you have?” Leon snorts, making you pout subconsciously at the mean comment. “Don’t even have proper skirts or whatever you girls like.. lipsticks?” He smiles a bit sympathetic, his cocky side faltering for a second. “You still pretty though,” - he says and smiles dumbly, his own ears turning pink.

<...>

More snow, red cheeks, more laughter: here comes Christmas.

Globs of snow outside magically colored grey streets into a fairytale: blinding sunlight reflecting off of white large clumps, endless kids’ laughter outside and big, imperfect snowflakes carefully cut from paper welcoming anyone who steps into the place where children lived under one roof, learned together, played, fought and loved. They all were indeed a bit weird, a bit rough on edges, but still you somehow felt little happier than at the Uncle Andrew’s house.

Leon knocks on the door of your shared room like he always does, asking for a permission to enter. When he gets the affirmation, he comes in with the largest grin you’ve ever seen, flashing his pearly whites.

“What?” You couldn’t help but be infected by his smiling, raising up from the bed. His hands were hidden behind his back and your teeth sank into your lower lip in excitement.

“Close your eyes, dork” Leon coos and smiles, cheeks red from freezing weather outside. He hadn’t even taken his jacket or beanie off. Seeing your hesitance he whines, “Come on” - so, so adorable. You then comply playful, a shiver going down your spine at the anticipation. Few moments of rustling and he speaks again, a nervous waver in his voice as he asks you to look.

Your eyes flutter open, immediately landing upon a precious, beige & fluffy bunny plushy with long ears and pink fabric on the inner side. You drank in the imagine feeling of how soft this thing must be.

Your eyes darted from his masculine hands holding the sweet gift, up to his face. It almost made you giggle, how contrasting it was.

“Do you like it?” Leon asked after long silence, unusually timid and avoiding looking into your sparkly eyes.

“It’s for me..?” You whisper the rhetorical question, corners of your lips rising upwards. A beat, both of your eyes meet and you feel your stomach pool with warmth, head now feeling light. The baby blue eyes stare back at you, filled with uncertainty and self-doubt. After hesitating for a split second, you snatch the plushy from him (it is as soft as you supposed it was) and lean forward, capturing him in a heartfelt embrace.

Leon freezes for a moment, before utmost carefully placing his hands on your upper back, air suddenly thick with awkwardness. However, it slowly fades as you move your head to fit against his shoulder snuggly.

“I-It’s ‘lright..” He murmurs against your soft hair, feeling fuzzy inside as he inhales your scent.

You were brave, brave enough to pull back, step on your tippie toes and press a tiny peck his left cheek. Hardy a kiss; more a ghostly brush of your soft lips against his velvet skin. But it isn’t like that wasn’t enough to make Leon head over heels right then.

“Thank you, Leon.” You smile and after tearing your gaze away from his beautiful nose, you look in those blue flustered eyes once again, choosing not to talk about his suddenly pink face. He only grins in response, trying to collect himself. Moments pass before he picks you up by your sides, spinning you around, making you squeak loudly and grab onto his shoulders for support. You share the smile, laughter of both of you filling the room.