#resi 9

“That’s funny,” he replied. “Because that’s exactly what partners usually do.” The tension settled in the room almost instantly—two people already deciding they weren’t going to like working together.

Leon dropped into the chair across from you, the metal legs scraping softly against the floor. He flipped open the folder in front of him, scanning the pages with quick, practiced movements. For a moment the room was quiet except for the rustle of paper. Then he glanced up again, blue eyes sharp.

“So what’s your deal?” he asked. “They don’t usually stick agents on my assignments unless something’s already gone sideways.”

His tone wasn’t exactly hostile—but it wasn’t friendly either. It was the kind of guarded curiosity that came from someone who had learned the hard way not to trust a situation, or the people in it.

You tilted your head slightly, unimpressed by the interrogation. 

“Intel division,” you said, tapping the edge of the file in front of him. 

“Bioweapons trafficking investigation. Which means I’ve been tracking this operation for months.” 

Leon leaned back in his chair, crossing one arm over the other as he studied you like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. “Right,” he said slowly. 

“And now they want the guy who kicks down doors and the person who actually knows what’s going on in the same room.” 

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

Leon closed the folder with a quiet snap and pushed it back across the table. For a moment he just watched you, like he was measuring something—skill, patience, maybe whether you’d break under pressure. 

Finally he leaned back in the chair, resting his elbows on the armrests.

“Look,” he said, voice lower now, more serious than before.

“When this goes bad—and it will—people hesitate. Partners hesitate. That’s when things fall apart.” His gaze didn’t waver. “So if you’re expecting someone to cover you every second, you should probably ask for a different assignment.”

You held his stare without blinking. “Funny,” you replied evenly. “I was about to say the same thing.” 

Leon’s brow twitched slightly at that, the smallest flicker of surprise crossing his face before it disappeared again. You tapped the folder lightly. “I’ve been following this network for months. Supply routes, contacts, funding. If you charge in without thinking, you’ll blow the whole operation.” 

You leaned forward a little, voice calm but firm. “So if you’re planning to play the lone hero, you should probably get used to the idea that someone’s going to tell you no.”

For a second the room went completely quiet. Then Leon huffed out a short laugh under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “Great,” he muttered, standing up and grabbing the folder again. “A partner who argues.” 

But when he looked back at you, there was something different in his expression now—less dismissal, more interest. Like maybe you weren’t exactly what he expected. He gestured toward the door with the folder.

“Come on,” he said. “If we’re going to prove the suits wrong, we might as well start now.”

You pushed your chair back and stood, grabbing your jacket from the backrest. Leon was already halfway to the door, moving with that easy confidence of someone used to being in control of a situation. You followed him into the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. He slowed just enough for you to walk beside him, glancing sideways for a second. 

“So,” he said casually, like the argument in the briefing room hadn’t just happened, “intel division, huh? That means you’re the one who’s been buried in reports while I’ve been chasing ghosts.”

“Someone has to figure out where the ghosts are coming from,” you replied. 

Leon let out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as the two of you reached the elevator. When the doors slid open, he stepped inside and leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting to the glowing floor numbers as they started descending. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then he glanced over again, studying you with that same careful look from earlier.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, voice quieter now, “I don’t do babysitting.”

The elevator slowed with a soft jolt at the ground floor. The doors slid open, revealing the dim parking garage beyond. You stepped out first, turning slightly to face him as he followed. 

“Good,” you said simply. “Because I don’t need one.”

Leon paused for a second, then gave a small, almost reluctant smirk. It vanished just as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual guarded expression. 

“We’ll see about that,” he said, heading toward the row of government vehicles. Even so, something about the way he glanced back at you suggested he wasn’t quite as convinced anymore that this partnership was going to be a mistake.

Several hours later, the quiet hum of the engine filled the space between you as the government sedan cut through a long stretch of empty highway. Night had settled in fully, the road ahead lit only by the sweep of the headlights and the occasional flicker of distant street lamps. Beside you in the driver’s seat, Leon had one hand loosely on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. He’d barely spoken for most of the drive, his attention fixed on the road while the file from the briefing sat folded in the centre console.

The town you were heading toward barely existed on most maps—a quiet rural place that had recently started showing up in reports connected to suspicious shipments and missing persons… per usual you thought to yourself. According to the intel you’d gathered, something was moving through the area that shouldn’t have been there. Bioweapons, most likely. Leon had read through your notes earlier, silent the entire time, his expression growing more serious with every page. Now, as the highway sign for the town flickered past in the darkness, he finally broke the silence.

“So this is the place,” he said, voice calm but edged with focus. He slowed the car slightly as the road narrowed, trees closing in on either side like dark walls. Leon glanced toward you for a moment before returning his eyes to the road.

“Your intel says shipments started coming through about three weeks ago.” His grip on the wheel tightened just a little. “Tell me something,” he added quietly. “Does any of it remind you of the cases that end with everyone in town turning into something they shouldn’t?”

You glanced out the window at the dark tree line rushing past, the faint glow of the dashboard lighting the inside of the car. “Not exactly,” you said after a moment. 

“Those cases usually leave a mess behind—hospital reports, unexplained deaths, something that raises alarms.” You tapped the edge of the file in the console. 

“This one’s quiet. Too quiet. People disappear, shipments move through the area, and nobody local reports anything.” 

Your eyes shifted back to Leon. “Which usually means someone is making sure they don’t.”

Leon nodded slightly, like that answer confirmed something he was already thinking. The car slowed as the first scattered buildings of the town came into view—dark storefronts, a single gas station still lit under buzzing fluorescent lights, and a long empty street stretching ahead. He pulled the car to the side of the road just before the main intersection and cut the engine. The sudden silence felt heavier than the drive had been. Leon rested his forearms on the steering wheel, staring out through the windshield for a second.

“Place looks dead,” he muttered. Then he glanced toward you again, that focused, calculating look back in his eyes. “First rule in situations like this..?” he said, reaching into the back seat for a small tactical bag. 

“Assume it isn’t.” 

He unzipped it and pulled out a handgun, checking the magazine with practiced ease before sliding it into a holster under his jacket.

He shut the car door quietly when you both stepped out, the cool night air settling around the empty street. Leon scanned the area automatically, eyes moving across rooftops, alleyways, shadows—every possible place someone could be watching. After a second he looked back at you. 

“You said the shipments were coming through an old warehouse near the rail line, right?” he asked. Then he gave a small nod toward the darker part of town. “Guess we’re about to find out if your intel’s as good as you say it is.”

You fell into step beside him as the two of you moved down the quiet street, boots echoing faintly against the pavement. The town felt wrong in a way that was hard to explain—too still, too silent. Even small places usually had something: a television glowing in a window, a dog barking somewhere in the distance, the low rumble of a passing truck. Here there was nothing. Just the wind brushing through the trees and the creak of an old sign swinging outside a closed diner. You noticed Leon noticing it too; his gaze swept across every doorway and alley like he expected something to jump out of them.

“Rail line should be about half a mile that way,” you said quietly, pointing toward the darker edge of town where the streetlights thinned out. Leon nodded once in acknowledgment, though his pace slowed slightly. He tilted his head just a little, listening. For a second you thought you imagined it too—but then you heard it. A faint metallic clatter somewhere in the distance, like something heavy being dragged across concrete.

Leon’s hand moved instinctively to the grip of his handgun under his jacket. He didn’t draw it yet, but his posture shifted immediately, shoulders tightening as he scanned the darkness ahead. 

“Please tell me that’s normal small-town activity,” he muttered under his breath. His eyes flicked briefly toward you, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth despite the tension. 

“Because if it’s not, your ‘quiet investigation’ just got a lot less quiet.”

The sound came again—louder this time. From somewhere past the next block, near where the faint outline of an old warehouse roof could be seen above the trees. Leon stopped walking, listening carefully, then exhaled slowly through his nose. 

“Yeah,” he said, finally pulling the handgun free and checking the street one more time. “Something tells me we’re not the only ones working tonight.” 

He glanced toward you, giving a small nod toward the direction of the noise. “Stay close.”

You didn’t move closer like he suggested. Instead, you stepped ahead of him slightly, already pulling your own handgun from the holster at your side. The motion was smooth and confident, like you’d done it a thousand times before. 

“Relax,” you said quietly, checking the magazine before sliding it back in with a sharp click. 

“I didn’t come all the way out here to hide behind you.” Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Leon pause for half a second, clearly not expecting you to take the lead.

Leon watched as you moved toward the corner of the next building, your steps careful but quick. The faint smirk he’d been wearing earlier returned, though this time it carried a hint of something closer to respect. 

“Didn’t say you had to,” he muttered, falling into step beside you again. His eyes flicked briefly toward the gun in your hand before returning to the dark street ahead. 

“Just making sure you’re still alive when this mission’s over.”

You reached the edge of the block first, pressing your shoulder lightly against the brick wall before peeking around the corner. The source of the noise was clearer now—a wide, rusted warehouse sitting near the rail line exactly where the intel had said it would be. One of the large side doors was partially open, dim light spilling out onto the cracked pavement outside. And just inside, silhouettes were moving. Not many. Maybe three or four.

You leaned back from the corner and looked at Leon. “Looks like a delivery,” you said quietly. 

“Crates, truck parked out back, a couple guys inside.” Your voice stayed calm and controlled, like you were giving a routine report rather than standing a block away from a potential bioweapons exchange. 

“So either we sit here and watch them move the product… or we stop it before it leaves.”

Leon studied you for a moment, clearly weighing the situation. Normally he’d be the one making the call. But the fact that you’d already scoped the building and counted the people inside without hesitation didn’t go unnoticed. He exhaled slowly, glancing back toward the warehouse again. 

“You always this eager to start trouble?” he asked under his breath.

You gave a small shrug, already stepping away from the wall and checking the safety on your weapon. 

“Only when it’s deserved.” Then you looked back at him, a sharp, confident expression settling on your face. 

“You coming, Kennedy? Or are you planning to stand out here all night while the evidence drives away?”

Leon let out a quiet breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he followed after you. 

“You know,” said Leon under his breath, “most people wait for a plan before walking straight into trouble.” 

But he still moved with you, stepping lightly across the cracked pavement toward the warehouse. His eyes scanned the area automatically, covering angles you hadn’t looked at yet, the two of you falling into a rhythm without needing to say it out loud.

You slowed near the side of the building, crouching beside a stack of rusted barrels just outside the open door. From here you could see more clearly inside: wooden crates stacked against the far wall, a truck backed halfway into the loading bay, and three men arguing quietly over something near the cargo. You tilted your head slightly, studying the markings stamped on the side of one crate. 

“Biotech company label,” you whispered. “Front corporation. Definitely illegal.”

Leon leaned down beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours for half a second. He followed your gaze toward the crates, his expression tightening slightly. 

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the kind of logo that usually shows up right before something starts trying to eat people.” His voice was calm, but there was a sharp focus in it now—the same focus that had carried him through worse situations than this.

For a moment the two of you stayed there in the shadows, watching the men move the crates toward the truck. Then Leon glanced sideways at you. 

“Alright, intel,” he said quietly. “Your call. You spotted it first.” The words were casual, but the meaning behind them was clear—he was trusting your read on the situation.

You didn’t hesitate. “We stop the shipment,” you said simply. Then you pointed toward the back corner of the warehouse. 

“You take the two near the truck. I’ll handle the one by the crates.” Your eyes flicked toward him briefly. “Unless you think you can’t keep up.”

Leon’s mouth twitched at that, a small amused smile appearing despite the tension. He adjusted his grip on his handgun and gave a slight nod. “Careful,” he replied quietly. 

“You keep talking like that and I might start thinking you actually like working with me.” Then he glanced back toward the warehouse entrance. 

“Lets go.”

The warehouse was quiet now, the last of the men unconscious on the floor, crates overturned, and the truck left in ruin. Outside, the first light of dawn was beginning to streak across the sky, pale and gray over the small town. You sat against the curb, breathing slowly, letting the tension drain from your muscles. Leon came up beside you, wiping a thin layer of sweat and dust from his forehead. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, just listening to the faint hum of early morning life returning to the streets.

He sank down beside you with a soft thud, close enough that your knees nearly touched. 

“Not bad,” Leon said quietly, glancing at you with that mix of respect and his usual guarded expression. “You handled yourself… better than I expected.” You gave a small shrug, trying to hide the warmth in your chest at the compliment. 

“It’s just a job,” you said, though the smirk tugging at your lips gave you away. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be the hero.”

Leon let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well… heroes don’t usually argue with their partners while crouched behind barrels in a warehouse.” He leaned back, one arm propped on his knee, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. 

“I’ve got to admit,” he continued after a beat, softer this time, “I’m glad you were there. Didn’t think I’d say that by the end of tonight.”

You turned slightly to meet his gaze, the faint light catching the edge of his sharp features. 

“I think we make a decent team,” you said, voice calm but firm. “Even if you don’t want to admit it.” Leon’s lips twitched at the corner again, this time a little more obvious. 

“Decent,” he echoed, eyes flicking toward the horizon. Then, after a pause, he added quietly, almost to himself, “I could get used to this… working with you.”

The silence stretched comfortably between the two of you, the quiet aftermath of the mission settling around you like a soft blanket. Leon leaned back a little more, letting out a slow exhale, and for the first time that night, you saw him relax. Just a little. Enough that it wasn’t only the adrenaline keeping him on edge. You could feel it too—a subtle shift, the sense that maybe this partnership wasn’t just about survival or completing a mission.

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder, teasing, “You know, Kennedy, if you keep staring off like that, people might start thinking you actually enjoy my company.”

He gave a low chuckle, eyes finally meeting yours fully. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, but there was something in the way he said it, a softness under the warning that made you think he already was.

A month later, the two of you were back in a safe house after another mission, crates cleared, files sorted, and the hum of the air conditioning filling the silence. Leon leaned against the edge of the table, cleaning his gun with methodical precision, but there was something different in the way he glanced at you now. Small things had changed over the past weeks—how he’d make an almost imperceptible comment when you handled a tricky situation flawlessly, or how his smirk lingered a little longer when you disagreed with him. The tension that had defined your first meeting had softened into something sharper, teasing, almost playful.

“You know,” he started, glancing up from the handgun in his hands, “I think the intel division might owe me a favor for putting up with your… creative problem-solving today.” His tone was light, but the way his eyes flicked toward yours carried a spark that hadn’t been there before. 

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the wall and folding your arms. “Creative problem-solving, huh?” you said, smirking. 

“You mean the part where I saved your ass while you were staring at the wrong crate?”

Leon’s smirk widened just slightly. “I might’ve been distracted,” he said smoothly, eyes never leaving yours. “But I didn’t mind being saved… not entirely.” The pause after the words was deliberate, charged in a way that made your stomach tighten just a little.

You shook your head, trying to hide the small smile tugging at your lips. 

“Careful, Kennedy,” you teased. “You’re starting to sound like you enjoy my company again.”

He gave a short laugh, leaning just a little closer across the table. 

“Maybe I do,” he said quietly, voice low, almost casual, but his gaze lingered. “Maybe it’s growing on me—working with someone who can keep up.”

You caught the subtle tilt of his head, the way his eyes traced your movements with more attention than necessary. It was slow, quiet flirting—never outright, always just enough to make you aware that the man who’d once rolled his eyes at being partnered with you now wanted to be near you, and for the first time, it wasn’t just about survival or missions.

The next mission came a few days later, a surveillance job in another quiet town that looked just as ordinary as the last one—until you knew what to look for. Night had settled over the street as you and Leon sat inside a parked car across from a small warehouse, the engine off and the windows cracked just enough to let in the cool air. The place you were watching had been quiet for hours, which meant there was nothing to do except wait.

Leon sat back in the driver’s seat, one arm resting casually on the steering wheel while the other drummed lightly against the door. 

“You know,” he said after a while, glancing sideways at you, “most partners would’ve fallen asleep by now.” His voice carried that familiar dry tone, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

You didn’t look away from the binoculars you were using to watch the building. “Most partners probably wouldn’t trust you not to miss something,” you replied calmly.

Leon huffed a quiet laugh at that, shifting a little in his seat. “Wow,” he muttered. “You wound me.” His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary before he looked back toward the warehouse.

“Though I guess I should be used to it by now.”

You lowered the binoculars and glanced at him. “Used to what?”

He met your eyes, that small smirk returning. “You giving me a hard time.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you in the dim light of the dashboard. “It’s kind of becoming your thing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you keep coming back for more.”

Leon didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back in the seat again, eyes drifting toward the windshield like he was thinking something over. Then he looked back at you, the smirk softening into something quieter. 

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “I guess I do.”

The next morning at the agency building was already busy when you stepped into the operations floor, reports being passed between desks and the low hum of conversations filling the room. You had barely set your file down when a familiar voice spoke from behind you.

“Careful,” Leon said casually, leaning one shoulder against the edge of your desk. “If you keep showing up early like this, people are going to start thinking you actually like the job.”

You glanced up to see him holding two coffees. One of them slid across the desk toward you before you could even ask. You raised an eyebrow. 

“You bribing me now?”

Leon shrugged lightly, taking a sip from his own cup. “Not bribing,” he said. “Just making sure my partner stays functional.” His blue eyes flicked down briefly to the report you’d been reading before returning to your face. 

“Would be a shame if the best agent on my missions collapsed from caffeine withdrawal.”

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “The best agent?” you repeated. “Pretty bold statement coming from the guy who walked into the wrong room during the last raid.”

Leon smirked immediately. “Yeah, well,” he said, leaning a little closer over your desk, lowering his voice just enough that the surrounding agents couldn’t hear, “if I didn’t do that, you wouldn’t have gotten the chance to dramatically save the day.” 

His eyes lingered on yours for a second longer than necessary. “And I know how much you like showing off.”

You scoffed softly, though you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” Leon replied easily. Then he straightened up, pushing himself off the desk. As he walked past you toward the briefing room, he paused just long enough to add over his shoulder, “But you keep agreeing to be my partner, so I must be doing something right.”

About an hour later the office had quieted a little, the earlier rush fading into the usual rhythm of typing keyboards and low conversations. Papers were spread across your desk as you worked through another report, highlighter tapping lightly against the page while you reread a line of intel. You didn’t notice someone approaching until a shadow fell across the desk.

“Still working on that?” Leon asked, his voice amused.

You didn’t look up immediately. “Some of us actually read the reports before missions,” you replied calmly.

Leon pulled out the chair next to your desk and sat down sideways in it, one arm resting across the back like he planned to stay a while. 

“Hey, I read them,” he said. 

“Eventually.”

You finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “Eventually.”

He grinned at that, clearly entertained. “What can I say? I prefer the fieldwork part.” His eyes flicked down to the notes in front of you, then back up again. “Besides… I’ve got you for the detailed stuff.”

You leaned back slightly in your chair, crossing your arms. “So that’s the plan? Let me do all the work?”

Leon tilted his head, studying you for a second like he was considering his answer. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on your desk. 

“Not all the work,” he said, voice lower now. “Just the parts you’re better at.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “And what parts would those be?”

His smirk returned instantly. “Outsmarting people,” he said. Then, after a small pause, his gaze softened just a little. “Keeping me alive.”

The comment hung in the air for a moment longer than expected. You shook your head, trying to hide the smile threatening to appear. 

“Your survival rate was pretty good before I showed up, Kennedy.”

Leon shrugged lightly. “Sure.” His eyes stayed on yours, relaxed but focused. “But it got better.”

He leaned back in the chair again, stretching his arms over his head briefly before standing. As he started to walk away, he paused and glanced back at you.

“Don’t work too hard,” he added casually. “I’d hate for my favourite partner to burn out.” And then he kept walking.

A little later, the office had thinned out even more. A few agents were still at their desks, but most had moved to meetings or headed out for lunch. You were still working through a stack of intel when someone leaned against the edge of your desk again—familiar enough now that you didn’t even look up right away.

“Starting to think you live here,” Leon said casually.

You sighed, finally glancing up from the papers. “Starting to think you don’t have anything better to do than hover around my desk.”

Leon placed a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow. After I brought you coffee this morning?” he said. “That’s cold.”

“You brought yourself coffee,” you corrected.

He laughed softly at that, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. Instead of leaving like he usually did, he slid into the chair next to your desk again, spinning it slightly so he faced you. “So what are we looking at now?” he asked, nodding toward the files.

You tapped one page with your pen. “Shipments of an item of some sort.. someone’s moving something through three different ports.”

Leon leaned closer to look at the map you’d drawn across the paper, his shoulder brushing yours again. This time neither of you moved away. He studied the page for a moment before pointing lazily at one of the locations. “That one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And your evidence is…?”

He shrugged. “Gut feeling.”

You stared at him for a second. “Your investigative method is incredible.”

“Thank you,” he said immediately.

You shook your head, turning the paper back toward yourself. “You’re impossible.”

Leon rested his elbow on your desk, watching you work instead of leaving. After a moment he said, quieter now, “You know… you say that a lot.”

“That you’re impossible?”

“Yeah.” His lips curved slightly. “But you never actually sound annoyed.”

You paused, pen hovering over the page.

When you looked up again, he was already watching you—relaxed, amused, and just a little too aware of the way the conversation had shifted.

“You flirting with me at work now, Kennedy?” you asked.

Leon didn’t even hesitate.

“Maybe,” he said lightly.

Then his eyes flicked down to the report again, tapping the paper where you’d marked the port.

“But if it helps,” he added, smirk returning, “my gut still says that one.”

The afternoon dragged on, the office quieter now except for the steady tapping of keyboards and the occasional shuffle of papers. You were halfway through organising the shipment reports when someone set another coffee down beside your elbow.

You didn’t even have to look up this time. “Kennedy,” you said flatly.

“I’m impressed,” he said sounding amused as he leaned one hip against your desk. 

“Didn’t even turn around and you already knew it was me.”

You finally looked up at him, eyeing the coffee. “You keep bringing me these like you’re trying to bribe me into liking you.”

Leon raised an eyebrow. “Trying?” he said, feigning surprise. “I thought that part was already going pretty well.”

You stared at him for a second. “Your confidence is concerning.”

“Confidence?” he repeated, crossing his arms casually. “No, that’s observation.” His gaze dropped briefly to the report you were holding before returning to your face. “You don’t roll your eyes nearly as much when I’m around anymore.”

“That’s because I’ve accepted you’re not going away.”

Leon grinned at that. “Exactly.”

You took a sip of your water just to hide the small smile threatening to show, but he clearly caught it anyway. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just a bit.

“You know,” he said, “most partners I’ve had try to avoid me once the mission’s over.”

You tilted your head. “Maybe they had better instincts.”

“Or,” Leon replied smoothly, “maybe they just weren’t as interesting to work with.”

The words hung there for a second.

You set the coffee down slowly. “You calling me interesting now?”

Leon didn’t look away. If anything, he leaned a little closer across the desk.

“I’ve been calling you interesting for weeks,” he said. “You’re just finally noticing.”

You blinked once, clearly not expecting him to be that direct.

He straightened again like he hadn’t just said something bold in the middle of the office, but the smirk on his face gave him away.

“Don’t worry,” he added casually. “I’m pacing myself.”

Your eyebrow lifted. “Pacing yourself for what?”

Leon pushed himself off the desk, starting to walk backward toward the hallway.

“For the day you finally admit you like working with me.”

And then he flashed that annoying, confident grin, before he begun to walk off. 

You called out “You know I don’t even like coffee??” 

Over the next few weeks the routine at the office barely changed—missions, reports, late nights under harsh fluorescent lights. The only thing that slowly shifted was the dynamic between you and Leon S. Kennedy. The flirting never really stopped; if anything, it became easier. More natural. At some point it wasn’t just teasing in passing anymore—he’d stop by your desk just to talk, lean against the doorframe during briefings, find excuses to work through reports with you instead of alone.

The one thing that did stay consistent was the shitty office coffee.

Leon kept bringing it to your desk every morning like clockwork, setting it down with that same smug little smirk like he was doing you a favour. And every morning you pushed it back toward him.

“Still don’t like coffee,” you said one day as he started walking away.

Leon paused mid-step.

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. “I’ve told you that, like, five times now.”

He turned around slowly, looking at the cup like it had personally betrayed him. Then he glanced back at you, squinting slightly. “You’re serious.”

“I hate it.”

There was a short pause.

“Well,” Leon muttered, grabbing the cup back off your desk, “that explains a lot.”

After that the coffee stopped showing up. A few days later he started dropping other things on your desk instead—water bottles, iced tea, sometimes a random snack from the vending machine. He never made a big deal about it, but you noticed.

A few hours later, Leon dropped by your desk… again.

“Your still here?” he asked.

“Your still here,” you replied.

Leon shrugged lightly, glancing around the mostly empty office. “Yeah, well… someone’s got to keep an eye on you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Right.”

He shifted his weight slightly, which immediately caught your attention. Leon didn’t usually look unsure about anything.

He rubbed the back of his neck briefly before speaking again. “So… there’s a diner a couple blocks from here that’s still open.”

You waited.

“And before you say anything,” he added quickly, pointing a finger at you, “they don’t serve coffee. Or at least you don’t have to order it.”

That earned the smallest smile from you.

Leon noticed it immediately.

He exhaled slowly, like he’d just committed to something. “What I’m saying is… maybe you could come with me.” His eyes met yours, a little more serious now. 

“Not for a mission. Just… dinner.”

The office was quiet around you.

Leon gave a small shrug, trying to play it casual even though the tension was obvious.

“So,” he said, “what do you think?”

You studied him for a second, leaning back slightly in your chair. Leon was trying very hard to look casual—hands still in his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed—but you could tell he was waiting for your answer a little more carefully than he wanted to admit.

“You’re asking me out,” you said plainly.

Across the desk, Leon exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Wow,” he muttered. “You make it sound way more intimidating when you say it like that.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

Leon shifted his weight, but he didn’t backtrack. If anything, he looked more certain now. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’m asking you out.” Then he added, a little more lightly, “Figured I’d try doing it the normal way for once.”

You tapped your pen lightly against the desk, pretending to think it over longer than you needed to.

Leon caught that immediately. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” you admitted.

He huffed out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You know, most people don’t make a guy wait this long after he works up the nerve to ask.”

Your lips curved slightly. “Kennedy, you’ve been flirting with me in this office for two months.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding once. “And look where that got me.” His eyes flicked toward the hallway. “Standing here awkwardly waiting for an answer.”

The small smile on your face finally widened just a little. “Alright,” you said, pushing your chair back and standing up.

Leon blinked once, clearly not expecting you to stand up immediately.

“You coming,” you added, grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair, “or were you planning to keep hovering around my desk all night?”For a second he just watched you, then that familiar confident grin slowly spread across his face.

“See,” he said, falling into step beside you as you walked toward the elevator, “I knew you liked working with me.”

"Because that's mine." You muttered in amusement. Pointedly looking down at your side of the center console where an empty space was now sitting in the cup holders. The empty one being on your side.

"Makes sense." He said, carefully placing your drink back into the holder before picking up the correct cup. "I thought I could feel my teeth rotting inside my skull."

"It is not that sweet." You said defensively. You took your coffee and cradled it between your hands, nursing the taste on your tongue. "But now its got your cooties on it. Thanks."

That got a chuckle out of the operative. A low, breathy laugh that carved its way out around the edge of the cup against his lips. The correct coffee, now in his hand. He didn't have a reply to that comment, though. He just kept his eyes on the building across the road. An old four story apartment building with high chain-link fences and overgrown lawns. "Still nothing. I'm starting to think Sherry sent us on a wild goose chase."

"Meaning you dragged me out of my cozy little office for nothing." You sighed dramatically. Settling deep into the leather seat while looking out of the rain splattered window towards the eerily dark building. Not a single shadow stirred within that structure. Leon had explained that it was an abandoned building - something about the owner going bankrupt and the bank now owned it but did nothing with it other than condemn it due to structure wear and tear. It has been about thirteen hours since Leon asked for your assistance on a case. Thirteen hours of sitting in a car watching the same dreary old building do nothing but creak.

"I got you coffee." Leon replied. Leaning his arms on the steering wheel, stretching his back with a soft groan and a crack of his spine. "Doesn't that make up for an uneventful outing?"

"You drank half of it." You complained. "I could be at home, right now. Sleeping. Do you know what that is, Leon? Sleeping?"

"I've heard of it." The corner of his mouth twitched with a smile. "Can't say I've partaken much, though."

It was your turn to smile, shaking your head as you turned your attention back to the building. A comfortable silence stretched between you two. It was rare these days for you to be in Leon's presence for this long. Since you took up a job behind a desk, you've had little exposure to the old field work you use to do. Some part of you missed it. But you were still deciding if that was because you had little to no time for your friends anymore or you missed the adrenaline rush of the job.

"So…how imperative is it that we're not seen by whoever you're stalking?" You asked.

"We're not going inside." Was his reply and you sighed heavily.

"I wasn't saying we should." You countered.

"I know how your brain works." Leon jabbed back, flicking you a quick side-eye with a twinkle of amusement behind the exhaustion in his eyes. "Being seen might lead to some later inconveniences. We're just here to observe and report. That's all."

"And you need a second person to watch a dusty old building?" You asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No. But I didn't think I needed a reason to spend time with an old friend." Leon's words struck something in your chest. You looked at him in surprise and found him resting his chin on the steering wheel. Suddenly very fixated on the building

You let the words hang in the air for a second longer before smiling. "Aww, do you miss me that much?"

He scoffed lightheartedly. A strand of hair catching in the rush of hot air as he collapsed back against the seat. "You know what, never-mind."

"No, no. You said it, so you have to own it." You laughed, nudging his elbow playfully. "I didn't think my shift to the desk would inconvenience you that much. It's not like I moved across states."

"You might as well have." Leon muttered softly and it took you a moment to realize that there was some genuine emotion underneath the smile he shot you. "I understand the move. And I don't blame you for it… but I do miss having a second."

Oh, well, if you ever questioned your job at the desk - you definitely did now. You didn't give it much thought when you asked for a transfer to a more safer occupation within the BSAA. You weren't entirely taken out of the field but your priorities now strayed with consults and reports. Distributing information to teams or operatives - rather than being the person asking for it. Leon had been supportive in your shift. Even going as far as nudging you towards Sherry's department. Not to become a handler but someone who overlooked their resources. Now you understood why he had been so pushy then. It was his way of keeping you close.

"Leon, I'm still here. I didn't bat an eye when you came to me and asked to accompany you out here." You reminded him. "If you ever need back-up, I'm here. You know that, right?"

His smile dimmed. Just a little. "I know." Two words that held so much emotion. You reached over and took his hand from the steering wheel, gently unwinding the hard grip he had on the leather cover. His fingers curled around yours - blisteringly hot against your skin. With the infection coursing through his veins, it felt like he was always on the verge of heat-stroke.

"I want you to promise me you'll call if you need help." You squeezed his hand, staring at him until his eyes flicked from the building to you. Catching the intensity of your gaze for a second before bouncing away. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Leon!"

"You got out." The tone was quiet and soft, not accusing or criticizing. But reverent. "You're safe. Finally able to live your life how you want. I'm not going to drag you back into this because of a little cough."

You didn't know what to address first. You wanted to grab Leon by the shoulders and shake him. To scream at him. Something to convey just how angry, how frustrated, you felt in this moment. "You seriously think I would ever forgive you if you didn't call for me when you needed me?" You asked. Leon tried to remove his hand from yours, but you held on tight. Tugging him back between your fingers. "A little cough? Leon, you are fighting for your life every day. And after all we've been through together, you think I would abandon you because I can go home every afternoon? You and Sherry have me in your corner. No matter what. Got it?"

Leon tried to look at you, to argue against what you were trying to get him to promise. But one second captured in your sincere gaze shattered any constructed argument he had. He swallowed hard. A hitch trying to catch in his throat. "Can't a man try to keep his friend safe a little longer? Let me be selfish for a little bit."

You scoffed. Giving his hand one final squeeze before letting him go. "No. You're not allowed to be selfish." You gave him a look, hard and accusing. "And if you don't promise me you'll call when you need me, I'll return to field work again."

Leon's eyes widened, snapping back to you from the building. "What?! No, you can't-"

"I'm sure the BSAA would love me back on the ground." You said with a smirk. "And then you and I can spend a lot more time together. I'm sure if I ask to be assigned as your partner, in exchange for the job swap - they'll give it to me."

Leon's glare was playful. Exasperated, but nonetheless amused. "I don't think I've ever been threatened with a partnership before." He chuckled. A long moment passed before he sighed and nodded. Shooting you a small smile. "Alright. I promise. If I need rescuing, you'll be the first I'll call."

You nodded in return. Content that Leon was a man of his word enough that a contract in blood wasn't needed. You settled back into your chair, looking out over the building as a car roared past. Flashing the interior of Leon's vehicle in white. You let a few minutes pass before asking. "So, are we storming the apartment or what?"

He knows it when a zombie pummels into him from the level above, gnashing teeth desperate for a taste of him.

“Fuck,” he rasps out, “you.” He takes out his gun, points it into the zombie’s stomach and shoots, but not before decaying teeth plunge into his shoulder, right where the virus’s black spider webs gather. His vision turns white with the agony of it, a million searing sparks exploding under his skin like the shrapnel of a grenade. The zombie falls, blocks his way over the next step. His breath is shallow and jagged as he kicks it aside, drags himself up another step, another. 

His knees buckle all at once. His body has stopped obeying his commands, and he’s angry, he’s devastated, he doesn’t want to die. He wants to come home to you. He crawls, but he’s losing too much blood and he’s choking on it again and the flashing lights above are disorienting him until he can’t remember whether he was supposed to be going downstairs or up. 

“Sherry,” he rasps.

Her voice is panicked as she says, “How bad is it? What can I do?”

“Need you to get her.” He doesn’t need to specify who he means. “Need to hear her voice.”

“Leon—“

“Get her,” he begs. He’s still alive enough that it sounds like an order. 

He’s hears a muffled sob from Sherry, but he can’t focus on it as he slumps against the nearest wall. Trying to catch his breath, rest his eyes for a sec, he convinces himself, but he knows it’s a lie. He won’t move from this spot now and can no longer think of a reason why he should try. 

Until he hears you whisper his name. “Leon?”

“Hey, you.” Somehow, his facial muscles still remember how to smile. A moment of clarity comes back to him.  He can’t die here. He needs to come home to you. He tries to stand up but finds his legs rooted to the floor. He can’t fucking move, and he’s never been so angry, so helpless. 

“Where are you? What’s happening?”

“Oh, you know. The usual.” It shouldn’t hurt this much, he thinks as a jolt of pain tears through him. It comes out in another mangled grunt. “Listen, think I’m gonna be home late. Don’t… Don’t wait up, yeah?”

“Leon…” He imagines you hovering over the radio, lip trembling, no tears because you’re stronger than he is, braver. It’s what gives him the comfort to finally give in. To let his body turn boneless.

“Don’t do this,” you beg. It kills him, but it isn’t enough to bring him back to life now. “Tell me where you are. We can get to you—“

“No. You don’t come here. Not ever again.” Raccoon City, he’s found, still has its jaws wide open, and he was the idiot who fell right into them. He doesn’t want to think of you here, in this maw of death and sickness and evil. 

It’s time to give up on the hopes of saving it. 

“You’re not doing this. You’re not allowed to fucking die like this.” Anger colours your voice. He feels it like another wound opening up in him. He’s let you down, and he hates himself for it. “You told me you’d come home!” You’re screaming now.

He winces. Tries to stand, for you. Manages to shuffle on his knees to the next step before his vision wavers again. 

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. He sits back, tugs off his glove. Grabs his wedding ring from his pocket with clumsy fingers. He doesn’t have the energy to slip it on, so he lets the metal soothe his burning palm instead. Imagines it’s your hand, even though it’s too cold and small and determined to slip out of his hands. “I swear to god, I tried.”

Your breaths are like static in his ear. He tries to imagine he’s lying beside you instead of villages, towns, cities away. 

And maybe he’s wrong, maybe you are crying this time, because you let out a sob that shatters him into pieces. “Please,” you whisper.

“I love you.” It’s his last chance to say it, so he repeats it. “I love you. Sell the house and the car. Get yourself…” A groan as fire rushes through him. “Get yourself that lake house you always wanted—"

“No—"

“With the garden. And the dogs. Get more of ‘em. Hell, get yourself a whole house of ‘em—“

“No!” you’re shouting. “Stop it!”

“Sweetheart,” he pleads. “Need you to say you will. Need to know you’ll be okay.”

“I won’t. I won’t be okay, Leon. I need you!”

“No. No you don’t.” His brows pinch. His eyes are closed, though he can’t remember how or when it happened. “You’re strong. You’re my strong girl. I won’t ask you to stop fighting this shit, because I know you never will.”

All he can hear is your cries. He wonders if he should have died alone, without you. This isn’t what he wants to hear in his last moments. He wants your forgiveness, wants you to say you love him, wants you to promise you’ll live a better life than the one this fucked up world gave you both.

His coughs are wet, body suddenly weightless. His time is up. 

You must sense it, the way you always do, because finally, you say, “I love you so much. I’m right here, okay?”

He mouths an, “Okay,” he isn’t sure you’ll hear. Finds, by some miracle, a stillness inside of him that makes him think maybe there’s something waiting for him on the other side. 

“Keep talking to me, baby,” you beg. “Tell me you’re still here.”

He tries, a series of guttural sounds falling from his throat. Another peal of coughs rattle through him. He can’t control them this time, nor the blood spewing from his mouth, dripping down his shirt. You’re saying his name. It means nothing to him anymore, but he holds onto it as best he can as cold seeps through his limbs. 

The coughs ebb all at once. And then, a silence that you can’t fill, broken only by the clatter of the wedding ring as it falls from his grip. 

“Leon,” you beg. 

There is no reply. 

It’s been a long time since you last spoke to Leon Kennedy. 

Your relationship didn’t end on the best of terms; you know that now, with the benefit of years of hindsight and personal growth and a lot of therapy. You don’t think of it that often- your job keeps you too busy for too much introspection- but you know you were hurt, and you know you hurt him. He hadn’t done anything to deserve you walking out on a random evening and never returning. The guilt, though buried deep, is there, nestled between your ribcage and your heart. You were cruel, you were unfair to him. You’re ready to admit to that, and to the mistakes you made. 

But you’ve moved on. There’s nothing you can do to undo what you said, what you did. By the time you’d healed enough to accept and acknowledge what you’d done, years had passed and his number had long been deleted from your phone. 

The helicopter you’re in jerks, abruptly cutting you off from your thought process. You start, grabbing onto the straps holding you down into your seat. Outside the window, there’s nothing but desolate grey- a city razed off the map thirty years ago. Though you’d never been by the time Raccoon City fell, you’d seen it all happen on the TV; later, after you joined the BSAA, you’d watched repeated missions there. And, of course, you’d heard Leon talk about it. The way his voice hitched at times when answering your questions would forever remain stuck in your head- the sadness that lingered in the blue of his eyes, the twitch in his fingers. 

“First time here?” 

You turn. A member of your team, dressed in the same BSAA gear as you are, sits across from you with his arms crossed. He’s meant to be running this operation. 

“Yeah,” you answer. “Didn’t expect it to be so…” you gesture vaguely, and he chuckles. 

“I know the feeling. Just keep your head on, follow my lead, and we’ll be out before you have time to say raccoon. No sight-seeing.” 

You nod, gnaw on your lower lip. You’re an experienced field agent by now; you can more than handle yourself. Something about this city unsettles you, though. You grip your gun a little tighter as the helicopter lands in an old BSAA camp. 

The city is eerily quiet. Your team leader, the man who’d spoken to you a moment ago (Belmore, you learn his name is) is in front, boots kicking up dust. There’s only four of you- the BSAA felt the smaller the op, the easier. 

You can’t help but think of Leon as you walk down the desolate street. You wonder if he’d recognise the shop you walk past, how much of this shadow of his home still holds familiarity. When you were both young and in love, when you’d thought you might marry him one day, you’d always wanted to take him to your childhood home, point out all the places you’d known and loved. Raccoon wasn’t that to him, but you think it might be the closest he ever had to home. 

“Seems quiet,” Bogomolova, one of your team members, murmurs to Belmore. 

“Oh, you’ve jinxed it!” Another, Tucker, exclaims. You all have a moment to chuckle before the ground begins to shake. 

“You’ve got to be shitting-“

All at once, the world seems to collapse around you. You’re projected back by a gigantic hairy leg, the wind knocked out of you as your back slams into the crumbling wall of a shop. You cry out. You can’t quite comprehend what you’re seeing- a gigantic spider, bigger than your whole team combined, tearing Tucker apart. Bogomolova and Belmore are running into a building opposite where you kneel, gasping for air. 

“Fuck,” you manage through gritted teeth, pulling yourself to your feet. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Your lungs burn with every shaky step you take away from the monster. It doesn’t seem to have noticed you yet, but you’re sure it’ll come anytime now. 

Just as it turns, beady eyes latching onto you, you duck through a doorway and painstakingly push the door shut. It won’t do much, but you’re under cover now. 

You don’t pause to see where you are. You stumble on, trying to catch your breath. There’s a back door- you kick that open and make your way down an unfamiliar alleyway. Everything is tinged with sepia; there’s something about Raccoon City that feels like an illusion, more of a dream than reality. 

For a moment, you think you might be safe. You collapse, breathing heavily, on a fire escape. The pain in your chest has only subsided ever so slightly, but your head has stopped spinning. None of your ribs feel broken, though you can’t be sure.

“Motherfucker,” you mutter. There’s no time to rest, yet all you want to do is lie down and close your eyes. Not even five minutes into this mission, and you’re already spent. 

Somewhere close- too close for your liking- you hear it again. The spider, screeching, followed by multiple crashes and a sound like a building collapsing. You spring to your feet and grab your knife (you dropped your gun when the fucker smacked you). 

You should run in the opposite direction, you think. You should just turn around and go, to the extraction point, or follow the direction your remaining team members went. 

Or you could follow the spider. 

“Stupid,” you mutter as you start to jog. “Stupid, stupid, idiot, fucking idiot.” It could be chasing your team members- if you learned that they’d died because you failed to find them, you’d blame yourself forever. “Stupid,” you manage one last time. 

You follow piles of debris, walls that have clearly been smashed through by something big. You fight off smaller white spiders, killing each one with muttered curses and exclamations of disgust. 

Finally, though, you find it. An apartment building has collapsed into itself, creating what almost looks like an arena. You stand precariously on a ledge overlooking the whole thing; and below you, you can see the fat fuck itself. An enormous spider, with glittering eyes and screeches that leave your ears ringing. It’s fighting someone- not one of your team members, they’re not wearing the BSAA’s tactical gear. 

“What the fuck am I doing?” You mutter to yourself. You tighten your grip on your knife and take a deep breath. Before you have time to rethink it, you jump. It’s not far down; you land on the spider’s hairy back, and instantly sink your knife into it. Your feet begin to slip and the spider screams, rearing upwards. You cling on to the knife, kick it in the side. Once you’ve found purchase once more, you pull out the knife, then stab it down, again and again and again. Somewhere to your left, gunshots echo around the small space. 

Finally, the spider lets out one last deathly screech and collapses. 

You pull out the knife, breathing heavily, and let yourself slide down onto the dusty floor. Gooey blood coats your hands, staining your clothes. You spit onto the ground and slump against a wall. 

“I missed that Raccoon City hospitality,” the other says. 

You freeze. 

You know that voice. You know that tendency towards stupid jokes. 

You spin. Your eyes meet his, and once again, the wind is knocked out of you- though this time, for entirely different reasons. 

Leon Kennedy stands before you, breathing heavily, an axe held in one hand. His hair is darker, streaked through with white. His eyes are tired, lined with years of fighting. His face is sharper, his shoulders wider. But there’s no denying it- it’s him. 

“Oh my God,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Leon?”

His gaze drags over you. He recognises you too- you can tell by the way his eyebrows furrow ever so slightly, the twitch in his fingers as he puts away the axe. There’s no anger in those blue eyes, though you worry that you can no longer read him the way you used to. 

He says your name, once, slow. His voice has changed, too. It’s deeper, a little harsher in places, but it softens the way it always did when he talked to you. It makes your heart seize. 

“You look… different.” You blink, push away the thousand thoughts crowding your mind. “What- what are you doing here?” You’re starting to feel like maybe the years of therapy didn’t do all that much- maybe it was being away from him that made you change. Your heart hammers in your chest, just like it did all those years ago (though there’s an edge to it now, a razor blade of guilt that grazes your lungs). 

As soon as the words leave your lips, you notice it. What you had initially thought was just age making his movements less fluid is something else- a rot creeping past the collar of his shirt, up his arm. 

“Are you okay?” Recklessly, you step forward. You stop an inch short of his arm, fingers outstretched, and pull your hand back, swallowing the acid rising in your throat. 

You’d heard of the deaths; the Raccoon City survivors found covered in sickness, six of them so far. You’d just hoped it was a coincidence. 

And, even if you’d worried about Leon, you didn’t have his number. 

“It’s nothing,” he says, hurriedly. You recognise that too, the desperate desire to keep you from worrying. 

“Bullshit.” A pause. “Leon, what are you doing here?” 

He hesitates. You used to tell each other everything, but now, his gaze catches on the BSAA patch on your sleeve. You wonder, briefly, if he doesn’t trust you anymore. You wouldn’t blame him. 

“I’m looking for an FBI agent,” he says. “Her name is Grace Ashcroft.” In quick, succinct terms, he tells you where he’s been, what’s been happening in the last twenty-four hours. You listen, nodding along. For just a moment, it feels like nothing’s changed. You can almost ignore the awkwardness that hangs between the two of you, thick enough to cut with a knife. 

“Why are you here?” He asks. He indicates your gear. “Didn’t know the BSAA was getting involved.” 

“This was meant to be a recon mission,” you say, “just four of us. There’s some old BSAA camps here. We thought there might be answers to the deaths.” 

Leon nods. He doesn’t say anything, though; the silence stretches, thick and loaded, between the two of you. 

“How’ve you been?” He says, after what feels like hours, with a little smile that pulls somewhere deep in your chest. You bark out a laugh. 

“I’ve been… okay,” you say. “You?’ 

“Okay, yeah. Okay.” 

Oh god. What are you getting yourself into? 

“There’s a detonator,” you add, to break the awful silence. “If we find the parts, we can set it off, get through that gate and find your girl.” 

His eyebrow quirks, ever so slightly. God, isn’t it all too familiar? It’s like nothing changed, if you close your eyes. 

“We?” 

You nod- you’re doing an awful lot of that. “I’ll help.” You swallow. “It’s the least I can do.” 

For a moment, he looks torn. But you don’t have time to dive into the nuances of the conversation you just had; you don’t have time for do you regret its and what ifs. He knows you’re capable, and more importantly, he knows he needs your help. 

So he accepts.  

Working with Leon is surprisingly easy. Though neither of you will say it, it’s nice to have company in this ghost of a city- especially when pale zombies start clawing their way out of the ground. Leon offers you his gun, and gratefully, you take it, trying to ignore your fingers brushing his gloved ones and the way your heart jumps. As time passes, though, the silence between you gets heavier- more loaded, full of words that you’re both thinking but that neither of you will say. You wonder if you’re imagining the way he keeps reaching for you, fingers hovering inches from your back whenever you have to climb over something. You both know there’s a line there; what you don’t know is if it will be crossed, and if it is, who will be the one to do so. 

“So,” you say to break the silence as you wander through the sewers. “This Grace. Is she… are you…” 

It’s an awkward question to ask, but one that’s been weighing on you nonetheless. Though you don’t know why- you’re over him. 

“Oh, no. She got involved in this bullshit because this Victor Gideon thinks she’s important, somehow.” There’s more there; guilt, an extra weight to his words. 

“So you’re…” single? For fuck’s sake, you sound depraved. But you’re over him, so there’s no hidden intention behind the question, right? 

“Yeah.” 

You stumble over a piece of fallen debris and mutter a quick apology. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking joking me.” 

You’d been reluctant already when Leon had mentioned that you’d have to go through a building half collapsed across a yawning hole in the ground. Now, standing on a ledge with nothing but glass between you and death, you’re regretting every life choice that lead you here. 

“It’s okay,” he says to you, his voice soft. “I’ll hold onto you. If we move slowly, we won’t fall.” 

Slowly, you begin to inch forwards. You can take this slowly, and that’s damn well the plan. There’s no nice way to die in your line of work, but you think plummeting to your death is one of the worse ones. 

Suddenly, the floor (wall?) beneath your feet begins to crumble. You let out a shriek as it gives way. Behind you, you hear Leon curse. He pushes off, and you’re both falling. He grabs onto you just as you both hit the glass. For a moment, you lie there, panting; maybe you’ll be okay, maybe this glass is stronger- 

It begins to splinter beneath you. Leon swears again and rolls onto the next sheet of glass; you, however, don’t have time to follow. 

You scream as it shatters beneath you. 

You scrabble blindly. Leon catches your wrist, grunting; briefly, you are suspended like that, feet swinging wildly in nothingness. You reach up, digging your nails into his arm for purchase. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls you up, letting out a groan as he hauls you the last bit. You land flat on top of him, his hand instantly landing on your back. Your heart thumps wildly as you let out a long sigh of relief into his shoulder. 

“You’re safe,” he breathes. Only then do you realise in what position you’re in- the closeness, his heartbeat matching yours. 

You let out a hurried apology and scramble to your feet. 

After that, the tension is thicker than one of the spider’s legs. You don’t exchange a single word with him until you get the detonator part, at which point you both have to faff around for a few minutes trying to put it back together. When your hand brushes his forearm, both of you twitch as if shocked by lightning. 

The walk back to the detonator is far less eventful than the journey to find the parts. Leon stays close by, hand hovering by your back once again before every jump, every drop. 

You get unlucky on the last drop. You must have landed wrong; your ankle twists, something cracks, and pain shoots up your leg. You stumble instantly to your knees, letting out an exclamation of pain and surprise. 

Instantly, Leon is by your side. His hand lands between your shoulder blades and carefully he helps you into a sitting position; his other hand goes to hover over your legs. 

“Left one,” you hiss through gritted teeth. “Ah, motherfuck.”

“Does it hurt?” He asks. He doesn’t quite touch you, but you can picture the warmth of his skin, the softness of his touch, as if you had last felt it yesterday. 

“Yeah.” You swallow. “But I can still walk, I can- I can come.” 

“No, you can’t.” He says it with a hardness you had only heard rarely when you two were together- a tone he only used when he was blaming himself for something, when he wanted desperately to protect you. 

“I’m fine, Leon-“

“You’re staying right here.” He’s already pulling the strap of his shotgun over his head, pressing it into your hands before reaching to his belt for ammo. 

“I don’t need to. C’mon, I’m fine!” Something akin to anger flares up in your chest. “I can take care of myself, you know? I don’t need you- babying me over a bruised ankle!” 

“You’re not fine!” His eyes meet yours, blazing with something unreadable. “You’re hurt, and you’re staying here.” 

You scoff. “You know, you haven’t changed one bit.” 

He doesn’t answer. Instantly, you know you’ve fucked up- let your mouth get ahead of your heart, and hurt someone you loved (love). 

“I’m sorry,” you say. He doesn’t look at you, though his hand stays resting on your knee. “I’m sorry, Leon, shouldn’t have said that. I just…” you trail off. Grace is in danger- is this really the time to be spilling your guts? You’re not dying, you’ve still got time to talk to him after. 

But I don’t have his number anymore, you think, and it’s the voice of a much younger version of yourself that whispers it from the recesses of your mind. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice drops, quieter, more vulnerable. “I am, Leon. I’m sorry I hurt you. I…” you shrug, gesture uselessly with your hands. He’s looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time, eyes wide, throat bobbing ever so slightly as he swallows. 

“We can talk about this later. But I… I don’t have your number.” You dig your teeth into your lower lip, gnaw on the torn skin there. 

He nods. 

“We’ll talk,” he says. He squeezes your knee. “I promise.” 

“You promise?” 

You’re getting sick of these long silences. He tips his head down, touching his forehead to yours. You close your eyes, just for a moment. Like nothing ever changed. 

Only a few minutes after he’s set off the detonator and rode through on a stolen BSAA motorbike (not really stolen, you provided the key to the container), Bogomolova and Belmore find you. They’re scratched up, but they’re alive, desperately relieved to find you in one piece. They haul you to the extraction point; you’re careful not to put pressure on your ankle. When they try to take Leon’s shotgun from you, you protest, holding it close to your chest. Neither of them understand, but they leave you be, preoccupied with new intel from an agent (Sherry something?). Belmore puts your ankle in a splint, and Bogomolova gives you the pack that holds the change of clothes you bring everywhere with you. A frayed sweater that you’ve had for longer than you can remember, a BSAA issued pair of sweatpants. You insist that they take you to the ARK- though the name is unfamiliar, you can almost guarantee Leon will be there. 

You’re right. 

The BSAA pulls him out of the crumbling lab with a younger woman- Grace, you imagine. He’s beaten up, bloody, but the rot eating away his skin is gone, and he stands up straighter. 

The relief almost chokes you. You pull yourself to your feet and limp over, ignoring Belmore’s concerned exclamations. Leon spots you, and his eyes light up. He touches Grace’s shoulder, says something to her that she nods absentmindedly to, and then he’s walking towards you. He catches you halfway, as you pull him into a hug. You don’t think about it, you just let the relief overflow, pressing your face to the crook of his neck. 

“You’re safe,” you whisper, and you realise you’re crying. 

“I promised,” he answers. His arms are tight around your waist, mouth pressed against your temple. 

You pull away and reach up, brushing your fingertips over his cheekbone. Nothing has changed but everything has changed; he still looks at you the same way, though, and that’s the only thing you care about as you nudge your nose against his, grinning despite the tears that cloud your vision. He catches your hand in his and presses a kiss, feather-light, to your palm. 

“I’ll give you my number,” he murmurs into your skin. You’re nodding, snivelling. “I’ll call you. I’ll buy you a drink.” You laugh tearfully. 

“I’d like that. I’d like that.” 

You have a lot to apologise for, still- a lot of guilt that you think may never leave you. But this, here, is all that matters to you right now. 

“I’d kiss you, but…” he glances around. He’s probably referring to the blood he’s coughed up that still flecks his lips, or the seventy bioweapons he’s probably inhaled.