#resi(

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.