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This is how Leon finds you.
Barefoot, in a white linen dress, stained red like the rest of Santorini.
Tucked against the wall of a small alcove, your crouched figure is only barely hidden by creeping shadows and bougainvillea. A rusty metal rod is gripped tight to your chest, your only lifeline in this hellhole.
A survivor.
His feet are already moving to close the distance; this is a drill his body knows well.
He's done it once, twice, and a hundred times over— this time is no different.
Keep them safe.
Get them out.
Complete the mission.
(His order of operations.
A set of fundamental truths to live by.)
The few infected stragglers in the area go down with one, two suppressed shots from his gun. It's not quiet enough to keep you from noticing. When he turns back towards your little corner of safety, he finds you staring right back at him, eyes wide like you're not sure whether to stay still or run.
Slow, he tells himself. Don't scare them off.
Reholstering his gun, he raises both hands and starts to approach you. Deliberately, patiently.
He's about ten feet away from you when he drops down on one knee, dipping his chin in an effort to look smaller and less... him.
It's easier to make out your features now that he's closer.
You're young— younger than him, at least. Hair clings to a face still unfettered by age. The exposed skin on your body looks unmarred. Soft, manicured hands that look out of place wrapped around the rusty iron.
Undoubtedly civilian.
You're still watching him like a frightened animal; brows furrowed and muscles stiff with tension.
A cat, he thinks.
That's what you remind him of. Can almost imagine the airplane ears and bristled fur.
"Hey," he offers softly. "Leon Kennedy. DSO."
There's no recognition in your eyes, and for a moment, he wonders if you can even understand him. He reaches up to his ear, about to call out to his comms when you ask—
"Are you here to help me?"
It's a quiet sound. Barely a whisper, fear laced in every word.
His hand drops back down, resting on a knee. Your question burns him, not from the words, but because of how vulnerable it sounds.
Like you want to trust him so badly.
He hasn't even done anything yet; hasn't even begun to earn any of what you're offering up.
Leon nods, keeping your gaze. Your shoulders droop, just a little.
"You okay? Hurt anywhere?"
Eyes flittering over you again, down to where blotches of red stain your dress.
You blink slowly, then look down at yourself as if trying to figure that out, too. He waits; the open silence soon punctuated with the shake of your head.
"Good," he pushes himself up with a grunt.
Slowly—you're still a bit jumpy—walking over and settling in front of you, he reaches out with a gloved hand.
"I'll get you out of here, okay?"
Eyes flicker from his face to his hand, back and forth, like you're still debating the pros and cons of running away. But eventually, one of your hands let go of the metal bar and slip into his.
Warmth.
Seeping through the wrinkled leather on his hands, it’s an unfamiliar thing when everything he touches is usually cold and gray. Almost disarming, almost dangerous.
The shadows on your face lift with the passing sun as he pulls you up from the ground. Behind you, a breeze catches fuschia branches. You give his hand the gentlest squeeze.
"Okay."
It's barely audible over the sound of rustling bougainvillea, but he hears you; sees the beginnings of something akin to hope piecing itself together in your eyes.
And for Leon—
(Somewhere, someplace in the back of his mind, cementing into place.
A timer beginning its countdown once again.)
—that's all he needs.
Fira is quiet as Leon guides you into town from the outskirts.
It's nearly noon, but the town feels stuck in a sleepy morning that never woke up.
Wouldn't think it to be an outbreak site if it weren't for the sheer amount of blood.
Whitewashed buildings he's seen in pictures are drenched in blood like a bad paint job. The overwhelming scent of iron is unpleasant mixed with the salty ocean breeze.
You don't comment on it, but he sees the way you wince and turn at the sight. Notices how your hands fist the fabric of your ruined dress. Almost like you're trying to curl in on yourself to get away from it all.
It's not just the blood.
Bodies litter the streets— some more undead than others. He doesn't let them get near, pushing you behind him whenever he spots an infected. Favors his firearms over close combat because he can't risk leaving you at a distance. Tries his best to shield you from the worst of it.
Still, they're everywhere.
On the ground, slumped over balconies.
Scattered over the cliffsides where land meets sea.
The easier way to go, he concedes. His boots squelch in a puddle of blood. He glances down, frowning.
"Glad I'm not the one cleaning this up," he mutters.
Behind him, you let out a small amused breath—barely a huff. Leon looks towards you, mild surprise on his face.
You'd been relatively quiet, until now.
"...It would be a lot of mopping," you offer, eyes tilting down when you catch his expression. Sheepish.
(Your own feet are no longer bare, strapped to a pair of sandals he nicked from a souvenir shop further back. Not the most practical, but he couldn't just let you walk around in nothing.)
His lips quirk up, just a bit.
You're handling everything remarkably well.
Leon doesn't tell you this— knows not to.
Because he knows that this front, however strong, is a delicate thing. Vividly remembers how it felt to keep it up, to pretend it was all just another day—not out of naive optimism or any kind of rationality, but as a necessary part of surviving.
He doesn't know what you've seen or done to get this far. Won't ask you to relive it for him either.
You're resilient; that much is clear.
So he asks about other things instead.
Your name, where you're from— simple things. Mundane things. You answer honestly, in spite of the circumstances.
A grad student.
Art history, you tell him. Something about Ancient Minoans and pottery and wall paintings. It's nothing he understands— all mumbo-jumbo in his mind.
But the more he coaxes these things out of you, the more your nerves seem to stitch themselves back together. The more your eyes seem to brighten up. So he tries his best with it—asks you questions that probably seem a bit dumb, if only to keep your mind off all the blood and bodies you come across.
He offers you tiny things about himself, too.
Because maybe, you could come to trust him more if he felt like a real person.
He tells you about his motorcycle he keeps back home when you pass by a line of knocked-over mopeds. Talks about how hot it is in Greece, compared to the cold, rainy spring back in Washington.
You nod along; still tense, but you listen.
His mind stutters a little, the first time you show him a real smile.
He's in the middle of scoping out a closed-in streetpath covered with awnings when he hears a small clang. His gun whips out, steadily pointing at where it came from, behind some knocked over trash. He feels you against his back without him even asking—good. You're getting used to the drill.
Another clang, this time a little closer. He squints, not spotting any shadows or infected in the narrow alleys between the buildings. But then, something clutches at him— your hand. Tensing, he spares you a quick glance.
You're looking forward, eyes squinting, like you're seeing something he's somehow missed.
"What is it?" He asks, gaze turning back to the pathway.
Quiet, and then—
A cat.
Scurrying across the stone path, leaping onto a nearby half wall. It sits there, letting out a meow and licking a paw. The gun points back down, his shoulders relaxing as the tension alleviates.
"Oh."
He turns to you, just in time to see your lips curving up into a smile.
It's a sight so out of place in this hellhole, that it catches him off guard.
Pretty—
You look at him; it's the first time he's seeing something close to joy on your face.
"I've seen that cat around, I think." You point at it. He spares it a another glance. "It has a cut—on the left ear. I remember."
It does. A small notch cutting diagonally on its left ear.
"There's a lot of them on the island," you explain softly, eyes still on the cat. It stares back, slowly flicking its tail and and forth. "It was being bullied by some bigger ones. I felt bad for it, so I chased them away."
You let out a soft laugh. His eyes trace the movement of your lips.
"Well, that one ended up running away, too. Not sure if I actually helped."
The cat eventually jumps over the other side, and he continues where he left off, guiding you down the streetpath with a careful eye.
He doesn't think about how much prettier you look with a smile on your face. Ignores the echoes of your laugh in his mind.
Focus, Kennedy. Focus.
He forces himself to move on. To think about the mission instead.
He stares into the empty street.
(Something is strange.
From when he was dropped off at the port to now, there's been plenty of infected roaming the town— but something is off.
It doesn't seem like enough.
He's seen bigger outbreaks in less populated places. Seen hoards of infected civilians in places you wouldn't think had a population over a thousand.
The briefing said a sudden outbreak overnight— could it have been timing? Too many people asleep in their beds, not enough to infect outside? Were they all rounded up somewhere?
Whatever it is, he needs to figure it out soon.)
At the end of the path, one street flows into three more. A curved road leads up higher into the hillsides, while the other paths lead opposite ways. A quick consult to his GPS device shows him an emergency clinic on the upper path. The other roads leading to more residential buildings and shops.
He considers it.
Considers how the possibility of the outbreak originating from a health clinic isn't exactly zero.
Clinic it is.
Leon leads you up the little hill, before stopping at an open street. On the other side, sits the clinic.
It's a sight out of a horror movie.
Wooden planks hastily nailed against the windows and door, like someone had realized something horrible was happening outside. Some are shattered, chopped through like some last ditch effort to get out once they realized the bad thing was actually locked inside with them.
He approaches, flashing his light into the half-broken down doors.
You frown, pursing your lips as you glance back and forth between the building and him.
"Are we…going inside?"
He hums, peeking through the gaps of the boarded windows. "Clinic's a useful place to check in situations like this."
You don't answer. Leon pauses and looks at you.
Arms wrapped around yourself, shoulders hunched in, eyeing the building like it's going to suddenly move and eat you alive.
You're scared.
"Hey," he says, walking back to you and ghosting a hand over your shoulder. "I'm not going to make you go in with me if you don't want to."
He squeezes your shoulder, reassuring. "But you have to promise me to stay here until I come back, okay?"
You peek at him through your lashes, nodding gingerly. Bottom lip tucked under your teeth.
"Okay."
Okay.
He scans the area. Trash bins, parking lot, gated in. Space for you to hide yourself in. He could work with that.
There aren't many infected around when he leaves for a quick perimeter check. He doesn't need to guess to know most of them are probably boarded up in that clinic. The ones that are there, die with a bullet to the brain.
When he gets back to you, you're still rooted to the same spot.
You're obedient. He likes that about you.
He pulls you over, makes you huddle into the side of the building. Hidden from the open street, away from potential danger. Should be safe, he tells you, but he grabs his hatchet and gives it to you anyway. Because a hatchet is better than nothing. Peace of mind.
His hand finds your arm, giving you another gentle squeeze.
"I'll be quick," Leon says, firm. "Stay sharp, okay?"
A sinkhole opens up in your heart the moment Leon leaves.
It's quiet; too hot, with the midday sun glaring down on your bare shoulders.
Too much space for you to think.
Everything had been fine, before today.
You had been on vacation. A self-indulgent splurge shared with a few friends to visit one of your bucket-list destinations. It should've been a dream come true; a break from research, the endless papers, the tedious grading.
Yesterday's memories spring up— vaguely foggy. It had been a good day. Brunch, some sightseeing, a beautiful sunset in Imerovigli, dinner before your friends left to go to some fancy lotus-themed club while you stayed at the hotel to rest.
A slow day.
But at least it had been normal.
At least you hadn't left the hotel early to go find your friends, only to find the streets filled with undead instead. At least you weren't covered in someone else's blood.
At least you weren't toeing over bodies and guts, following a man decked head-to-toe with straps and ammo and other things you don't know the names of, wielding guns that blew through skulls like nothing— all because he said he'd get you out.
Don't talk to strangers, your mother had always warned.
Now look at you.
All dependent on a stranger you met several hours ago, a man who you know next to nothing about.
(A man who can somehow make you feel so safe.)
In a sudden moment of clarity, you feel naked— helpless, exposed to the elements. Regret seeps in. The idea of going into an enclosed, zombie-ridden place suddenly sounding more rational than ever.
You know Leon cleared the area for you before going in, but if some zombie decides to pop-up now, you're not sure you would survive again.
All the fight had drained from you the moment Leon stepped into your orbit. When he took up the responsibility of pushing you behind him and using himself as your shield. When he held your hand and told you he'd get you out.
You don't want to be alone, you realize—you want to go after him.
Shit, you'd probably follow him into a burning building, at this point.
The heavy mini axe he gave you isn't doing you any favors, isn't making you any less anxious as your eyes peel back and forth. Between the building, the darker shadows in the alleyways, behind you, even though your back is to a wall.
So, when the tell-tale groan of a zombie falls on your ears, you inevitably panic.
Whipping your head around, you spot it—a man with a solid chunk of his neck gone, staggering around the building. Your stomach drops, mind racing. Where did it come from?
It's not looking at you right?
It can't see you.
But you're scared, trembling. You take a small step back—a mistake.
Your foot kicks a piece of wood on the ground. It makes the smallest sound. Your breath catches when the man's head snaps towards you, bitten neck splurting blood.
It starts to run, faster than any of the other ones you've seen.
Oh, fuck—
You break into a sprint, past the building into the little parking lot on the side. Adjusting the grip on Leon's axe, you frantically look around for anything that could help you.
A few cars are still parked at the lot; the owners probably never left, you realize, bile threatening to come up.
An idea pops into your head.
You scurry around the front of a car, waiting on its passenger side. The infected man follows just like that, around the front.
Okay, okay, you tell yourself. This could work.
You reel around the trunk quickly, making a fast circle around the vehicle until you're right behind the man. It doesn't see you; too dead to have any sort of peripheral awareness.
And then, with all the power you can muster, you raise the axe and swing down, right into its head—crack!
It slumps, falling limp against the side of the car before dropping into itself on the ground. Axe sticking awkwardly out of its skull.
Dead.
Thump, thump—ears ringing, heart drumming. If it doesn't stop beating out of your chest, you might actually die.
The axe, you pant, breath quivering. Need the axe back.
You lean down and pull with shaky hands; the handle doesn't move.
One more time.
Nothing.
It's stuck. You put all your strength into it, even using your foot on the body as leverage to try and unwedge the blade from the bone, mentally blubbering out apologies to the person it used to be. But it doesn't budge.
Fuck.
Dread starts to pool in your stomach.
You can't stay here. Not without a weapon.
One step back becomes two, two becomes three, until you're running back towards the entrance and into the clinic.
Red. Everywhere. Even in the shadowy hallways, only dimly lit by streaks of sunlight, you can see it. The floors, the benches, the reception. Red.
You run past it all. A trail of bodies down the hall, your beacon.
You hear Leon before you find him.
The sound of bullets and furniture toppling over echoes out of a room further down the hallway. You make a beeline towards it—racing past more and more bodies, into the face of danger. When you get to the entrance, your heart jumps into your throat.
In the middle of it, Leon stands, fighting off a horde of the undead.
Five, you count. Toppling over beds and stray carts, lurching ever closer. Three go down easily with a spray of bullets; the other two approach slower. Leon backs up against a bed, prepping for a quick reload, when you see it—
A body, creeping out from beneath. Your eyes widen.
You can see it.
But he can't.
Fear rushes over you like a bucket of cold water. You shout.
"Leon—behind!"
Leon's gaze snaps to you instantly, but it's a second too late. A hand grasps at his boot, catching him off guard and breaking his balance. Somehow, he manages—ripping his leg out of its grip and sending his heel straight back into its face. He lifts his leg again before crushing its skull against the floor, blood and brain gushing everywhere.
But his balance is off.
He falls back onto the mattress with a grunt. The two infected are still darting at him, only barely missing him every time they grab at him. He grunts, rolling around to avoid them, gun still mid-reload.
Think, think, think!
A broken wooden plank on the floor catches your eye. It's splattered with yellow paint and sharp nails, leftover from the boarding. You leap at it, arms screaming at its unexpected load.
Come on, come on!
Turning back, you bolt towards the one of the infected, right as it launches itself onto Leon. With a cry, you slam the plank into the side of its head, nail side-up. It staggers with a groan, blood spewing from where the nails impale its flesh.
It's just enough of a distraction for Leon to kick the other one back, reload, and send a bullet into its skull. Just in time for him roll off the bed, put himself between you and the infected that's now lurching in your direction.
He shoots— two in the face, one more into its chest, when it drops onto the floor.
You pant, huffing deep breaths that leave your chest trembling.
Holy fuck.
You see Leon turning, feel him staring, but you ignore it. Legs weak from the sudden rush, you sway, stumbling back into a cart for some kind of support. Hiss the moment your hand leans on it, pulling back and shaking your wrist in pain.
Immediately, Leon's hovering over you. His own gloved hands gently prying your palms open to check for injuries.
"What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
Prickly pain radiates as he feels them for injuries.
Splinters, you realize. Some big, some small, embedded all over your palms and fingers. Already growing red where they pierce flesh. You let out a miserable groan, mumbling ugly curses at the plank.
"Not too bad," Leon mutters, still assessing the state of your hands. "We need to pick them out, though."
He nudges you over to a clean bed further away. You sit, still reeling from the physical whiplash. He drags over a nearby stool and discards his gloves. Takes out a small flashlight from his belt, tucking it between his neck and shoulders and shining the light over your palms.
You shiver at the heat of his breath against your skin.
"Hold still for me, sweetheart."
Oh, you blink, adrenaline struggling to settle. That's new.
He starts with the bigger visible pieces. Some are deeper, having been stabbed deep with how hard your grip had been on the plank. Each squeeze of his fingers send stinging shocks through your nerves. You wince, when red beads on the surface of your skin.
"Gonna need a tetanus shot after this," you mumble.
Leon raises his head for a second. His lips twitch up into a weak smile. Your heart misses its beat.
"Probably."
His fingers are careful as he picks the remaining wood out of your hands. Slowly, methodical. Checking up on you every time you twitch a little too hard, like he's afraid of hurting you.
You watch him. Really look at him.
Shaggy hair keeps falling into his sightline, unkempt like he can't be bothered to do anything with it. Stubble covers the bottom of his face; freckles and sunspots here and there, barely visible. Strikingly blue eyes.
It's a face you'd stop to look twice at, on some night out.
Handsome, you muse.
Leon pats your hand when he's done, tells you to touch something to see if there are any more stuck pieces. You do that, rubbing your fingers together as he swivels around and glances at the bodies littering the room.
You ask the question that's been sitting heavy on your tongue.
“Are these things," you pause, licking your lips as you force the word out, like you're tasting something for the very first time. He turns back to you. "Bioweapons?”
(You don't notice the way his eyes darken when your tongue peeks through.
The way his jaw tightens when your teeth sink nervously into the plush of your bottom lip.)
"Infected," Leon corrects. "Zombies, whatever you want to call them. Bioweapons are... different. Manufactured."
He tilts his head, assessing you. Like you're some mystery he's trying to solve.
"…Why did you come in?"
It's not an accusatory question. More curiosity than anything. You still—the earlier incident nearly forgotten.
"Uhm," you look away. "There was one. Outside."
He stiffens, looks you up and down again. Checking. Emerging guilt evident on his face. You interrupt him before he says anything.
"It's dead," you blurt. And then quieter. "I killed it."
It's the first time you say it out loud.
"With your axe-thing. But it got stuck, and I—I couldn't get it out," you explain hurriedly, vaguely gesturing to your head. "So I panicked and ran inside."
Leon doesn't say anything. It makes you uncomfortable.
Did you do something wrong?
"I'm sorry," he finally says.
You frown. "For what?"
His eyes furrow shut, brows creasing. "You could've—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. You don't need him to—the consequences that could've been are not lost on you.
Leon exhales, slow and controlled.
"I shouldn't have ever left you out there. That's my mistake. You shouldn't—." His hands tighten into fists. "…You shouldn't have had to do any of what you just did."
Oh.
You look down at your bloody hands. The pit in your stomach grows bigger.
"I already killed a few of them." You confess quietly, eyes trained the tiny cuts. "Before this. Before you found me. I think I did. I don't know. I had to, I—"
Had to.
You had to.
Because if you didn't, you would've become one of them. You would've died. And then you would've probably killed people.
You can't get it out of your head now that you've acknowledged it.
Hazy lifeless white eyes rimmed with blood; bared teeth and hands clawing at you. Bodies with chunks of flesh missing; bodies that shouldn't even be able to stand, running straight at you.
Your hands, gripping hastily-found iron, bashing into their bone, their bodies, the soft fleshy bits and all. Again and again and again, because all of a sudden, there was no difference between life and death anymore.
It's a reality you've been so desperately trying to keep away, finally solidifying in your memory.
A tourist.
The nice shopkeeper from down the street.
The teen.
The vile urge that's been stuck simmering in your chest suddenly burns hot.
You've held it together until now. Don't think about it.
Don't—!
It heaves, acid surging up your throat as you twist over the bed's edge and empty out the sickness with a gag. Your vision blurs as you cough up the disgusting nausea. A strangled retch dies in your throat.
(Bloody eyes, bloody eyes, hands gripping at you, at your dress, the teen, oh god, the fucking teen—)
You feel it first, over the sudden ringing in your ears.
Hands. Flat on the skin of your back, rubbing soothing circles. Threaded in your hair and pushing it away from your sweaty face. Coughs rack your chest again, scratching away at your burning throat.
Leon's saying something. It takes a few more seconds before the drumming of your heart dies down enough to actually hear.
"—Breathe, sweetheart. Come on—"
The images don't leave you. Your chest seizes again with an ache.
Somehow, you're drowning above water.
Fingers grip your arms, pulling you back up from your bent over position. They brush strands away from your forehead, behind your ears, before settling on your face. A calloused thumb brushes your mouth, wiping the filth away.
Don't touch me, your mind begs. You'll get dirty, I'm—
Warm pressure on your forehead, grounding. You can barely focus through the blurry film of tears, but it's also all you can see.
Baby blue, staring right back at you.
Leon.
A stuttery breath chokes out of you.
"You're okay—just breathe for me."
It's damning, how much a few words and touches from him can make you feel so protected. So utterly safe.
Your chest still stutters, but you try—for him. Matching your shaky breaths to the rise of his chest. Leaning forward into the touch of his skin against yours.
"That's it," he coaxes, thumb caressing your cheek. "Just breathe, yeah? You're doing so good."
You focus on him— you focus on his touch, the brush of his elbows on your knees, how he's looking up at you like you're something worth worrying over.
Leon, you realize, looks tired.
His face is covered in wrinkles that don't hide any of his stubborn handsomeness. Crow's feet line the creases of his eyes. Sunken cheeks, maybe from getting old, maybe from a constant exhaustion.
It's the face of a man who's gone through a lot; a man who's lived more than just the number of his age.
You wonder what he sees in you.
Someone young. Someone who's never touched a gun in their life, never had to worry about everything trying to kill you.
Someone he has to keep alive.
"Leon," you whisper. It's almost a sob. "I want to go home."
His worried eyes soften; you feel it with how his forehead relaxes just a bit. They remind you of the color of your sky back home.
"I know," he says, breath tickling your face. "I know. Remember what I said? I'll get you out. We'll get you home, yeah?"
His thumbs brush over your cheeks, gentle in a way that feels out of place in a situation like this.
"I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
"Promise?"
Your voice cracks when you say it. Something drips through your lashes, thick with the weight of what you've been holding between your teeth. It trails down, following the line of his thumb.
The taste of salt lingering where the corner of your mouth brushes his palm. Your tongue darts out again to wet your lips.
(This time, you don't miss the way Leon's eyes flicker to your mouth.
You don't miss the way his hand tenses just a tad on your cheek. Your heart thrums with something lighter.)
His voice is rough, all jagged edges, when he whispers it back. To you, it sounds like safety.
"Promise."
The next few hours are grueling.
Traversing the dense, stair-ladden streets of Fira is even more difficult with the hot Mediterranean sun beaming straight down. Sweat and blood make the fabric of his shirt cling and chafe his skin. The heat bothers you, too. The linen of your dress is bogged down with dirt and blood. He sees you fanning and fluffing the skirt, like it'd somehow make it easier to breathe.
Eventually, you say fuck it— taking the hatchet he retrieved from the infected you killed and hacking at the blood-dyed fabric until the hems brush your thighs instead of your ankles.
Should've done this earlier, you hum, sighing in relief.
(Leon's glad you didn't.
Not with the way the butchered dress hangs dangerously short— your soft skin, right there, on display.
Not with the way he has to dig his nails into his gloves to get himself to tear his eyes away.)
At some point, after his thoughts settle some more, and the regret and the shame starts feeling like a tank on his ribs—he thanks you. Reaches out to your hand, watches those lips fall open in a question.
Thank you, he whispers. You tilt your head in confusion. For what?
For saving him back there, for risking your life, for hurting yourself—just to help him. Even though he doesn't deserve it. You blink, eyes crinkling upward in a smile so damn pretty, it makes his heart ache.
Wouldn't you have done the same?
Leon comes to realize something, between now and the first time he laid eyes on you.
The space between you is shrinking.
Before, you hobbled behind him from a distance. Still wary of him, a stranger, despite trusting him enough to follow him through an infested, undead island.
Now, you hover closely. Fingers brush his arms whenever something startles you. You let him press you to his back whenever there's infected in sight. You don't flinch when he grabs your hand to lead you somewhere.
(And, the worst thing is—he enjoys it.
Is that just a testament to your nature, or some fucked-up sign about himself?)
He drags a gloved hand through his sweaty hair, willing his thoughts back to something else.
Concentrate. You still haven’t figured out the source yet.
The clinic had held no real evidence. Just bodies on bodies; people who had hoped to get help and ended up bringing the entire place down with them.
"Leon," you call out from behind, shaking him from his thoughts. "How do people get infected?"
"Think of it as a virus. Can be direct contact with something infected," he answers, gaze flickering around to check for hostiles. "Like saliva. Or drugs. Even airborne pathogens."
Dead bodies and an eerie stillness are all that's left. An outcome that never changes.
"But it only takes one person to get infected to end up with something like this."
"What if," you start slowly, measured. "it was all of that?"
He looks back. You're several paces away, staring intently a bunch of papers plastered on whitewashed walls. Leon silently tucks his weapon into its holster, walking towards you to take a better look.
His gaze lands on the one in the middle. It's a messy thing; ugly, if he had to be honest. Bright colors and big blocky English text that scream 'read me!'
'Spring Fever!
Ladies Free! Free Entry Drink + More! €5 Tickets!
—Club Lotus.'
Last night's date stares back at him. The line about free drinks and more is underlined thrice, in bright red. Bolded. Emphasized.
You turn to him, eyes wide. The beating in his chest quickens.
“What if it started at a party?”
Smart girl.
It's all he can think as the two of you make your way deeper into the town center, towards the nightclub.
The logic makes sense.
A big stuffy crowd, cheap entry, free drinks, hook-ups and saliva-swaps. A virus distributed like a party drug.
The perfect scenario.
It would explain the number of infected. People who pass out drunk, people who go overboard, unable to make it out of the club itself. The ones that do might have not made it home; they might have turned in the streets. Or, they might have ended up somewhere else—like a clinic. If they did make it back, holed up in some hotel or hostel or rental, then it would've wiped the entire place out.
There would've been panic with law enforcement—it wouldn't have ended well. People who don't know they're infected, turning in crowds of uninfected. But it likely would've been contained within those buildings.
Fira would've entered full outbreak by morning, with half of its population just waking up and unaware, while the other half stood dead on their feet. That timeline could work.
It comes into view as soon as the two of you enter the square. Club Lotus. A square-looking building, with a wide balcony up top. Palms and vines line the white walls. The doors are cracked open, as if waiting for him.
Leon takes a step, about to take a look, when he feels something tugging his shirt. He looks down; it's you, staring into the dark entrance, fingers clutching at him.
You're hesitating.
"Hey," his hand immediately comes up to hover over the curve of your waist, barely touching. "What's wrong?"
You tear your eyes away, towards him, before looking down at the ground.
"My—… I came here with friends," you admit, hand crumpling the fabric of his shirt. "They said they were going to a party last night. Here. They— they didn't come back."
Oh.
For a moment, he debates what he wants to say to you. He can't reassure you, can't tell you that your friends are probably fine— because that would be a lie.
And Leon Kennedy is a lot of things, but he's not a liar.
"I'm sorry," is what he offers instead.
You don't react, but the way your lips tremble chips away at his chest.
"I don't know if I can—," your eyes flicker back to the entrance.
You don't need to say anymore. He understands.
Jaw tightening, he surveys the area.
Bringing you in with him would be preferable, especially after the clinic— you'd be safer with him. But it was a gamble; what if there were too many? What if it was filled to the brim with infected and he couldn't fight them off? And if he leaves you here alone— well. He's not making that mistake again.
But if your friends are still in there—
No.
He won't let you go through that kind of horror.
A guttural groan drags him away from his thoughts.
Leon takes your hand and pulls you towards an open bar next to the club. He spots the infected before they can even start to move— two near the stools, three in the booths, a few more near the door to the kitchen.
The ones by the stools go down first, five bullets tearing through their torsos and skulls. He drags you over, quickly checking the bar before pushing you behind the counters. You sit without a word, obedient, tucking your head and feet away.
Good girl.
He moves back around the bar, hatchet in hand as he approaches the closest infected. It trips over a chair leg— an opportunity he doesn't let go to waste. In a flash, his hatchet digs into its skull, splattering brain and blood all over the floor. The zombie twitches once, twice, before falling limp over a chair.
The rest go just as easy.
(It's always easy when you have something worth protecting.)
Leon closes in on the booth, where the infected scramble over each other to try to get to him. It doesn't take more than a few strikes and head-stomps before they're down, too. The ones furthest from him don't get to taste his hatchet. He doesn't let them come closer; can't let them get remotely close to where you're crouching. Gun in hand, he shoots them dead where they stand.
Clear.
Turning on his heels, he jogs back to where he's tucked you away.
"Hey," he calls out.
Rounding the corner of the bar, he drops down on a knee. One hand takes yours, the other unholsters his sidearm before placing it gently in your palm. He ignores how you flinch at the cold metal, how your eyes go wide and panicky.
"Leon—"
"I need you to listen to me, okay?"
He can't risk bringing you into a cesspool of infected. He also can't risk you being out in the open again.
You nod. Hesitant, but still so full of that trust.
"The safety's on," he takes your fingers and traces them along the safety. He shows you how to flick it off, and then back on. "It's fully loaded. Fifteen bullets."
He can see the information spinning in your head as you try to follow along. He takes your other hand, maneuvering both into the proper grip, gun pointed towards the ground. Lets your fingers brush the trigger, just to know what it feels like in your hand. You're shaking a little— he squeezes your wrist, holding you steady.
"You keep the muzzle down unless you got something to shoot at, got it? And if you do, you aim for the head. If you can't, take out the legs instead."
It frightens you, he can tell. The way your hands are clammy and still around the gun, the way your leg muscles are stiff, the way a bead of sweat is dripping down your neck.
"There's no silencer on this one, so if you shoot, I'll hear it. And I'll come right back to you."
You're about to say something. He can almost guess it.
No, wait, what? I'm scared, I'll come with you instead, don't—
His hands come up to your face before he can stop himself, cupping your cheeks gently. Your breath hitches, but your eyes are focused on him again. So fucking trusting.
"I'm gonna need you to be brave for me, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Can you do that?"
A shaky nod.
"Good." One of his hands drop down to squeeze your calf. "I'm going to clear the area first, and then I'm going to go into that club, get what I need, and then I'm running right back."
You bite your lip, gaze dropping down to the gun.
"…But what if—," you start to mutter, before squeezing your eyes shut and taking a deep breath.
He waits, because he can afford this, can afford to make sure you feel safe first.
"…Okay. Okay," you say again, steeling yourself. "What do I do if you don't come back?"
Despite it all, Leon finds himself grinning.
A contigency plan?
His smart, smart girl.
Reaching into his back pouch, he pulls out a small earpiece. An extra, packed in case of emergencies. You've seen him use it every now and then, whenever he needed better directions and supply drops. He reaches up, pushing away strands of your hair before setting it into your ear. His fingers brushing your skin sends a shiver down your spine— he huffs a small breath, amused.
And you— you jump. The tiniest jolt of your shoulders, eyelashes batting away in embarrassment.
He taps it gently, motioning for you to feel it yourself.
"If I don't come back before dark, push this button and call for help. You keep doing that until someone comes get you. And make sure to give them my name."
You nod again. It's steadier now— no less anxious, but there's a light in your eyes that wasn't there before.
Leon breathes, his own chest thumping heavy.
With one last squeeze to your arm, he pushes himself up with a grunt. Timer's ticking. He needs to get you out before the sun sets.
"Remember what I said, okay? Stay sharp."
A tug on his pant leg right before he steps out. He stills, body already turned away.
"Please come back safe."
It's barely a whisper.
Leon doesn't look back at you when he leaves—can't.
He's already risking your life by doing this again; he can't risk his resolve, too.
Check the perimeter first.
He's thorough, more than ever. Leaves no chances. Saves his ammo; opting to clear the streets and shops with his body and hatchet. Makes sure to get in an extra chop or a kick. Nearly decapitates them all. A trail of blood and bodies behind his every step.
Keep you safe.
Get you out.
The faster he gets this done, the faster he finds what he needs— the faster he can get back to you and make sure you're okay. Then he can focus on getting you out of this hellhole.
He clears the area in record speed. Can barely remember moving before he finds himself standing back in front of the dark club entrance. A quick look towards the your bar is all he lets himself have.
Stepping beyond the threshold feels like stepping into the third circle of hell.
The moment Leon enters, his boots step on a limb. A pile of bodies obstruct the main entrance— strangely, they're dead. Actually dead, dried blood leaking from multiple orifices, eyes glazed over.
Get samples.
Reaching into his pouch, he grabs some swab kits, making quick work gathering blood samples from several different corpses.
Move on.
Gun raised, he slowly enters the main room. This is where it really goes to hell.
Infected, rising from the dead. They swarm the bar, the dance floor, everywhere. His mind forgets reality for a while.
One, two— his hatchet cleaves through decomposing flesh and bone. He kicks the one closest to him back, sending in crashing into two more infected crawling over.
Seven, eight, nine—two bullets rip through brains. He doesn't look back, immediately raising the hatchet to block the bite from another zombie. Sending a kick to its stomach, another bullet from his gun landing through its head. More come his way, climbing over the bar counters.
Leon doesn't let himself get distracted. Doesn't hesitate, doesn't let himself try to figure out which one of these infected could be your friend.
(Ignores the guilt pooling in his chest every time he kills one that looks around your age, every face that looks like it could've laughed together with you once.)
He reloads, firing off headshot after headshot at the ones that count. Using his body and hatchet instead for the ones that can't seem to find the strength to get on their feet. Fifteen, sixteen. He grunts, pushing off a close-call—a taller, bigger one that comes barreling through.
It goes on like that, for almost an hour.
Leon nearly collapses against the wall when he's done, entire club cleared. Four bullets left in the mag, a chipped hatchet he can barely hold onto. He'd lost count of the bodies somewhere along the way.
Dragging a hand through his hair, he lets out a tired exhale.
Getting too old for clubbing.
But he can't stop now.
Not when you're still out there, waiting for him to come back.
He sweeps the room, swiping up anything he can find to confirm that the virus originated here. He finds booths tucked near the back—broken vials and needles he places in reinforced bags, alcohol he soaks up, more blood, more bodies.
There are bodies like the ones at the entrance— ones that stayed dead, ones that never turned. He collects from those, too. Wonders if the virus distributed here had been experimentally unstable. A test.
Would help explain the theory, he muses.
When he's finished, he all but runs out of the building.
Runs straight towards you.
You must hear him, because your head peeks out from over the counter. Eyes widening at the sight of him.
"Leon," your voice breaks into a sob.
He's barely there, barely down on his knees when you launch yourself into him, gun forgotten somewhere on the ground.
Arms wrap tight around his neck, your face burying itself in the crook of his neck. One of his arms grasp around your back, holding you flush to his chest as he steadies himself on the floor. Your fingers clutch at the back of his shirt, desperate, as if he'd disappear if you didn't hold on tight enough.
He lets out a relieved breath, eyes fluttering shut at your warmth. His exhaustion, fading into the back of his mind. Tilting his face into your temple, lips brushing softly against your skin.
"I'm here, sweetheart," he soothes. "I'm here. You're safe."
(Doesn't even know if he's saying it for you or for himself anymore—)
You only pull him closer, ignoring all the filth covering his body.
"I was so worried," you cry, words muffled. "I heard the noise, but then it stopped, and you didn't come out, and I didn't know if—"
Leon shushes you, pressing you closer. Whispering reassurances in your ear. I'm fine, sweetheart, nothing happened. I'm okay, I'm okay.
He kept the unspoken word—came back safe to you.
That's all that matters.
The easy part, now.
Getting you out.
Contact is made with mission control after you calm down a little more. Extraction team set to drop down at the edge of town. It's right as the sun sets that the two of you hobble over to the set coordinates, a military helo landing down as soon he calls out to his comms.
The agents that come out are familiar. He knows them by name—but he moves anyway.
It's instinct now. The natural order of things, the way he tugs you closer behind him. Despite the fact that the people walking towards him aren't hostiles. Despite how they're there to bring you back to safety.
He only loosens up when you whisper his name, confused. Leon?
Staring back and forth between him and the incoming agents, like you're not sure whether to trust them now.
He must be really fucking tired.
When you're both buckled into the seats, headsets on, it feels like gravity bearing down on him tenfold. He doesn't do it on purpose, doesn't want to close his eyes, but sleep overtakes him anyway. Too worn-out to fight it, not with the weight of you pressing against him.
When he wakes up, it's hours later on a tarmac in Washington.
And you—
You're no longer there.
Gone. Your seat is still warm.
Leon doesn't panic, doesn't jump to his feet and demand information out of the nearest agent—but it's a near thing.
Bureaucracy meets him before he even steps out of the damn bird.
They remind him sternly about the debriefing he's required to attend in ten minutes. The collected samples he's supposed to immediately submit to forensics. The mission report he'll have to fill out. Flippant when he asks about you, waving him off without telling him where you've been taken.
Mandatory quarantine period, Agent. You know how it goes.
Bad things surface in his mind. Memories from ages ago, ones he doesn't want to remember.
Maybe, that's why there's a tension in his chest that wasn't there twenty-four hours ago. Maybe that's why it's a physical effort dragging himself through the halls of headquarters.
He sits through debrief and lies to himself about how you're probably better off in quarantine.
Safely sequestered in a guarded place where the horrors on the island can't follow. And when you're cleared, you'll go back to the safety of your home and live out the rest of your days there, because you're strong like that. He's witnessed it with his very own eyes.
Yeah, he convinces himself. You'll be fine.
It's better this way.
So he doesn't stutter when he drones on about you, your information, and barely specific enough details to be put on the mission report. He doesn't tell them about how you had to kill to make it out alive. They don't need to know that.
Adrenaline still pumps through him for some reason, even when there's no danger. Leg keeps jittering; people glance at him every time he shifts in the chair. Checks his watch so much, someone notices.
What's up with you, Kennedy? Somewhere else you gotta be?
Hours later, when it's all said and done, when the samples are dropped off, the blank report template sitting stagnant on his desk, when he's finally clean and changed, finally alone—
He can only think of you.
His head falls against the back of his chair. Hand dragging over his face, trying to ease the hours-long migraine in his skull. The tiled ceilings stare back at him.
The mission is done. Objective completed. You're safe. He brought you back and you're in the hands of people who'll make sure you're okay.
So why can't he stop thinking about you?
This isn't his first rodeo. You aren't the first person he's saved, and he doubts you'd be the last. It shouldn't be any different.
Still, the memories flash by.
A scared you, crouching against a wall. You, bravely throwing around a wooden plank. Holding back whimpers as he carefully holds your hands in his, plucking out wooden shards that make you bleed. Smiling so prettily, because of a damn cat on a death-infested island.
You, sobbing and refusing to let go.
Like him coming back to you had meant so much.
Fuck, he stands, chair squeaking behind him.
Fuck, as he storms his way into the director's office, the surprised faces of other agents peering over at him.
He thinks back to the promise he made you, the one he hasn't yet fulfilled. The earnest heart on your sleeve.
Leon Kennedy has a history of holding onto things that don't look back. Has a bad habit of searching through the rubble with a microscope in hopes of finding something salvageable; he knows this.
He knows, that in this lifetime, he's made a lot of mistakes. Gathered too many regrets. So when it comes to you—
Swear on my life.
He runs out the building doors.
I won't let you become one of them.
You wake up with sweat dripping down your back.
Hands, your own hands, grip at your chest, feeling fabric. You look down— it's not your dress anymore. A white hospital gown in its place, crinkly and scratchy.
The stubborn afterimages in your head don't want to fade even as everything becomes clearer, imprints in your mind's eye. Hands that weren't yours, clawing at you, empty blank eyes—
A nightmare, you tell yourself, that's all.
Because it's over.
You escaped that place with your life in tact. You got out with Leon.
And Leon is—
(Head spinning, you whip your eyes around you.
White room, glass windows, beeping machines, lines stuck to your arm, something pinching your finger, empty room, empty, empty, empty.)
—not…here.
For the next hour, you're inconsolable.
Please, please tell me where I am, where is Leon, you beg when a nurse in a hazmat suit comes in. Please, please, I don't want to be here, please, let me go—
They put you to sleep before you can hit two.
When you stir awake, you see hazy sterile white walls and glass again.
A doctor and a woman come into your room. They tell you it's standard procedure, that you're in quarantine after having been exposed to an outbreak. They ask you questions; about Santorini, about the things you saw, and the things you did. You can barely think— what did they put in you?
You don't know who they are, and they don't tell you anything about themselves. They leave once they have enough of your one-word answers and 'I don't knows'. Never once answering your questions about Leon.
You still don't know where you are.
Bright fluorescent lights keep glaring down on you. Too blinding to keep your eyes open, too distracting for you to even think.
And the white.
You can't stand the white.
(White walls, white walls, white buildings, white eyes, bloody eyes—)
There's nothing you can do but curl into yourself and squeeze your eyes shut. It's the only way to make all the white go away. The only thing you can do while you wait.
Because Leon promised to take you home, and this isn't home.
So you wait.
You don't know how long you sit in that room.
You don't know how long you spend in your own head, trying to fight the sleepiness that still runs through your veins. Trying to make the images go away.
(They don't. You can't stop seeing them. The tourist, the shopkeeper, the—)
And then, like an echo growing closer, you hear voices outside. A commotion. Footsteps, loud and hurried. Someone opening the door to the room. You lift your head from your arms, sight blurry from the sudden invasion of light, when—
"Hey, sweetheart."
You sob.
Leon catches you before you can crawl over the edge of the bed, firm arms pulling you against his chest as he settles onto the edge of the mattress. He brings you close, hand slipping into your hair as he holds your head to the crook of his neck in an embrace that's become so, so familiar.
"I know, I know. I'm here," he says, voice cracking as he whispers endless apologies into your hair. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I left you—"
You shake your head, choking out wet words that don't even sound like anything.
You don't need apologies.
All you need— all you want— is Leon. His warmth envelops you, and for that reason, nothing else matters.
You stay there in his arms, leeching onto his heat, his everything. And he lets you. Leon sits with a leg perched on the bed, drags you closer into his lap, doesn't stop whispering to you, doesn't stop apologizing. Just keeps gently massaging your scalp and tracing circles on your back.
The exhaustion slowly catches up to you as the tears dry out, but you don't let it take you under. Not yet.
Not while you're here.
"Leon," you whisper tiredly, dry lips brushing against his neck. His hand stills, just for a second. "I want to go."
His arms tighten around you, protective.
"…Yeah, okay," he mutters. "Let's go home."
You don't fight him when he pulls away, but you keep a hand on his jacket. Unwilling to let go. Leon is gentle as he pulls out the needle from your arm and plucks the heart rate clip off your finger. He frowns when he takes a closer look at your state of dress, immediately shrugging off his jacket to place over your shoulders, drowning you in its warmth.
He gathers you up in his arms like it's the easiest thing in the world, tucks your head into his chest and pulls the jacket closer over your body. You don't see much of what's outside the room when he leaves, only more bright lights that make you shut your eyes and nuzzle closer into Leon's chest.
Leon keeps walking— through what, you don't know. You filter out the noise, pretend not to hear voices going back and forth. At some point, you doze off, only to rouse when you feel your body shifting.
You're in a car; you shift your head, catching the blurry figure of Leon reach over you as he buckles you in. He brushes strands of hair out of your face. You lean into his touch, eyes slowly drooping shut again. Too tired to stay awake.
"Get some sleep," he mutters, pressing his lips to the crown of your head.
So you do.
("She stays with me."
"Agent Kennedy, there are protocols—"
"She stays. With me.")
The weeks come and go in the after.
Your life becomes a flurry of mandatory checkups and therapy appointments and government visits. It's invasive, the way they poke and prod at you and try to convince you they're on your side. But you try, because trying is better than pretending it never happened.
Leon is by your side at every single one of these visits.
It's easier with him there. He doesn't ever let them run over time, shuts them down when the questions get too invasive or too difficult. Holds your hand when you start struggling to breathe and kicks them out when everything gets too overwhelming.
And he never lets them happen at home.
A small one-bedroom in Washington. The one you woke up in, the day he got you back.
You never ask him about the white room.
You don't bring up how he came in and took you away, or how the people you have to talk to always look mildly afraid when he's in the room with you. How they call him Mr. Kennedy and treat him like he's a loaded gun with a broken safety and a faulty trigger.
It's easier that way, to just let it be.
In the days that pass, some things stay the same, and some things do not.
You read— mostly research and fantasy books. The occasional poetry book when the mood hits right. Cooking becomes a pasttime, now that you have an extra stomach to feed. You order things online and go to home decor stores to fill the blank spaces in his home.
One less interior designer I have to hire, Leon says, when you bring back your first plant and low-light lamp.
You tell him about the new paint color you have in mind to replace the dull eggshell walls. He comes back home the next day with a few gallons, some brushes, rollers, and tarp.
You can't watch Mamma Mia! even though you used to love it in the before, and you still can't go to the meat section of the grocery store. Can't stomach horror movies or Halloween-themed things.
Eyes gloss over white clothing whenever you go shopping. Skip over the long, flowy pieces that you love in favor of more practical things.
You take up running on the gym treadmills in the apartment complex. Outside, when the weather is nicer. Leon takes you to the shooting range on some Saturdays and teaches you how to use a gun.
Sometimes, you visit the art galleries and museums in DC and spend days and days perfecting a master copy with the paint set Leon brings home for you. A painting of two Minoan partridges now hangs in the bedroom.
Nightmares plague you more often than not.
But you also wake up every day with an arm wrapped tight around your waist, flush against a warm chest, and soft breaths tickling your neck.
And some days, it's not you.
Some days, you notice the tremor in Leon's hands, when he's a little too tired and the world is a little too loud. You see how he stares into the wall behind the TV, how it takes him a second to hear the things you say.
You don't mention it when he comes home hours too early, when he just sits and watches you move around in silence.
Those days, you let him bury his face into your stomach while you stand over him, running your fingers through his hair until his shoulders stop shaking.
The government sends you a notice a few months later.
Finished. Done. No more appointments, no more visits, no more anything. Just a fifty-thousand dollar check for 'the trouble you went through', because that's all you're apparently worth. No more strings. It feels like a cigarette burning a hole into your stomach.
This, is a point of divergence.
You think about your graduate program, your students, family, friends— the ones you couldn't contact yourself, because you couldn't be trusted to stick to the script given to you. You think about the love you have for them, and the love you hold in your heart now.
You think about all the things you've left behind, and the so-called freedom you now afford.
But.
The thing is—
If you were ever asked to capture your life in any way, it would probably look like this:
Frames of every day you've lived, every moment you've cried, every second you've spent underneath the sun—coalesced onto a single piece of paper. Covered with all of the good and all of the bad, until it's saturated with everything that makes you, you.
Then, you would hang it up to dry and wait for it to stain blue.
So, in the end—
It really doesn't change a thing.
No flights are booked, no plans made. Nothing is packed. It all stays the same.
Every morning, you wake up in a bed that's not yours. Toddle into the kitchen in a shirt that's too big. Make coffee and breakfast for two. Take ten minutes to meditate and journal because the therapist said it'd be good for your health while the sound of dishes getting washed fills your ears.
You laze around and read journals on the latest art restoration techniques. Figure out what dinner should be according to the latest food trends on your phone. Drive to the store to pick out the ingredients together. Bicker over the differences between name-brand stuff versus the store-brand ones. Maybe go on a walk after eating to stretch your legs.
And sometimes, on the days Leon has to be out on the field, you crawl into bed and cry yourself to sleep until he comes back to you in one piece.
You do not think about the things from before. You do not think about going back.
It's only on a random night, when the both of you are in bed, that Leon asks.
“You don't want to go home?"
You both know it's a stupid question.
Home?
Your home has long morphed into something else; has been something else entirely, ever since that day in Santorini.
But you humor him anyway. Because this isn’t about you. You know what you think, what you want.
What your heart's settled on, a long time ago.
“Should I?”
(The ugly thing in his chest bares its teeth. Biting; hideous.
Only one thing it wants, only one thing it's hungry for—)
“No.”
You hum, eyes fluttering shut. Snuggling ever closer into his chest.
"Then I won't."
The thing that was always bound to happen, happens on a whim.
Four days gone, a field mission that would take at least seven.
The longest Leon's been away from you—the longest days of your life.
You count them down; a calendar sits on the fridge door, four boxes crossed out with big red x's and a circled date at the end of the row.
You don't know where he's gone, didn't even get to say goodbye. Just woke up one morning to a cold, empty bed and with a left-behind note on the pillow. Messily written, signed with a promise. Like he couldn't bear to wake you up to do it properly.
So when the locks to the apartment click open, it sends a fright down your spine.
You freeze, hand placing your cup down quietly on the granite counters. Eyes scan the calendar one more time, because he isn't supposed to be back yet. No call or text on your phone to show for it. Slowly, you inch towards the drawers where knives lie.
A breath lodges in your chest when the sound of hurried steps gain towards your spot. Is it him? Is it not? What do you do—
It happens quickly.
Leon, alive and whole, trailing in.
Rushing across the kitchen the moment he spots you.
"Le—mmph!"
His lips, on yours.
You stumble back. He follows, until you're pinned against the counters, until there's no air left between your bodies. You squeal when he grabs the back of your thighs, hands flying to his sturdy arms to steady yourself as he heaves you up to sit on the counter without ever breaking away. His hands run up your waist, your neck— fingers weaving into your hair as he kisses you breathless.
(You've long grown used to the feeling of Leon. Used to his arms around you, his hands on your skin, lips brushing your temple every now and then, fleeting touches that never go anywhere.
But, this—
This is springwater at the end of the desert; a balm to your soul, in the aftermath of a long-suffering journey home.)
It's all tongue and teeth, your mind afloat with the pressure of his face and body against yours.
When Leon finally pulls away, it's to look at you— to take you in as you are. He presses his forehead against yours, noses brushing as you catch your breath.
His hands, warm like they always are, hold your face like it's something so precious. Beautiful, beautiful blues rove over your face, flickering between every line and freckle.
You tilt your head, pressing a light kiss to his palm. He nudges you with his nose, before kissing you hard again, the ache in your chest receding with every bruising press of his lips.
It is easy to love a man who would kill for you.
It’s even easier, then, to offer up all that you are when he finally gives into the very thing that kept you alive in the first place.
"Missed you so fucking much," Leon confesses, pressing kisses down your neck as he carries you into your shared bedroom. "Couldn't stop thinking about you—"
You whine, grasping at his shirt and trying to pull him back up to your lips. Addicted, now that you've had your first taste.
He rewards you with a deep kiss as he sits on the mattress, nestling you onto his lap. His hands aren't gentle as they explore the whole of you— slipping beneath the shirt you stole from him, fondling your chest, your waist, your every curve.
The kisses don't stop; he only breaks apart once, all but ripping his shirt off of you, before claiming your mouth again.
It drowns you, to feel him all at once.
Whimpers fall from your lips as he presses your tits together, burying his face in the cleft— licking, sucking the skin until it blooms purple. He grunts things into your chest, drunk on the taste of you— gorgeous, so fucking pretty, how are you so fucking pretty?
His stubble scrapes gently against supple skin; hand cupping you as his tongue laps at a nipple.
Leon doesn't relent, even when you start squirming as his teeth nibble at your sensitive breasts. Chokes out a shaky breath when you grind against his clothed cock, a hand falling to squeeze your ass.
"Fuck," he grunts. His other hand makes its way to your waist, slipping into the waistband of your shorts before tugging them off, along with your underwear.
For a moment, he just stares, breaths coming out short and fast as he takes you all in.
It's the only reprieve you get before he's diving in again.
"So fucking gorgeous," he murmurs in between messy kisses— a silvery string of saliva dangling from his tongue to yours.
It's like he can't stop, like every breath he's forced to take is an obstacle to keeping his mouth on you. Your hands claw at his shirt, trying to take it off. When he doesn't let up, you sink your teeth into his bottom lip.
Your mistake.
Leon groans, fingers digging harder into your bare hips. You yelp when he bites back, pulling away at sharp pain. He's smirking— tongue poking out as it traces the edge of his teeth.
"Don't try anything you can't handle, sweetheart."
It's unfairly sexy.
He listens this time at least, when you pull at his shirt— taking the hem and tugging it over his head.
You've always known Leon to be attractive. Would see it in shy glimpses, in the moments you wake up to him changing, when he sometimes walks out of the shower shirtless.
But now that he's laid out bare before you, you can't seem to take your eyes off him.
"Might start charging if you keep staring—"
You shut him up with a kiss.
Must've been how he felt when your shirt came off.
You can't stop touching him; your hands keep wandering as his tongue slips into your mouth. You feel every flex of his arms, every twitch of his warm muscles against your palm—the ones that have protected you and held you through everything.
But, you want more.
You yank at his belt. His hands move over yours, unbuckling it with ease, hips lifting just enough to pull his pants and briefs off his legs.
Pretty, you think, licking your lips as his cock springs free. He hisses, jerking up in your hands when you wrap your fingers around his hot throbbing length.
You pepper kisses down his throat, muttering softly. Wanna be good for you, Leon, please, let me be good.
Hauling yourself off his lap, you drop to your knees. Lashes fluttering as you take him into your mouth.
"Fuck—!"
Leon's mouth falls open, brows furrowing, fingers clinging to your head as you drag your tongue around the velvety tip. Salty, you think, the heady scent of him filling your senses.
He looks wrecked as you take him further down your throat—needy man.
"Yeah," he whimpers. Face scrunched in pleasure as he presses you down. "Just like that, baby."
It's shameful— the way you stroke his cock a little faster, suck a little harder when he calls you that.
"You like that, hm?" His fingers thread through your hair, finding his grip. "Like it when I call you baby?"
You moan as he drags you up and down with a firm hand, saliva leaking all over your hands with how fucking big his cock is. Your tongue glides over the underside of his tip, earning fucked-out groans from Leon.
Perfect, baby, just like that, he sighs out. Hips jutting up with the way you're sucking him so well.
You're about to take him deeper, push harder, when Leon pulls you off with a pop.
He's breathing heavy, skin slick with sweat.
Tilting your chin up, he pushes lightly on your wet bottom lip with his thumb. You let your mouth fall open wider, watching his wild eyes darken as your swollen lips wrap around the finger.
"Fuck—c'mere," he pulls you back up, shifting his own body to lay back on the mattress as he settles you on top of him, legs spread over thighs. He curses when he feels the press on your slick folds on his skin.
Leon hauls you up, until your clit is brushing his nose, until your dripping pussy is right above his mouth—
—and then he eats.
His mouth feels like absolute sin as he buries his face into your pussy.
"Fu—haah," you squeeze your eyes shut, leaning on the headboard as something warm flutters around your clit. You whine at the feeling of his rough tongue running greedily over your cunt, back and forth, again and again—eating like a man who's been starving for a long, long time.
You can feel every twitch of his jaw—every brush of hair on skin, the movement of his head as he flattens his tongue against your clit and shakes.
Fuck, fuck fuck—
You cry out, hypersensitivity threatening to be too much when strong arms wrap around over your plush thighs.
His hands splay across your legs, holding you down and pushing you impossibly closer on his face. His lips wrap around your sensitive clit, suckling so hard that it makes an obscenely wet sound. You sob—too much, Leon, can't, gonna—
Fingers dig into your skin, your eyes peeling open to look down. Stormy blues staring right back, waiting.
Demanding.
Your orgasm spills over before you even realize you're cumming. Cries tumble from your lips as your body trembles in pleasure, jolting and flinching when Leon keeps you down, drinking up the juices leaking from your pussy.
You collapse against the headboard, panting through residual waves of bliss. Leon gives your clit one last suck— you whimper, face leaning on your arms as you struggle to keep yourself up.
"Should do this more often," Leon teases, pressing wet kisses into your thighs. "I could get used to the view."
He eases your body down, pulling you by the nape and kissing you again. He tastes like you.
And his cock.
It's driving you insane— the feel of it gliding over your cunt as you grind down on him.
"You're dripping, sweetheart," Leon groans.
You are. Didn't think you could be any more turned on— didn't think you'd get any wetter, but the slick sounds coming from your pussy are downright filthy.
"Need you, Leon," you beg, hand moving to grip him between your thighs, rubbing the tip against your soaking hole. "Please, please—"
"Take it, baby—shit." His breath hitches at the contact, hands clamping down on your hips in a bruising grip. "Fuck yourself on my cock."
He fills you, deep in your cunt. It twitches hot, hitting spots that have you seeing double.
There's no coming back from this, now that you know how he feels inside of you. Can't imagine being anywhere else but here, pussy wrapped tight around his cock.
You lift your hips once, then again, dropping yourself onto him as best as you can. Arch your back because it's hitting just right. Let your tits bounce in his face because he deserves to see how you fuck yourself on him.
"So goddamn pretty," he sighs, hands caressing up your body to cup your tits.
But Leon is a big man.
It's hard to bounce on his cock when your thighs are strained across his abdomen, when you have to raise yourself higher and higher, just to move your cunt up and down his length.
"Let me give you a hand, sweetheart."
An arm wraps around your waist, pulling you down until you're chest-to-chest with Leon. He shifts, spreading you over his hips.
And then, he starts to fuck you.
He drives his cock up into you, shaking the bed with how utterly fast and relentless he goes. Deep groans mix with your choked whimpers, growing louder and louder as you clench around him with each thrust.
Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes— at this angle, with you pressed flat against him, his fat tip slides right into a spot that's leaving you breathless and shaking. And with the way he starts absolutely bullying that spot, you know he notices, too.
The hand on your hip slides between your bodies, slipping down to your cunt.
"Need to see you cum again, baby," Leon growls, fingers rubbing fast circles around your still-sensitive clit.
You might have screamed; you can't tell because your mind goes blank.
White-hot. A second orgasm crashing over you, pussy gushing around his cock as it rocks your body.
There's no time for you to come down, no time for a breather when Leon suddenly pulls out of you with a low groan. He lays you down on your belly, stopping for just a moment to press feathery kisses down your spine. His legs settle around yours. You feel his hands kneading your asscheeks, right before he spreads them open.
His cum-soaked cock slides home into your fluttering cunt.
You think you're crying— you don't know anymore. All you feel is Leon's fat cock fucking into you.
"Been waiting for this, haven't you?" His hips against your plump ass—slap, slap. "For me to fuck you like this."
He doesn't stop moving, not when you rip the bedsheets off their corners. Not when the words coming out of your mouth start sounding like incoherent babbles.
If you thought his cock hit deep when you were on top, then it might as well be fucking a new hole into you now.
The angle is different, but the heavy weight of his body on you, the way your lungs are compressing—fuck, you could let him do this to you forever.
You feel his hands cover yours, his chest molding into the shape of your back and pressing you deeper into the bed. Lips brush the cuff of your ear, kissing the tears dribbling down your cheek, until all you feel is Leon.
Words spill out of him like a confessional— your body, his shrine.
"Fuck, shit—," he pants. "Went through hell and back for this, you know that?"
One of his hands grab your jaw, tilting it just enough for him to cover your mouth with his. It's barely a kiss, more a messy push-and-pull with your tongues. You can barely focus on it, mind out of body with the way his cock keeps burying deep inside your cunt.
A whine tumbles out of your mouth when he suddenly pulls out again. No, come back, don't wanna be empty—
You don't have to wait long. Leon flips you over, hooking your legs over his shoulders before slipping his cock back into you with a wet squelch. Punching out moans with each shove into your sopping wet pussy, the sparks of another orgasm lighting up your insides.
He leans over, pushing your legs down. Hot air mixing with yours. Even in the hazy ecstasy, even as Leon falters and whimpers with every squeeze of your cunt, you feel it, clear as day— a sincerity, so intense that it threatens to suffocate you.
"Would burn the fucking world if it meant coming home to you—"
You are lost—in the pleasure, in the pain, in the all-consuming blue that gazes so lovingly at you.
It all comes down over you like a wavebreak, your orgasm coursing through your body so violently, it has you convulsing. You feel him thrust faster, harder. Lips pressing into yours with a desperate urgency as he cums deep inside your cunt, filling you to the brim with his heat.
It's almost too much— a high that keeps on reaching new heights, a euphoria that has you sobbing.
And at the end of it, Leon is there.
Soothing you with kisses as tears blur your vision from the intensity of your climax.
Catching you, like he always has, since the very beginning.
"You can't leave me, ever."
Your fingers brush idly through locks of hair. It looks more blond like this, under the soft illumination of the bedside lamp.
"Ever?" Leon mumbles against your chest. "What if I need to use the toilet?"
You flick him with two fingers, huffing an exasperated sigh when he lets out a quiet ouch.
"I'll just go with you," you retort, gently slapping his hand when he pinches the plush of your stomach, muttering some nonsense about privacy. He grabs your hand before you can pull it away, kissing your knuckles with featherlight touches.
"What if I get stuck in hell?" He muses.
You tilt your head, settling deeper into the comfort of your pillow.
"Then I'll follow you there, too."
Leon doesn't say anything. Your eyes follow as he shifts his weight onto his side, pushing himself back up towards you. His eyes, soft in the shadow of your room, look right into yours, like he's peering into your soul.
You wonder if he can see himself in its reflection.
His hand reaches up, cradling your cheek. You lean into his touch, a satisfied hum rippling through you as he strokes your face.
A smile that's become your world takes its place on his lips. Hair tickles your cheeks as he peppers your face with soft pecks. You laugh, reaching up to hold his neck.
"Okay," Leon whispers.
He leans down, lips meeting yours in a gentle kiss— the kind that consumes you in its warmth. And for you—
It's all you'll ever need.