Chapter Text
"I like you."
Leon's face is neutral, passive. A skill-set learned over years of practice. Don't give them anything to work with. Don't let them see the real you. Grace is piss drunk. On his couch. Glass of whiskey —his whiskey— in her hand. Expensive shit. Top shelf. Saved for a rainy day. Today was that day, apparently. How she found it, he doesn't know.
"No you don't," He says, bland, matter-of-fact.
"Yes I do," Grace sure is confident when she's drunk. No slur. No stutter. Impressive. He didn't take her for a drinker. She's leaning over the couch arm, glass dangling between her fingers. Face flushed all pretty from alcohol.
"How do you know how I fucking feel?" Grace isn't mad. The tone is sarcastic but the laugh afterwards is adorable. Oh she's not gonna remember any of this.
"I'm old enough to be your dad, Grace." He pours himself a second glass. One wasn't enough. She's not getting anymore. Don't want vomit on the couch.
Her legs are tucked underneath her, feet hanging off the couch, clothes in various states of drying. It's a storm out there. Relentless. Rain hitting the windows in sheets. Her dumb ass walked from the train station to his apartment with no umbrella. She was already tipsy when she got here. Refused to elaborate on what run down shitty bar she'd come from smelling like cheap beer, cigarettes, and rain water.
"As if I care that you're 49 and we could fit another adult in the age gap," She rolls her eyes.
"And what if I do?" It's a valid question. Leon knows it's useless to argue with the drunk, though.
"You'd be fucking lying," She snickers, shaking the glass in her hand, "You've been looking at my tits for the past hour."
He drinks to that. She's got him pinned to the wall. Not his fault her shirt is soaked, see-through and clinging to her skin. Grace isn't well endowed but he's never cared much about size. They look cute under that black sports bra. Maybe he should ask her to give him a look. She's plastered enough to do it.
"Did you go to the bar straight after work?" It's accusatory in nature and on purpose. Of course, she's completely unbothered by the tone.
"You expect me to show up here sober? Leon," Grace looks amused. He's her personal entertainment tonight. "Not a chance. Needed some liquid courage first."
Leon won't lie. Grace is attractive. 25, sweet, pale skin, petite. Smart as hell too. Analyst for a reason. The stutter is a feature not a defect.
"How'd you even find my damn address?" He's never invited her over. It felt like crossing a line he wasn't ready to step over yet. Too late. Drunk Grace is perched on his expensive dark leather couch, dripping rain water onto it because he's not sending her back out in the state she's in.
"FBI database." Her glasses threaten to fall off her nose and she pushes them back up. "Is that too stalkerish?"
It's a rhetorical question. They both know it is.
"So like I said. I like you. Uhh—" Grace is thinking. Her brows furrow and her nose scrunches up when she's in thought. She's cute. "Well maybe like isn't the right word."
Leon just exhales through his nose. There it is. "Told you. You don't."
"Shut up, old man. Maybe I meant a tier higher. I'm drunk not stupid." Catty. Yeah, Grace is kind of like a cat. Skittish, anxious, avoidant. Get her around the right people and she blooms like a pretty flower. Get her drunk and her anxiety is merely a suggestion.
"You told me you like me but called me old. I'm starting to think you're just a crazy drunk." He smiles, tight. Not mad though. Nah. She's too endearing to be mad at. He empties his second glass.
"Want proof? C'mere. I'll kiss you. Tongue allowed. Just don't expect much. I have zero experience." Love that for her. Dropping that bombshell on him.
"Grace, christ. I'm not making out with you. You're drunk." Emphasis on drunk.
"Oh! So you would if I was sober." The cheshire grin on her face should be studied for science. Or he will. For science. Not because she's pretty.
"No." Hard no. Another line not to cross. Like the space between him, standing next to the kitchen table and her, on the couch.
She tilts the glass back, downs the rest of the drink just like he had. There's a trail of it that misses her mouth, drips down her chin and splashes onto the armrest. Left her mark as expected. Right on the damn couch.
"I'm not lying. I like you." She pushes up off the couch, wobbles on unsteady legs. Drunk sway on full display. That glass is going to end up in pieces. He's going to let it. She's the one to cross the line again. Right up in his personal space, glass dangling in front of his nose, a goofy little smile on her face.
"You're not getting any more. Cutting your drunk ass off." Leon swipes the glass out of her hand, finger pushing against her sternum enough to make her take two stumbling steps back from him. Grace holds her hands up in mock surrender.
"Stubborn old man. Is it a morals issue?" Her face is pouty. Yeah, okay. He does want to know what it'd be like to kiss her. What she'd taste like. Other than whiskey.
"Is what a morals issue? The drinking? I'd just prefer you didn't end up with alcohol poisoning on the floor of my bathroom." He'd take care of her if he had to though.
"No, doofus. The age gap. It's the age gap, right? I confessed first so it's not like you're a creepy predator." Oh that. She's looking at him, expecting a real answer.
"Don't care about the age gap, Grace. Maybe just don't trauma bond and mistake it for romance. And don't get drunk in public." He's going for the throat. Maybe it'll scare her off. It's worked before. Grace looks undeterred from her path. Arms crossed, frown, brow raised. Eyes judging, analyzing his every move, looking for his weak spot. She's not gonna find it.
"That what you're afraid it is for me? Or for you?" Never mind. She's got him dead to rights. Aimed the gun, put him in the cross hairs, fired. Single bullet. High caliber. He doesn't like to get attached. Being attached is a risk. Not for him but for others. People drop like flies around him. Grace would be no different.
The nagging bug in his brain has arguments to this. She watched her mom die, survived Rhodes Hill, survived ARK. The slaughter in that care center was undeniably impressive. Leon might be selling her too short. She might speak soft, avoid eye contact like it'll catch her on fire and trip over her words but she's tough. She's also staring at him right this very moment, patiently waiting for him to speak. You'd almost forget she's three sheets to the wind.
Leon sighs, heaves the sound out of his throat like a deflating balloon. "You can have a philosophical talk about feelings with me when you're sober. Bed," He waves his hand, gesture towards the short hallway to the single bedroom. His bedroom. That he is going to give up to the drunken blonde that stole his address off his FBI file.
"Skipping a lot of bases there, Leon, but sure. You can take me to bed," Grace smiles at him. It's the kind of smile that looks innocent at first glance but grows in deviousness the more layers you unpack. What would her sober self think of her if she saw all this?
His expression is deadpan as he turns her around and leads her. Wouldn't want her tripping on her own feet, landing face first into the nightstand and cracking her skull open. "Shut up, Grace."
"Make me." Childish response. But he knows there's an underlying meaning to it too.
His bedroom is all dark, muted colors. Too bright gives him a headache. Sherry thinks it's funny he's offended by pastels. The bed has a navy blue comforter with gold trim. Bought that on sale. The windows are covered by similar colored drapes, there's a small desk in the corner with various cleaning tools for his guns, a practically empty bookshelf with gun manuals and mystery novels he doesn't recall if he finished or not. It's bare bones and bland but it does the job.
Grace sways in his hold; he steadies her. Plucks her glasses off her face and pushes her to sit down. "Go to bed." She's blinking alcohol induced sleepiness from her eyes. The moment her head hits the pillow she's out cold. As expected.
Leon studies her for a moment, takes in her sleeping form. Face alcohol flushed, work clothes rumpled and damp, lips parted. He tucks her in and leaves before he does something stupid.
—
Grace doesn't say much after waking up. Spends an awful long time in the bathroom— More than what he'd consider normal. When she exits, her eyes look hollow, haunted. There's no tear streaks, no red eyes, no sign of crying. She just looks detached and two seconds away from puking up stomach acid. She apologizes. More than once. He dismisses it and makes her coffee. Black. Her request.
The drive home is silent. Comfortable silence. Leon had offered it. Didn't want her to miss work. She lingers between sleep and awake, the coffee forgotten in her system. The stutter returns when he awakens her in front of the steps to her apartment complex. "T-thanks. I'll make it up to you. S-somehow…" Her smile is forlorn, tinged with embarrassment.
If anyone had asked him right after if this would be a one time thing he'd say yes. He'd also be wrong.
—
Two days later she's at his doorstep again. Grace has an expression on her face like she might commit murder if someone looks at her wrong. She pushes past him without even asking for permission, muttering gibberish to herself. There's a large bottle of vodka hidden in her oversized hoodie— It's not full.
"You look like death warmed over." Leon has to control his facial expression when she gives him the glare of a lifetime.
"I came here to have a good time. Hop off my dick." She's in his kitchen, stealing one of his shot glasses. He has no idea how she knows where they are but at least she's comfortable.
"You don't have a dick." She looks at him like he grew an extra head. Was it something he said? "So what's got you looking like an angry feral cat?"
She's right back on his leather couch. Same spot. Kicks off her shoes, pulls off her hoodie, fills the shot glass, downs it like it's water. No reaction to straight vodka hitting her taste buds. Yeah, she has experience. Grace stares at the bottle for a moment, face neutral. Gives him a chance to really look at her. Feet bare because she's a savage that wore sneakers with no socks, plain black tank top, shorts. It's October and freezing out. Is she stupid or crazy? She's got her hair tied up— Strands too small falling around her face. Glasses perched on her nose. Adorably precious.
"I went to see Em, today." Leon decides this is gonna require a drink too. Grabs himself a glass and joins her on the couch. Far enough from her to keep that line drawn. He snatches the vodka —she drank his so he's going to drink hers— pours, downs it. It's disgusting but the burn is just what he needs.
"How is she?" It's an innocent enough question. He's genuinely curious. Sweet little Emily that he had to shoot. At least he didn't have to kill. Apparently, if Grace's face is any indication, this wasn't innocent enough.
"How would you feel if you were locked up in some government building with a bunch of uptight assholes in white coats poking and prodding you all day?" The venom in her voice could kill an elephant. "She's always so happy to see me and then I have to leave and— Fucking government lackeys. How do you watch a kid cry and limit visitation even further?"
"You're a government lackey, Grace." He watches her down another shot to this, lean her elbows on her knees, and laugh. A real one. This somehow entertained her to the highest degree.
"Fuck, you're right. Low-key maybe I should quit. You wanna try out being a sugar daddy?" Her cheek is on her palm, head tilted to him, batting her eyes all pretty like. The alcoholic flush is two-fold from yesterday. Maybe he should take that bottle away early tonight.
"I'm good, thanks." He takes another shot, face tight and controlled. Doesn't want to show in any way that he'd consider it. But only for her. Only because she's so delightfully charming.
Grace sighs dramatically. "I'd put out and everything. Your loss." She takes another shot; He takes the bottle. She admitted last time she hasn't even kissed before. Or was it just the tongue part? He doesn't know. Big jump from kissing to fucking though.
"Grace," He grunts, sets the bottle on the floor away from where she's sitting, out of arms reach, "You should save that for someone you love."
"What if I love you?" She's watching him, appraising him for any reaction. He refuses to give.
"You told me you liked me two days ago. I didn't know this was a one-hundred meter dash." She responds with a smile before sliding over on the couch until their knees touch. Maybe he should have stayed by the kitchen table again. He looks down at her, unflinching and passive. Gaze follows her slim neck, prominent collarbones and oh— She's leaned forward enough he can see straight down her top.
Grace has chosen not to wear a bra this fine evening. He has full, unrestricted visual access to her bare breasts. Pink. Her nipples are pink, neck flushed down to them red from alcohol. Perked up from the cold air in his apartment because he rarely if ever uses the heater. Grace looks completely oblivious when his gaze returns to hers. Did she forgo the bra before or after the alcohol consumption? Past Leon was right. They are cute. Very very cute. He now has the strong desire to touch them.
"One day you'll fall for my charm. Better start counting 'cuz your days are numbered." She leans over his lap, chest —breasts— brushing his legs, snatches up the vodka, retreats back to her corner of the couch. The number is at 0. Or negative, even. He already has.
"Very cute. I like the confidence." And she should be confident. She's lovely that way. Not that there's anything wrong with her on a sober day. He likes her all quiet spoken, shy smiles, dissertating about cold cases and unsolved mysteries. He likes everything about her. Well isn't he fucked. The smile she gives him could put him into cardiac arrest if he stares too long. So he doesn't. The bottle in her hands is way more appealing. Or so he keeps telling himself.
"Thanks, honey. Only for you." Grace blows him a kiss, pours another shot. He's going to develop a fucking arrhythmia at this rate. Drunk Grace and Sober Grace should meet. Sober Grace would never look him in the eyes again. Never mind. Scratch that. He likes her eyes. They remind him of moonlight. Soft, gray, sometimes silverish when the light hits them just right. Overly expressive. He'd willingly get eaten by a licker if it meant he could keep looking at them.
She takes the shot; He takes the bottle again. Better be thankful it's a Saturday tomorrow because she's not getting out of bed easily in the morning. She clicks her tongue, annoyed at the loss. Stands up and stumbles, foot caught in her own hoodie. He grabs her by the hips to steady her, removes them right after. She's soft. Leon's going to go out back to the complex pool and drown himself when this is over.
"You gonna invite me to bed again or do I have to ask?" Grace is facing him now, looking down, glasses slipping off her nose she doesn't bother to correct. Stupid, unbearably drunk, unbearably lovely grin on her face.
"You remember that? You were shit faced. I'm impressed." So does she remember confessing to him? Or—
"Nah. Drunk me remembers. Sober me is better off not knowing. I might consider self-immolation if that happens." She laughs, amused by herself. Grace is an enigma. He wants to solve her.
"Well let's not add anymore trauma to sober Grace's list." He stands up, couch creaking as he does. Expensive couch with a side that sounds like a dying blue jay. Money well spent. She doesn't respond. Back to appraising him from under her lashes. Grace is a good height. Not too tall, not too short. Average. He likes average.
Leon leads her to his bedroom again. The couch is getting a lot of love lately thanks to her. She's quiet, stumbling, managing to stand upright merely because of his hands. Probably leaning closer to sleep with every step she takes. She's out again as soon as her head hits the pillow. He can't help but stare. Tank top strap hanging off her shoulder, tops of her breasts visible, perky peaks obvious through the fabric. His hand hovers, retracts. Nope. Not doing that. Settles for pressing a kiss to her forehead. That's the safe option.
Morning comes too soon. He's bleary eyed and dry mouthed. Grace doesn't spend an eternity in the bathroom this time. Puts her hoodie back on quicker than lightning. Eyes glassy, far off look on her face. He makes her coffee again. Black. Resignation flickers across her face. Like she's come to accept it's an inevitable she'll end up back at his apartment, on his door step, cognitively impaired. Inevitable that he'll let her.
"J-just sleep on the other s-side of the bed n-next time," Grace mutters, so soft he has to strain to hear it. He'll consider it. But that's pushing the line again. His fingers itch remembering her chest inches away from them— Her so relaxed and unguarded. No. Bed is not an option for him.
He takes her home like it's a routine. Doesn't even ask her. Just gets dressed and grabs his keys. She gets the memo real quick. There's a distinct lack of apologies from her this time.
It's inevitable.