Ashcroft The Rookie

Chapter 1

Hey all I have been loving res requim a ton and had an idea while playing. What if Leon finds out about the FBI Head agent who sent Grace on the mission and pulls her from the job to put her in to his telecom position.

This will be a Grace/Leon fic.

Going to throw this down as a feeler see if anyone else is looking for this pairing.

I haven't bothered changing out of the clothes I wore through the ARK facility. Dried blood—some of it mine, most of it not—still crusts the cuffs of my jacket, and the faint metallic tang of gunpowder clings to me like a second skin. I told myself I'd shower once I got back to the motel. That was three hours ago. Instead, I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, replaying every second of Grace's near-death in slow motion: the way she froze when the first mutated thing lunged, the way her hands shook on the pistol I shoved into them, the way she looked at me afterward—like she finally understood why I never talk about the old days.

My phone buzzes against the chipped nightstand. 2:17 a.m. Caller ID reads "Grace Ashcroft – FBI."

I pick up before the second ring finishes. "You okay?"

There's static for a beat, then her voice—small, frayed at the edges. "Leon... I just got off a secure line with Deputy Director Harlan. He... he knew everything. The hotel trigger, the incomplete intel packet, sending me in with minimal support. He called it a 'calculated exposure test.' Said my family history—Alyssa, the Raccoon survivors, all of it—made me the ideal candidate for... authenticity."

My free hand curls into a fist on my knee. The motel room suddenly feels ten degrees colder. "He used those exact words?"

"Pretty much. Then he congratulated me. Said the mission was a success and my 'resilience under pressure' would be noted in my file." A dry, humorless laugh crackles through the speaker. "Like I'm supposed to frame the near-death experience next to my academy diploma."

I exhale slowly through my nose. Something dark and familiar uncoils in my gut—the same thing that showed up in Raccoon City, in Tall Oaks, in every back-alley op since. Not rage, exactly. More like exhaustion that's finally found a target. "Where are you right now?"

"Still at the Hoover Building. Fifth floor. Bullpen's mostly empty, but Harlan's office light is on. I'm... finishing after-action reports. Trying to make it make sense on paper."

"Stay put," I say, already standing. Jacket half-on. Boots still laced from earlier. "Don't go anywhere near that office alone. I'm coming."

"Leon, wait—you don't have to—"

I end the call. No time for debate.

The J. Edgar Hoover Building looms under sodium lights, a concrete monolith pretending to sleep. I park two blocks away—old habit—and walk the rest. No point announcing myself early.

At the employee entrance, the night-shift guard glances up from his monitor. I slide my DSO credential across the counter without a word. His eyes flick from the photo to my face—unshaven, hollow-eyed, radiating the kind of quiet that makes people step aside. He swallows, buzzes the door open, and mutters something about "good to see you, sir."

The elevator ride is silent except for the soft ding of floors passing. Fifth floor. The hallway smells like stale coffee and printer toner. Voices drift from the corner office—Harlan's clipped baritone, a junior agent murmuring agreement, the occasional keyboard clack.

I don't knock. I turn the handle, shove the door wide. It hits the stopper with a metallic clang that echoes down the corridor.

Inside: Harlan behind his wide desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened like he's been here for hours. Two other agents—one a nervous-looking woman with glasses, the other a broad-shouldered guy who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else—flank a visitor chair. And standing near the window with an armload of manila folders, hair still tangled from the field, blouse wrinkled, is Grace.