ｌｅｏｎ
Leon's heart jolts and then skips a couple of beats.
Time stops around him, suspended like in all of the movies he's seen.
She thinks she's in love with me, he thinks. Me? Love? In love with me?
No. It's just a crush, right? Just a case of infatuation? Trauma bond? She can't be in love.
You're still on his lap, and he's still holding you by the small of your back, and he knows he should speak, he should reply, some declaration of his own feelings.
But... What even are his feelings? How does one even know one's in love?
Is it the way his heart flutters for a few seconds when he sees you? Or maybe it's the way his entire body relaxes when you're close to him? Is it the way he feels warm somewhere deep in his chest when he hears you laugh? The way he can't help but smile if you're smiling? Is it love to feel like you're coming undone piece by piece yet simultaneously being put together when someone casts their eyes on you?
Leon has never been in love before, not really. He hasn't had a long list of women, no such thing as 'notches on his bedpost'. He's had one girlfriend—an ex now, a bitter memory—but was that even real? He was twenty-one, and even back then he knew how tremendously naive he could be. How he used to let feelings devour him alive and take control of his life. She didn't make him laugh like you do, she didn't make him feel safe, she didn't spark a connection so raw and so deep and intimate like the one he felt grow and grow with you.
And then there was Ada. The mysterious woman. Love was never an option there. Back in Raccoon City, he had let her kiss him, sure, because he was scared and worried and she seemed to be in the same boat as him—it's laughable now how wrong he was about her. She had let him think she had died at his hands for six damn years, and in those years he mourned her, never really understanding why he missed her.
When their paths crossed again in Spain, she was the same cold mercenary he had in his memory. Unfeeling, unemotional, straight-to-the-point Ada. But he wasn't the same puppy dog she had so easily manipulated.
No.
He was hardened, scarred, beaten, broken, and put together again. He endured six years of torture, rigorous training that broke him repeatedly and without prejudice. It shaped not just his body, but his mind. He too, then, became unfeeling. Cold. Jaded.
Did he have any other option after the suffering he went through?
How could that suffering ever leave space for an emotion like love?
As if Raccoon City and the death of everyone and everything he knew wasn't enough. He thought he had found solace in Claire after they survived, but she had other priorities—she had to find her brother, leaving Leon, wounded and traumatised and so lost and confused, to take care of Sherry, a child, weakened and distraught and carrying more trauma in her shoulders than anyone else Leon knew.
Two orphans, left alone again. How fitting.
When Leon realised he couldn't keep her safe alone—he needed medical care, after all, and his ammunition wasn't exactly infinite—he sought out the help of those he trusted. Those who, like him, were supposed to help and protect.
The military.
What a joke.
They apprehended both Leon and Sherry. The scream that Sherry let out as they dragged her away from him—her fingers had been so tightly wrapped around his that she almost snapped them—sometimes replays in his nightmares. He had never felt so useless.
They took her into 'protective custody', while Leon was interrogated. Hours of inane questions, wearing down what very little energy he had left. They told him he knew too much, had seen too much, and held the barrel of a gun to his forehead.
For a split second, Leon felt like maybe the pulling of that trigger would have been his happy ending.
But that wasn't him. They could wear him down and break him and strip him of his energy, but they could never take away his fight. His fire.
The trigger was never pulled. Instead, they had stopped and wondered how the hell a rookie cop had survived that nightmare. How on God's green earth had he come out of it, not only without a trace of the G-virus, but also with a child in perfect, healthy condition. His survival was proof he knew how to handle himself against B.O.Ws, which was exactly what the military needed. They were in deep shit, everyone they recruited kept dying or getting infected, and the President needed proof that they weren't all complete and utter incompetent dickheads.
So they gave him an ultimatum.
Join the highly classified anti-Umbrella military agency and Sherry would be spared.
Of course, the answer was easy.
But it kept him awake, on more nights than he could ever admit.
He had survived. He had lived. His reward? They made sure he was severely punished for it.
So, six years later, when Ada saw him again, he was no longer capable of falling for her tricks. His heart was locked because that's what they taught him. As long as your firearm is in its holster, your emotions are turned off.
And there weren't many moments in his life when he wasn't carrying his piece.
After Spain, when he found her waiting for him at a bar close to his building, he was so drunk and so fucking lonely, that he just agreed to whatever the fuck she wanted. It doesn't matter if she was using him, as long as he was using her back. Right?
Women flirted with him—even if he never realised it until hours later—but he always kind of... Resisted.
That brings it down to two women. Rhea and Ada. Never really had time for anyone else. Never really had trust to spare.
But then the universe had sent him to Tripp's office the same day you had been there. The irony of a rookie cop late to work, the spark still in your eyes, the way you looked at everyone like you believed people were innately good.
Two weeks on a virus-infested ship. Two weeks of worrying that he can't protect you. Two weeks of looking over his shoulder to make sure you haven't lost your smile. Two weeks of surprising himself by how many words are coming out of his mouth. Two weeks of being heard, feeling understood, feeling seen.
After that, two more weeks of danger at every corner, but two weeks with newfound feelings.
The first time he kissed you, it was mostly just lust. It had been too long, and he needed to feel close to someone, needed to feel human. It was him being selfish. And he couldn't really help the fact that he was severely attracted to you—physically.
The second time had nothing to do with him. It was all because of you. The second time was because the attraction revealed itself to not just be physical. It was mental. A need to be close to you, specifically.
The third time? Well. The third time was because it had only taken two tries to completely undo six years of warnings and teachings.
So.
Love.
He doesn't have a clue what it feels like.
Leon brings his hands down to the curves between your hips and thighs and blinks a few times, trying to understand what it is he should be saying.
"Are you sure? I mean, how do you even know?" He asks, and as he hears his own voice, it sounds exactly like he's twenty again. Like the last eight years didn't happen.
You study his face and then burst into a timid giggle that grips at his heart. "What do you mean how do I know? Haven't you ever been in love?"
His answer is short and sweet, equally honest and embarrassing. "No."
"What?!" You look at him and brush his locks out of his face. "I do not believe that."
"What about my life gave you the idea that I ever had time to be in a relationship...?" He kisses your hand as it drops from his hair, and he instantly wants to kick himself. Why can't he control himself?
"You don't need to be in a relationship to be in love."
"Sorry to disappoint, but my answer's still no," he says, with a slight curve of his lips.
Your cheeks are tinted with red, and he can't tell if it's because he kind of side-stepped your feelings, or because of something else. "So what?" You ask. "Are you going to tell me you're a virgin too?"
He rolls his eyes. "Really think this is a good time for jokes?"
"Okay, so you're not a virgin," you chuckle, exaggerating a loud exhale for dramatic effect. "Phew."
He presses his fingers into the crease of your thighs. "Don't get too relieved. I'm not exactly a pro either."
"I... Actually very highly doubt that." You stare at him with that intense look of yours, the one that very often makes him want to be entirely at your command. "No time for relationships... Never been in love... Travels for work... Incredibly handsome... Baby blue eyes... Biceps bigger than my head..." You list them off on your fingers. "Sounds like the perfect recipe for someone who sleeps around."
"I know what you're doing," he tells you, leaning his head back and running both hands through his hair, his eyes closed as he tries to collect his thoughts. "You're trying to change the subject. Like I'm going to forget that one, you just said you think you love me, and two, that I think it's a ridiculously bad idea for you to even be around me."
"I'm not doing anything," you say innocently. "Actually, what I am doing, is trying to guess your magic number."
He stares at you, his mouth slightly agape. "You are actually kind of insufferable."
"Twenty?" You ask, one eyebrow raised.
He glares at you. This whole conversation is so out of place, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't entertained. But then again, anything that came out of your mouth had the ability to capture his entire attention.
You do a double-take. "Woah. Thirty?"
He sighs. "No."
"Forty?!"
He pokes you in the chest. "Less. Way less, smart-ass."
"Ten."
"Less." He squirms a little.
"Five???"
The way you're looking at him makes his heart melt. The total awe on your face is too cute for him to handle. "This is getting embarrassing," he mumbles, looking down.
"There is no way you've slept with fewer than five women," you gasp. "Have you seen you?"
He shrugs. "Looks aren't everything." He pulls at a strand of your hair, playfully tugging it. "For example, I'm with you for your smarts, and your smarts only."
"You're hilarious," you say sarcastically. "Don't change the subject."
"God, you're a piece of fucking work," he sighs, and brushes the hair off your shoulders. "Two. Two is my number. You happy, Clementine?"
"No, because you're lying to me!" You almost bounce up and down on him in excitement, and he winces in pain at the sudden movement. "Whoops, I'm sorry. But... Oh my God."
"So you think I fucked half of the United States because I'm... quote unquote, 'incredibly handsome'," he says through a teasing smile. "Would I be right assuming you fucked the other half because you're the most stunning woman I've ever seen?"
He feels you tense up a little and he feels like a big number is coming. The idea of anyone else touching you makes him want to commit a series of passion-induced murders. The thought of knowing there's a chance he might never get to touch you again himself makes him want to swallow a bullet.
"You would be... Almost as wrong as I was, actually," you say finally, and he relaxes a little bit, but he still feels you tense.
"You fucked all of the U.S?" He grins. "God damn, Clementine. That's a lot of work for a twenty-three year-old."
Now it was your turn to glare at him, and he hates how natural everything feels. How easily you had believed him, how easily he can joke around with you.
"Alright. What's your big scary number?" He asks. Not that it matters now, he thinks.
You shift on him a little and he feels the pressure on his crotch as you do so. "Is uh—is zero a number?"
He's baffled, about to say something, but he scoffs. "Bullshit."
"Bull-true," you say, looking down.
"But Arthur—you were in a relationship..."
"Yep."
"What the fuck? Did his dick not work or something?" He almost feels giddy.
"It worked really well actually, particularly when he was sticking it in other women."
"What the actual hell is wrong with that man? Was wrong..." Leon frowns, his eyebrows knit together. "There is no way you were in a relationship and your supposed boyfriend didn't have sex with you. You—I mean..." he chuckles, his face muscles relaxing. "How could a man have a woman like you and not fuck her like a princess?"
"Who knows," you say, keeping your eyes on him. "Maybe because he thinks his job is oh so dangerous..."
"That's not fair. Don't do that. Are you seriously telling me you've never had sex, for real?" He waits for your reply with too much misplaced excitement. By God, he wants to be the one to--
No.
"I am seriously telling you that I've never had sex, for real," you admit, so shyly and quietly that he wants to hug you. "I mean I have done stuff, like other stuff and shit but never... Never that. I had never even uh—you know. Never really... Um," you struggle to get your words out, gesturing around. "Before you."
Fuck fuck fuck fuck, he thinks. I should end this conversation. I can't talk about this—I can't know about this, I can't make her even more perfect than she already is. I need to let go of her, I need to put her safety first, I need to stop being so fucking selfish. This conversation and this topic should be off-limits right now. For someone who went through hell to become a special agent, his self-control is next to non-existent right now.
But... Forbidden fruit always tastes the best.
"I don't know," he says, but he's lying. For once, he knows exactly what you were going to say. But he needed you to say it, he needed to hear it, for his own selfish reasons. "Use your words."
You cover your face. "You know. That thing that happens at the end of sexual activities."
"An orgasm?" He asks, enjoying himself too much. "Is that the word you're looking for?" He asks innocently, although there is absolutely not a single shred of innocence in his thoughts right now.
"Maybe."
He pries your fingers from your face. "You telling me I'm the first and only man to make you come, Clementine?"
The idea of it is about to make him lose every single drop of sanity left in him.
"I'm saying a lot of things, maybe I should shut up actually," you say quietly, refusing to look at him. "I take everything I said back."
"Doesn't work like that, beautiful," he says.
"Maybe you shouldn't call me that, anymore," you say quietly, and your tone is broken, and it slaps him across the face, bringing him back to reality.
"I know," he mumbles. "I can't help it." He angles your face towards him, his fingers under your chin. "You really are beautiful. I knew I was fucked when I realised you also had the best personality I've ever come across in a woman."
You push away from him and sit on the other end of the couch. He sits up and senses the rift between you two. When he looks out, the sun is up in the sky, finally.
You two had spent the entire night talking. It's a new day. With muted panic, he realises that this day is the day he gets a reply from Chris. Shit.
"You are kind of an asshole," you tell him, without looking at him. "Do you hear yourself? How can anyone not fall in love when you talk like that? You want to cut ties with me but you say this shit like my heart is made of stone or something."
"I know," is all he can say.
"That's it?" You lift your head to look at him.
God damn he hates his life. "Clementine. I can't repeat the same conversation."
"Leon, you're giving me fucking whiplash," you say, standing up. "You talk and act like you're in love with me and then after a few seconds you turn into this stone cold asshole."
"Me being in love with you would be the worst possible thing for you," he says, his throat dry.
"You don't get to decide that. You don't." You cross your arms across your chest.
He looks up at you, and leans forward, one elbow on his knee. "I'm not deciding it. It's the only possible outcome."
"Says who?"
"Says the fucking bullshit I went through for most of the last decade!" He didn't mean to raise his voice, but it happened. This conversation is so fucked beyond repair.
"Why would you let your past influence you like that? I mean fuck, I know you've been through a lot—"
Jesus Christ, he thinks. I can't do this again. "You keep saying that, but you know what, I don't think you actually get it."
Your hands drop to your side in partial defeat. "I do and I don't at the same time."
"Clementine, I can't be around you. I can't have anything happen to you. I can't deal with that. I can't leave you hanging around waiting for me for months while I'm on some operation I've been forced to go on. I can't go on a mission and have you on my mind. I can't."
You scoff, your jaw locked. "Those are some fucking selfish reasons if I've ever heard them."
"I have to be selfish. I have to—otherwise everything I've been through would have been for absolutely nothing." His tongue has a mind of his own now, and he can't stop himself. "Do you expect me to throw it all away? To have survived so far and then fuck up not just my life, but also yours?"
You open your mouth to say something, but the quiet remains unbroken. You're just staring at him, your gaze simultaneously full of rage and hurt.
"What happens if I let you stay, huh? And I die? Which is a very real possibility in my job. I'm not immune, I'm not immortal, because I choose to not fucking inject myself with viruses." He rubs his jaw, his fingers digging into his bone. "Or worse, what if something happens to you because of me? You think there aren't people still out there who want me as dead as the people I've killed? You think they wouldn't jump at the chance to go for the people I care about? You think I could fucking live with myself if you died? I barely hold it together as it is. Fuck."
Your eyes soften for a split second, but you regain your composure instantly. "It doesn't have to be that way. It doesn't have to end with either of us dying."
He groans at your incessant insistence. "You're right. It doesn't have to end that way. But it almost always does."
You look at him and stay silent, and he can see you trying to come up with another argument to counter, but he knows there are none.
He gets up, and stands in front of you, his back straight. "I don't know how else to explain it to you. I made a mistake letting us get to this point. And I wish things were different. But they're not, and I can't pretend like none of it ever happened just because I think I'm in love with you."
He hadn't even realised the words had formed in his mind, but he had said them, they had escaped his lips before he had a chance to catch them.
Painful regret floods him as he looks at you to see your reaction.
Your eyes have misted over. "You think... You're in love with me?"
He clenches his jaw and shakes his head. "No—I mean yes." He sighs, feeling like a ten tonne weight has lifted from its resting place in his chest. "Fuck."
"This is perfect," you say, but your tone is anything but perfect.
"I'm sorry," he says, trying to approach you, but he stops himself.
You step out of his reach. "Don't do that." Your voice breaks, and with it, his heart. "You're not sorry."
"I am, I want this—I—Oh, give me a break," he sighs, every fibre in his being screaming at him to fix things, to make it right. But he can't. Making it right means endangering you. "Clem, don't make it any harder than it has to be."
"I won't," you say, as you walk out of his bedroom. Leon catches a tear rolling down your cheek as you turn.
"Clementine," he calls out, following you.
This can't be happening.
"Good luck on the rest of your mission, Leon," you say, as you grab your bag from his kitchen island. Your voice is unfamiliar, like he's never heard you utter a word before. "Don't do anything as stupid as this."
And before he can say anything else, the door is closed, and he's left alone, with nothing left except the lingering smell of your perfume and his thoughts.
(a/n: writing this chapter made me so sad)