Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

what’s a dead end to a dead man walking? / 
hittin’ that wall everything’s exhausting / 
everybody’s fake and they won’t quit talking 

Once, long ago, a poet wrote that one should not battle monsters, unless they wanted to become one. 

Within recent months, the saying had only started to sound like some fucked up joke.

If God were merciful, no human being would ever have to experience anything wretched, and joy would bloom like flowers into the world, neverending. A sunshiny future without a spec of ruin, forever breathing life into the hopeless mundane that only proved to continuously butcher the soul of man. How many ways could a person be cut apart, after all, before something sinister formed? Such beautiful blossoms spread their petals and stretch toward the sun, but rot would always be discovered underneath – after all, the body decays, and the soil absorbs, and the cycles begin anew. How wretched it is, to know that such things will be uprooted, one way or another. Greed and toil and cruelty: humanity was guilty of them all, and to some, deserved righteous punishment. So, those who were born in a cage, with other beasts, would leave their containment more violent than they entered. 

A monster for a monster, an eye for an eye – it’s just that Leon Kennedy didn’t anticipate so much twisted irony. 

In retrospect, four decades into this life and nearing five, he wonders if he was actually born the same way that some of the sickening experiments that he’d seen over the years: had he not suffered the same way, trapped under the weight of other people’s evil deeds, his body a means for their own end? Was he not here, mangled and tortured, an uncanny version of himself that was forced to walk the earth until his last, anticipated breath? In so many ways, he finds himself wondering what all of his wounds were for, if he was better being left to wander the flattened earth that remained of his memories since they seemed to follow him everywhere he goes. 

The world seems to agree with his bleak outlook: it’s raining, building from the drizzle that had stuck around like a bad cold – the late fall air is cold with it, crisp as it enters his lungs. He’s off digging around in shit that shouldn’t be any of his business, an expertise he’d gotten very good at over the years, for a myriad of reasons. Usually, he would be up to such trouble for the expense of someone he loved, morphing into a sharpened protector, the blade that would plunge deep and expunge the world of the wickedness that threatened those he held dear. Tonight, however, he’s in the opposite business: what he longed to solve was shared, between him and several lifelong friends – it was Leon’s fate just as much as it was theirs. 

So, that’s how he ended up where he was now, his boots sinking into fresh mud as he wanders toward the shadow of a building – it’s been abandoned, that much is clear by its lack of residents, but furthermore the state it was in. Hinges looked rusted, paint peeling, and the bricks were slowly corroding away with each year. On the side of the building, in what used to be pristine gold lettering, it says GREEN OAK APARTMENTS. The second E is missing from the word green, though, so it really reads GREN OAK APARTMENTS, several other letters having seen better days. It’s a surprise that there was even anything discovered here, let alone a crime scene that had been shoddily cleaned up by the police and left to rot like the rest of the place. Sniffing, Leon clears his throat, and fights off wincing. 

Beneath his collar, where darkness bloomed on his skin and spread like wildfire, he can feel the lasting ache of his past threatening to overtake him. A thousand ghosts were squeezing at his throat, but this time, they were getting mighty close to really doing him in – but maybe this time, Leon really deserved it, because he should share the same mass grave. Yet there he was, breathing, and watching as a bolt of lightning cuts the sky and ignites the area like a camera flash before darkening again. His hand comes up, touching his ear piece to let static crackle into his ear canal – this far off grid, and his communications become a little shoddy. 

“Sherry,” he says, voice rough from disuse for the hours he spent driving in the car, “I’m here.” 

“Glad you made it,” the response is springy, upbeat in a way that Leon appreciates. A distraction from how his thoughts are continuously jagged and sharp, if he wasn’t careful, he’d splice himself open. A situation that Leon was disturbed by, because if he started pouring everything he held within out, he wasn’t sure where it’d stop. Years of trying to repair the wounds he met that fateful night almost thirty years ago, and all of it slowly unravelled by the realization that despite everything, he actually didn’t make it out. Raccoon City was still with him, in the atoms of his body, for so many years. A blight on his soul that was never removed, no matter how much he tried to be better. 

A bitter aftertaste floods his mouth, and Leon’s mouth turns down with a tired sigh, “Alright. Talk to me. What floor was the body on?” 

“Based on the report, the third – it’s got all the same signs that are listed about the condition,” Sherry explains, tapping on her keyboard that clacks a bit in the lower register of the connection, “there should be some more stuff up there regarding the victim, or at least, let’s hope there is.” 

“Got it,” Leon replies, finally reaching the side door that had the orange of rust. The hinges scream when he puts pressure, and even with his whole weight against it – the damn thing doesn’t budge. His teeth grit, and his breath comes out harsh, but no merit presents itself: his body aches in a telling way, like a horrid bruise that he keeps pressing on purpose. “No luck getting in down here. Seems like the place is sealed. Can you look at the floor plan, tell me if there’s another way in?” 

“I’m looking, just hold on,” there’s a lag in time that gives Leon a chance to massage his hand through his glove, trying in vain to get the sore feeling to disperse. No luck, of course, but the attempt to soothe was there anyway, “found an old floorplan. It seems like the only other way in would be from the basement door around the back. It should have some steps heading down.” 

“Around the back. I can do that. I’m on my way,” he says, reaching into his pocket and producing his flashlight, because around the sides of the building grew too dark to make sense of. In order to find his route, visibility was necessary, especially because there was no telling what kind of horrific shit was lurking out of the corner of his eye.

“Be careful,” Sherry requests, and Leon nods to himself, even though she can’t see it. 

“You know me, always careful,” the words come out as a drawl, though he can feel the exasperated smile on Sherry’s face before the sound of their call cuts. After that, it’s just the pattering of rain and the slow rumble of thunder. It’s a bit hard to pick up his pace, but Leon gets there, his breaths coming out in a puff against his flashlight. Around the left side of the building, there’s a small alcove between this building and the next. He was on a quaint little street that was in the middle of nowhere, everything packed up and gone for one reason or another, and there used to be a brick and mortar shop next door. 

A sign is posted in the window, growing foggy with disrepair: SMILE! YOU’RE ON CAMERA! 

“Huh,” Leon mumbles, “hope they get my good side.” 

With that, his feet carry him down the muddied space before it becomes concrete – at some point, this space was clearly paved, but nature is slowly running its course. Some kind of bitter humor  was there, if Leon wanted to seek it out, but that hadn’t been his speciality anyway, that belonged to – his pace was halted near violently, eyes squeezed shut. There’s a fuzzy feeling in his hands that had nothing to do with wounds or anxiety. Shimmering topaz fills his vision, and on his next inhale he can almost smell spice, as if his brain longed to manifest the subject of his thinking into the real world beside him. 

“Not now,” he whispers to himself, “I can’t think of him now.” 

More determined than before, he walks until he comes to a gate that was meant to close off the back of the building, and its parking lot: asphalt shimmers on the other side of the chainlink, where the rainwater has gathered. He walks the perimeter of it, from the old store side back to the abandoned building. No door, and no means to get through easily – if his body was not running on limited energy every day, he would simply jump the fence entirely, but the weather was already making every part of him ache – both old wounds and new. Decisively, he reached behind his back to find the handle of his hatchet, cold and certain in his palm: a tool ready for use, just like him. It clicks as he pulls it out of its holder, shoving the blade in the space between the fence and the wall, angling it to peel the chainlink fence up enough for him to grab. Then he pulls it until it bends, giving an opening just enough to crouch through. 

At least property theft was considered petty crime, since not many years ago, he had an extensive list of shit he was charged for. In the eyes of the court, maybe this was betterment: he wasn’t off threatening legal bodies or doing anything that he was accused of. Still, wrongdoing had punishments – he lived with the results now, after all. His soles scrape on the asphalt as he emerges on the correct side of the building, and sure enough, there were the stairs that lead down to the door. Great. Something going to plan, for once. There’s a scruffing noise as he begins his descent, feeling a looming uneasiness, as if he were going straight to the seventh circle of hell. 

He keeps his weight purposefully even, his muscles flexing as he slowly descends, reaching the inevitable door. This one shows signs of wear, too, but it’s mostly just peeling paint – when pushed, the hinges still make a sound of protest, but the door opens with less meddling than the one prior. The air is too still when entering, musty, and the hair on the back of Leon’s neck seems to stand from just the sensation alone. He’d had a similar feeling, back when performing his last grand rescue mission in the heart of Time’s Square. There was something distinctly eerie about the lack of sound, of movement, in a place that once housed both. It seemed that the only noise that could be heard was his own breathing, and distantly, a dripping that was surely coming from the downpour outside. 

His receiver beeps, crackling to life as Leon speaks, sounding loud in the barren room: “I got in. I’m headed up to the third floor now.” 

“I’m reading you. There should be a staircase through a door on the right,” the instruction is followed, and there’s an echoing thud as Leon opens the door, stair spiraling above him as he begins his slow walk up. Damn. Back in the day, he’d sprint these stairs at full speed, but his bones felt made of lead nowadays – heavy, just like his spirit, and the conscience he knew that he would one day have to atone for. Sooner rather than later, his gut said, and he walks up the stairs each grueling step at a time. There’s a sound of retained noise, like an entity looming, and Leon takes a steadying breath as he shakes some of the water that was lingering in his hair. 

“Something you want to talk about, Sherry?” He asks, sensing her curiosity over the line as if they were making eye contact. 

“It’s not really my business,” Sherry is meek, embarrassed that Leon caught her wanting to pry. Some things really don’t change, since reconnecting a few years back properly – at times, she was still just the scared little girl to him, clinging to his hand as dawn finally ended a nightmare so dark that Leon thought he’d never emerge. 

“Seems like I’m not off the hook, though,” Leon comments, “so why don’t you just ask me?” 

“You still… haven’t told Luis about this, have you?” 

A lump forms at the back of Leon’s throat with such efficiency, he wonders if he may choke on it. 

“No,” the word feels like a direct gunshot wound, and twice as painful. 

“So he’s got no idea where you are, or what you’re doing, does he?” 

“Well, he thinks I’m away for work,” the explanation is flimsy, at best, “and technically, I am.” 

“I’m not talking about the investigation. I’m talking about your condition, Leon. He doesn’t know anything, does he?” 

They say that the truth hurts, and Leon is a living example, because God, does it sting to hear it pointed out so plainly. His eyes squeeze shut as if Sherry were twisting a blade inside him, cutting something vital out, and his heart hammers unevenly in his chest. It was wrong, what he was doing – deep down, he knew that, because it didn’t inspire comfort to recall his need to conceal the truth from his partner. Luis Serra was the only person that he knew, without a doubt, that he could not live without. Every bone and organ would shut down and cease functioning, were he ever to vanish without a trace. After all, that nearly happened already, with the aid of alcohol swirling at the bottom of dozens of bottles: Leon could not cope when they were apart in any healthy means. 

That’s what made all this so hard, because if Leon simply didn’t love him, it would be so much easier. Luis’ pain would mean nothing to him, and that intellect could be used to whatever end that Leon desired. Issue was, there was so much that had already been atoned for, bled for, tortured for – how could Leon ask him to do it again? One more time, for old time’s sake? All of this was merely addressing his cardinal sin, which was living. That had nothing to do with Luis, and if Leon had his way, it never would. 

“There’s not much for him to know,” Leon finally settles, voice blunt, “this is my shit to deal with. It’s not on him.” 

“That might be true,” Sherry replies, her voice softening, “I just can’t help but think he’d be heartbroken, if something happened to you.”

“Well nothing’s happened yet,” he replies, “I’ll call you if I find anything.” 

With a haste that he’d later feel bad for, he clicks the call off because the walls were slowly creeping too close for comfort. Fuck. Of course, she had to ask the question that put words to the feeling he’d been harboring – a war waging inside that he’d preferred to combat in silence. He would starve it out, make the anxiety nothing but a skeleton to hide within his own head, buried in the basement where Leon did not feel so much trepidation. Now, the suppressed feelings flood back, his breath catching in a way that has nothing to do with his current physical or mental state: he missed Luis, like a phantom pain, because he always fucking did. Every bullshit mission or lab favor that dragged them in opposite directions had been met with the exact same irritation and impatience to return to form. When they were together, nothing else was important, but now the scales had tipped so tremendously far. 

This kind of business was far different than what they were dealing with before – all those years and circumstances were merely tying up loose ends. Threads that had been knotted into the past that Leon was desperate to yank out like bad stitching. Now, it was directly tied to Leon, to his past as that rookie cop that knew no better – the circumstances started to shift. He knew what this led back to, the horrid monsters from that night, crafted from a virus that had once been between two hands that he now adored. How could he look Luis in the face, knowing what kind of stain it would leave, how it would draw feelings that he’d been trying to shed for years back into the light? Force him to reconcile with the demons that had long since been put to bed, the way Leon was forcing himself to? 

A pain shared is half of one. And yet. Leon would take on every bit of the weight, to protect what mattered most to him. Beneath the black leather of his glove, the ring finger on his left hand feels as if it is burning, an ill timed reminder. 

Whatever personal realization was trying to brew within the corner of his mind was cut short by his arrival to the third floor, the door left slightly ajar. It was a relief, in a way, because there would be no need to use brute force to make his way in – Leon can simply enter, with nothing stopping him. He didn’t get many wins in his life nowadays, so he’d take whatever he could get, stepping through the doorway and onto the floor properly. Paperwork that Sherry had provided stated that the man had died in room 307, so he sped up his pace to get there faster. How abandoned this place is starts being revealed, on this floor especially – it was the perfect height to be exposed to all kinds of elements, rain included, which pelts onto the carpet floor and makes it squelch under Leon’s footsteps. 

It smells almost pungently earthy, woodsy in a way that’s borderline too much, like mold. It’s the kind of scent that makes his face scrunch, uncomfortably, and he keeps his pace to a slow advance. It’d been over ten years since such an experience had graced his presence, and it couldn’t be put behind fast enough, just like last time. Each letter, now scratched and faded from their former glory, shines absently as he passes – 304, 305, 306 – and then finally the fated door that has Leon stopping in place. There’s a bright burst of yellow in his vision, police tape that stamps out a clear message: that this space had once been closed off and investigated, but it’d long since been cut and limply extends toward the floor. The handle looks slightly damp from all the gathered condensation, and Leon’s hand circles around it, twisting until it clicks. 

Inside the old apartment, there’s more evidence of it once being a crime scene: numbed plaques litter the room, tape strewn about like party streamers, and of course – there’s nothing here that would be outwardly obvious. No body, as it was hauled off after being reported, and most objects that may have once been helpful gathered for evidence. Still, it was worth following every lead until there was no trail left, because Leon was running out of options. Every inch of wiggle room he’s lost was felt, physically, and soon he would be completely encased in the reality that wanted to rip him down. As if on cue, his body suddenly aches sharply, and he hisses a breath through his teeth. 

“Fuck,” he forces the curse out of his mouth, under his breath, eyebrows cinching together, “c’mon. Focus.” 

He scans his environment significantly slower than he’d like, mapping the space mentally and trying to catch details to the best of his ability. Where the body was lying was obvious: there was blackened sludge caked to the floor, swallowing the gleam of his flashlight like a black hole. His stomach twists a bit – it’s familiar, because he’d thrown up a very similar substance after being cut out of a monster, so many moons ago, but the recollection is fresh as a cut. Turning his attention away, he looks at other places marked – a door with what seemed to be scratches, strewn about furniture, and papers that litter the floor with no rhyme or reason. Most of them seemed to be bills, or adverts, all stuck with the grime of place. 

Shit, Leon thinks, don’t tell me this place is a bust. I need something, anything. 

It’s a level of desperation that he hasn’t felt in a while, what he does next. Rounding to the left, he walks through the door that leads to the bedroom. It’s dark and left completely untouched, sheets still in disarray on the bed, and smelling of mildew. Still, he goes to the bedside table, grabbing the drawer and yanking it open with such haste it rattles. Nothing worthy of note: batteries, an old worn book of The Catcher in the Rye, and tablets of aspirin that have started to become crumbly with the exposure to the damp air. Leon shuts it decisively, growing more irritable by the second, heading to the chest of drawers and starting to yank every single one of them open. He goes so far to dig, but only clothing seems to come out, still smelling absently of detergent and stale air. 

When that produces nothing, he stands and turns in a slow circle, trying to center. His mental state is spinning out so quickly that he is struggling to maintain his grip. His chest starts expanding and collapsing at an alarming rate, and it’s making him angry that he’s having this reaction. Best it happens when he’s alone, though, because Sherry needed him put together. Everyone did, and so he allowed himself a second to feel the raw panic wanting to pulse through him with a rush of adrenaline. Then his next breath seems to get stuck, and Leon coughs, hard enough to wrack his ribcage, and another follows. Another, and another, and suddenly he’s struggling to breathe. 

“Oh God,” he gasps, “fucking Christ.” 

Breathe! His mind screams. Do something! 

And Leon is trying, for fuck’s sake, and the air in here really wasn’t doing any favors, so it wasn’t like it was easy. His vision is winking, oh, Jesus, this was not the time – 

Easy, the voice floats into his mind so easily, slipping under his defenses, warm and gentle. Shhh, Sancho. Estas bien. We’ll breathe together, no? With me. In. 

As if the voice was tangible, and Leon was commanded, his lungs inflate as he inhales. 

Bueno. Now out, Luis’ voice bounces around inside his skull, and the air releases. For a moment, everything feels absolutely fine, and the alarms that were ringing in every atom of Leon’s body finally cease. All the scattered pieces of his psyche slowly pull together until it melds together true. His next inhale is unobstructed, and he continues his slow scouring of the apartment. There was nothing to meltdown about, and until something else was found, he didn’t need to have this kind of reaction. It was too early to be under this much pressure, but it’d been months of deaths, all followed up on – yet, nothing to show. And every day, the web of black keeps spreading across his skin, with no end in sight. 

He circles back, passing the tiled bathroom that has nothing inside, mirror cabinet ajar with not even a prescription to help him. Back in the living room, he begins surveying the walls in a way he hadn’t before, pieces of art in frames that were fogged over, a calendar that had the date marked, the last one the man who lived here was alive: August 27th, 2026, and the pages were gummed together by the humidity. He moves into the kitchen that is connected to the living room, littered with silverware and old dishes left to mold in the sink. Feeling dejected, Leon turns to leave, but the shimmer of his flashlight reflects back. That makes him pause, wandering to the side of the kitchen that has a window facing the front of the building, raindrops making their paths down the glass as he steps closer. 

On the wall, framed and well loved, there’s a photo of two men facing the camera. They both are drinking beers, grinning wide, arms wrapped around each other in a fond embrace. Beside that, there’s a clipping from a newspaper, the letters in bold: SURVIVORS OF RACCOON CITY SPEAK OUT. It’s outlined in red, an arrow pointing to a margin, a scrawl written on white: that’s us, baby! We lived! 

With a steady hand, Leon reaches to pull the frame off the wall, wincing in apology, “Sorry. I’ll be taking this.” 

He flips it over and starts undoing the clasps holding it shut, a bit of an extensive job with his gloves, but he manages. Then, he pulls the backing off with a gentle hand to get eyes on the back of the photograph – it presents exactly what he hopes for, stamped in the same script from the article: ELDRIDGE CELEBRATION, 2005. Bingo. He reaches up to his ear piece and presses it softly. 

“Sherry,” he says, “I got a lead. Can you look something up for me?” 

“You got it. What do you have?” 

“Another survivor. It seems like there’s at least one in Eldridge. Knowing what’s gonna happen, maybe we can find him first.” 

“Eldridge, huh? Seems pretty far from your location. It’s gonna be quite a few hours, and it’s late as it is.” 

“Hmph. Telling me I need my beauty sleep?” 

“You’ve been pushing hard. Better take a load off, before things get any worse.” 

“Say no more, I heard you. I’ll get some rest. For your sake,” Leon murmurs, “over and out. Talk to you tomorrow.” 

“Talk to you then. And, Leon?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Take care of yourself. Please.” 

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll handle it, Sherry. Promise.” 

With that out of the way, the call finally ends, and Leon is left with the silence and his own thoughts. A clear direction forward has presented itself, and with it, there’s a sense of discomfort being in the space that once housed a fellow survivor. It made macabre thoughts manifest, wondering if this is what his shared condo back home will look like, should he succumb to his symptoms as the other living remnants of that nightmare did. Wouldn’t it be poetic, that Racoon City began his descent into darkness, and would ultimately be the cause of his death? A slow poison that had been infecting him for thirty years, decomposing him from the inside out? If he were to cut himself open now, would he find strings of mold connecting his internal organs, the way that Evelyn had used them to connect the entirety of the hotel together as one mind? 

If that were to happen, would Luis leave it abandoned, the way he left his own home as a child? Would Leon be forgotten in wake of the need to self preserve, or would he be remembered fondly by his lover? All questions with no set answer, and it frustrated him to no end, having no idea when his own death would appear on his doorstep. Thus, Leon heads out of the apartment complex, with a speed that felt as if death itself were on his heels, breathing down his neck. In terms of his own morality, truly, there was no fear – he was ready to die long before today, many years ago, and spent everyday wanting for it. Now, the worry that stems is how Luis would handle that, should the event occur. It sparked action in him when the spread first started, and it inspires it now: every move he made was in devotion to the love he held, deep in his soul, that he wanted to protect with everything in him. 

Time passes in a blur, and when Leon is next back in his own head, not in the condo hundreds of miles away, he’s at the bottom floor. Instead of heading to the back door, he stops at the side entrance instead, finding it bolted closed with finality. His eyes stare at it for a moment too long, a scoff exiting his throat as he shakes his head with mild irritation. Of course. 

“Tch,” he breathes, “no wonder it wouldn’t budge. Thanks for that, pal.” 

It’s still a bit of a pull to get the bolt to slide, and it crunches with the movement, which says that it’s trying to rust together. With a flex of his muscle, it finally slides enough to force the door open, and Leon makes the trek back into the drizzle. Water gathers in his hair, slipping down the strands and over the side of his face. His skin prickles, and he reaches to wipe it away, feeling far colder than he did upon arrival. At the edge of his property, his car shimmers like a beacon, drawing him ever closer to safety. It felt like a bit of a luxurious purchase at the time that he splurged on it, the vehicle was a Porsche, which was not really his style at first – but it’s grown on him. A conversation had convinced him when his old car started to run on empty, and his partner insisted that they could not go everywhere by bike. That was a fair assessment, Leon decided, and thus used a chunk of saved funds to pay for it. He’d picked a larger model on purpose, for the sake of giving room to friends in the back – but mostly, so that Luis could lounge in the passenger seat, and not feel cramped. 

The space feels notably empty when he gets behind the wheel, in a way that feels foreboding: a tomb awaiting a corpse, but death just hadn’t dawned yet. 

If he thought hard enough, he could imagine Luis beside him, how he had a thousand times before. But at this moment, more than ever, it felt like a betrayal – so he does as he was told by Sherry, turning the engine over and listening to it purr to life. He shifts gears, pressing the gas pedal down, and making quick work of the mud to find asphalt. Once the tires hit the paved road, it’s easier to pick up speed, and Leon keeps his stare locked forward in a measured way. His mind is elsewhere, longing for home, but unable to return until his ailment is dealt with – if it even got handled, at all. 

What a nightmare, Leon thinks to himself, story of my life. 

About forty minutes of driving out, there was a small tourist city that was built with the intention of turning people to the hiking trails. For the most part, it was lively during the summer, or at least it seemed so – during this time of year though, there was very little public attention. Just locals, and the lack of congestion made Leon feel less cagey. His current state made him particularly paranoid, because exhaustion clung to him more than ever before, and any gap in his ability translated to risk. He parks against the side of the street, opening the door, stepping out to head into the small inn that remained open during the off season. An elderly man ran the counter, nodding at him as he walked past, and the stairs creek as he walked up the stairs to get to the next floor. 

At the top of the stairs, his muscles twinge with the exhaustion he’s been pushing himself through for days on end now, his own corporeal form having a sixth sense that he was about to have rest. He produced the key from his pocket, jingling its greeting before slotting into the door with a satisfying click. Inside, the room had been decorated with theming around nature: above the bed hung a painting of the forest with mountains looming in the background, bright and welcoming, nothing like the dreary night outside the window. The lamps were carved from wood, adorned on natural looking side tables, with pictures of the nearby trails. Leon slips his phone out of his pocket and places it on the one closest to the side of the bed he sleeps on. Rain still pattered as he undressed, scanning the desk where he’d put a file of all he had collected so far, beside a carved statue of a lone wolf – at least this one eyes don’t gleam, the way that the taxidermy creatures did inside the R.P.D Still, a sensation of being watched, and not for the first time since he started poking around this business. 

That was a thought for a later time, though, because remaining suspended in his own abstract fear only stretched his elasticity dangerously thin. So, he wanders into the bathroom, hands coming up to pull at the back of his shirt until it starts peeling off his back, the material damp from the downpour. After it’s been discarded into a wet heap on the floor, his fingers fiddle with his belt until it clicks open, and he can drop his jeans, too. In the too clean mirror, he’s forced to look at the blackening that seemed to stain, spiderwebbing across his torso in intricate, ugly patterns. Unable to help the morbid fascination, he pokes the blackened spot, and feels the dull throb that goes bone deep. 

“Ugh,” Leon grumbles, “goddamn, this sucks.” 

That felt like an understatement, and no clever comment to follow to bring him levity, just the silence of an empty room. He pulls his gloves off, the spindling of black showing there, too, slowly peeling his skin back. Around his ring finger, a line of silver – the ring he shared with Luis, the one good thing that he hadn’t yet soiled. Or maybe, that was giving himself too much credit. 

Leon is left in the quiet of that revelation, every reminder just as unforgiving as the last. 

Deciding that he feels a bit too disturbed by the silence, he strips down and turns on the shower, letting the woosh of water against the tile fill his ears. His mind is filled with the noise, akin to static, and it gives him some reprieve from the intensity of his thoughts. It’d been quite a few years since he’d done so much damn thinking, and in such a detrimental way, that it comes over him harsher than a tsunami wave. It leaves him spluttering, choking on the weight of all of it, and yet he has to walk with the pain with each passing step. At least the spray is warm when he steps under it,  a slow flow of heat that starts to work some of the tension out of his body. It slides down his back, and for a fraction of a moment, it almost reminds him of a hand – his chest constricts with such severe longing that Leon almost thinks his body is going to lock up.

Without the distraction of investigating, and Sherry’s voice in his ear, he’s left to face that horrid wanting all on his lonesome. It’d been a heavy thing to carry, all of this pain and solitude, and he’d been rather ignorant of it before. Sherry had uprooted that, as if his defense mechanism was a nasty weed in need of pulling, and all of his forced incomprehension disappeared. It’d been a hard thing to hear, said with such gentleness over a tinny phone call, but the kindness had only made it worse. Knowing that Luis would be alone without him, sleeping in their bed and reaching over between the sheets, seeking Leon even when he may never return to their shared space. It’d been cruel enough that he’d concealed the truth and put distance between the two of them, a vast rift that Leon had to upkeep, because Luis would tear himself open to try to provide a solution. 

All of it hurt, in some ways, worse than the actual physical deterioration: Leon had nothing except his love, that’s all he could offer, and now? He couldn’t even fucking offer that. Sighing with his own tangled feelings, his forehead meets the cool tile of the wall, water spraying down his shoulders and slipping down his spine. For a long moment, he stays there, letting steam gather, condensation starting to slip down the walls. He only moves when the water starts to run cold, making use of the sample shampoo and conditioner, scrubbing the leftover rain water and dirt out of his hair. His eyes linger at the bottom of the porcelain tub, watching the sediment gather in the drain and disappear – a fitting image for his life the last few months, and the awareness of spending another night like this makes him uneasy. Not for the first time, or what would be the last, and he turns off the shower as the temperature of the water drops to icy. 

Stepping out onto the tile, he grabs one of the fluffy hotel towels, wiping himself down but being mindful of the places he knew he was sensitive – his left forearm, right ribcage, and the side of his neck. All tender and only growing more painful by the day, to the point of awakening every morning with mind numbing agony, stemming from each place. Then he’d get up, forcing himself from the bed, to begin a new day. Sherry had pulled some strings and gotten him some oxycodone, to treat some of the more painful symptoms, but Leon worshiped that discomfort in a cruel way. He didn’t get to forget the people who died because he wasn’t there, or who relied on him and died anyway – the list of graves that he’d unknowingly dug was starting to get staggeringly long. 

He wanders into the hotel room, to the desk on the other side where his duffel sits in the chair, awaiting his use. Unzipping it, he pulls out his clothes, groaning a bit with the effort it takes to put them on. Shit. His body was really starting to argue with him doing the simplest stuff nowadays, and it only translated to irritation – sure, Leon knew that he was getting older, and some parts of him would be less effective. This, however, was pathetic on a level that he didn’t want to stoop to. Years he spent training, keeping himself as pristine as possible, and what did that provide him, except an extravagant coffin to die in? 

Dejected, when he’s finally in more comfortable clothes, he crawls into bed and slips under the sheets. They must have been changed by housekeeping today – the smell of florals is so sharp that it invades all other senses. His head nearly pounds with it, but the tired feeling within weighted all limbs to the mattress. Leon is on the precipice of his eyes slipping shut, slumber wrapping around him and letting him float off for a while – but his phone buzzes. Sitting up a bit, he grabs the device from his bedside table, pulling it over. It lights up bright in the lamplight, and a notification sits across the screen, reading SHERRY. Coordinates, no doubt, and he opens them up to take a quick look. Yup, as suspected – about four hours away. Not a drive that he couldn’t make by any means, but the late hour meant he’d be limited on places to stay. Best to get a start early in the morning and see what he could dig up with a fresh mind. 

He minimizes the window and looks at the lively background, some shit that came with the phone as default that Leon has never bothered to really change, even though he kept swearing he’d get around to it. It’s a long moment of suspension, and really, he should put the device back where it belonged and rest. Instead, he slides his thumb over to look through the icons that were available on the device, looking for one in particular – and finds it, a silhouette of a head, labelled CONTACTS. 

Go to sleep, his mind says, it’s way too late to even be doing this. 

It was, but Leon had no intention of stopping himself. He scrolls through the long list of contacts, all the way to the middle, seeking until he finds the particular name that bounced around his head a thousand times a day, if he were putting it lightly. His thumb touches the phone icon and the screen changes to indicate he started a call, putting the device up to his ear. The line clicks and then hums with the sound of a ring. One passes, then another, and when the third hits – he knew that it was too late to be calling, but he lets the call ring out until it cuts over to voicemail. 

“Hola, this is Dr. Luis Serra. It seems I am indisposed at the moment and can’t make it to the phone, but I’ll make it easy for you, hm? Leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Ciao.” 

It’s a bit pathetic to admit, but Leon let his eyes slip closed while listening. The cadence washes over him, warm as the blankets. It’s over too quickly, and there’s a soft beep, letting him know that the recording has started. 

“Hey you,” Leon starts, voice going a little low with fondness, “I know it’s late, so don’t feel bad about missing my call. Seriously. I… just wanted to let you know I was okay, and that I’m still off doing hero shit, or whatever.” 

It felt like he had to be careful about what he was admitting, because Luis had a knack for picking up his own subtext, even if they weren’t in the same room. That’s what happened when a relationship had gone on for so long – habits become second nature, and behaviors are noticed. It was better that Luis wasn’t aware of the severity of what he was doing, so he kept his tone light, putting in little jokes to make sure that the truth was well concealed. Or, well, as much as a physical wound could be concealed. 

A beat passes, and then Leon breathes out softly, words passing shortly after, “I love you, baby. I’ll be home soon. Don’t miss me too much.”

With that, he pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up, letting the line go dead. He drops his phone on the comforter and sighs, exasperated with his circumstances for the thousandth time. Instead of staying awake and staring at the wall, a blank slate for all of his disorganized thoughts, he stuffs his face into the pillow until the darkness overtakes him entirely, and the world fades out into a dreamless slumber. 

– 

Such horrible revelations began the way all bad things do: with something innocuous that builds into a storm. 

It was the summer that fell on Leon’s forty-seventh birthday, and it’d been a particularly warm season that year. Heatwaves had been issued across the city, people wandered on the street below fanning themselves and waiting beneath the shade of trees that stretched to the sky. Inside the condo, the air conditioner blasted and kept the space cool despite the overwhelming humidity and scorch that was just outside the windows, and Leon had felt keen on sleeping in. It was decided that during the month of July, when he’d get time off for the fourth, he simply would take additional days off since his birthday had lingered close and it could be celebrated. It had not yet come to pass, but he liked having the option to laze around, and it was an opportunity taken up since he didn’t get much of it. Being a part of the DSO kept Leon busy, and having friendly obligations on top of that did additional damage – time for himself was few and far between. 

This morning, he’s not in the mood to get up, curling in on his side to try to build body heat in wake of the frigid air. His nose presses against the pillow of his spouse, and the familiar scent has him chasing a little, burying his nose against the fabric and inhaling. Spice, something warm, a sensation that mixed well with detergent and his own clean scent – the smell of home, familiar and welcoming. A sensation that inspired safety and relaxation, and his eyes stayed shut with intention to drift back off to slumber. That was, until the bed dipped suddenly, taking on more weight in a way that Leon immediately recognized. There was a temptation to open his eyes, but he fought it, intending to play hard to get, since he was being interrupted during resting. 

That would not be something he’d easily reward, but a warm kiss is pressed to his bare shoulder, then another in the crook of his neck. Unable to hide his contentment, Leon sighs, hands sliding up from under the sheet to wrap around his assailant’s shoulders. Finally, his eyes open, and Luis Serra looks at him with all the adoration the world can muster, and then some. 

“Morning,” Leon greets, his voice thick with sleep. 

“Buenos días, mi angelito. How was your rest?” Luis’ voice is more lively, a sign he’s been up for awhile and letting Leon have his time in dreamland – his patience must have run out, craving Leon’s company. So many years into their relationship, all their free time spent together for so many days on end, and Luis was still wishing for their togetherness to never cease. It’s one of the sweetest things about him, and there’s a softness spreading through Leon’s bloodstream already. 

“It was great, ‘til you interrupted me. You miss me or something?” 

“Oye, he’s already starting with an attitude. Dios mio. Can’t a man miss his gorgeous husband?” 

“Flattering me isn’t gonna make me forgive you any quicker,” though Luis’ kisses to the side of Leon’s neck might make him think about it. 

“Mierda, you’re cruel. First thing in the morning, too. Dimelo, how can I make it up to you?” 

“You can start with coffee,” Leon demands, slipping his leg out from under the covers to wrap around Luis’ hip. It scrapes a little, in a way that is enjoyed, because his skin is bare while Luis’ has jeans on, already dressed for the day, “then you can beg for my forgiveness. Maybe I’ll consider it.” 

“Is that so?” Luis asks, his teeth appearing with his grin, a path of heat starting on the outside of Leon’s thigh as a hand drags along the length of his leg, “you drive a hard bargain, Sancho Panza. You’d like to see me grovel, hm?” 

“Maybe,” Leon deadpans, but he absolutely would enjoy it – picturing the visual makes his body warm in a way that has nothing to do with the burning sun outside. 

“Chico listo. I know you would,” Luis’ reply comes out as a purr, and he scrapes his stubble on the side of Leon’s face, “come now, prince charming. I’ll make you coffee and breakfast.” 

“Such a gentleman,” the reply comes naturally, and Leon forces himself out of bed as Luis rises, finding himself hesitant to part now that consciousness seems to be sticking around. It’s an easy walk, one that Leon could do blind if he really tried, because it was the same old song and dance. Down the hallway, and into the living room – years ago, it was so bare and empty that it was no wonder that Leon was depressed. In the present day, it’s completely furnished – his couch was replaced with an upholstered loveseat, and a matching chair, things that both of them picked out to match the extravagant art on the walls. Bookshelves lined every free piece of wall, and dozens of books stuffed inside, courtesy of Luis. 

Antique weapons are also mounted, things from an era long past, and a few other bits and bobs that had been decided upon to accent the room. Completely lived in, for years now, and only collecting more as the years pass. They cross the hardwood and plush rug that Leon had insisted on buying for their anniversary the year before, so that Luis could read at night with his slippers on and not get cold. It was a bit laughable, really, looking at his trajectory – when he’d originally went to Spain, honed like a weapon by Krauser’s influence, he would have never allowed himself such softening. Sure, Leon cared about other people’s comfort, but not to the extent of this – hundreds and hundreds of dollars spent on a single item, just for the sake of Luis’ day to day being easier. 

In the kitchen, there’s a pause taken to pull a chair out, politely offering Leon a place to sit. Purposefully, he turns his head away from Luis to hide his smile, not wanting to expose fondness in such a direct way. It’s not as if Leon’s love for him was a secret, anyway, but it’s part of their endless dynamic – he makes Luis work for it, which is something that is obviously enjoyed, otherwise why would they have gotten married over ten years ago? Settling into the seat, Leon is in an apt position to watch: Luis wanders to their fridge and opens it, producing eggs and setting them on the counter along with a few other things: spinach, diced mushrooms from a dinner they had a day or so ago, and bacon. Lastly, he pulls out cheese and gets to work, humming to himself under his breath. 

“You feeling alright?” Luis prompts as he pulls the frying pan to the right burner, clicking it on to let it heat while he cracks the eggs in a bowl. 

“Better than I deserve,” Leon replies, stretching and then wincing a little as a dull throb echoes through his right side, “fuck. Chris really kicked my ass training last week, though. Goddamn.” 

“Pobrecito, such hard work to maintain a body like yours,” even though cooking was being done, Leon can practically sense the salacious look that must be stretching across Luis’ face, even when his back was the only part of him visible. 

“Hmph. It’s got its benefits,” the undertone of the statement is intentionally vague, but Leon knew exactly what purposes that his partner longed to use his body for. It was a bit early to cause trouble, but it was inevitable between them – eventually, they would circle back to one another and demand payment in skin. For now, however, his stomach was quite empty, and coffee sounded mighty appealing. 

“That it does, amor mio,” Luis pours the bowl into the skillet and it sizzles. His fingers are deft as they spin the spatula, organizing the eggs, “work’s been busy for the both of us, hm?” 

“Too fucking busy. I miss having time with you.” 

“You’ve got time now, no?” 

“Trust that I’m making good use of it,” Leon says, a bit lazily, eyes lingering on the width of Luis’ shoulders in a telling manner. But only while he wasn’t watching, because it would take the fun out of the game played between them – an endless cat and mouse that feels so coveted that Leon is still helplessly addicted to it all these years later. That was the effect of Luis on him, the kind of lovesickness that felt lethal, and nothing left to do but ride the wave. Something that he figured, back when, would eventually fizzle out – yet he was still just as in love as the fateful day they met, in Luis’ home country, under the blanket of pitch black. 

The kitchen goes quiet then, but a comfortable kind of silence – secure, and not at all pressing. It was Leon’s nature to always want to fill the space with barbs and quips, to keep the commentary running, so that nothing would become too stark in the dead air. Luis continues humming in a relaxing manner, and it’s almost enough that Leon could fall asleep, until the clicking of plates brings him back to full awareness. Upon the dish, Luis presents an omelette – it smells delicious, and Leon’s belly grumbles as he digs in right away, having to breathe uncomfortably when the food presents as too hot. 

“Eager, are we, Sancho?” Luis asks, and Leon gives him a dirty look that only causes a laugh to erupt, bright and joyful, “here’s your coffee, cariño. Give it some time to cool before you burn your tongue.” 

“Whatever,” Leon grumbles, “I’m hungry.” 

“Ya veo,” the reply is humored as the Spaniard settles in the chair across from him, looking utterly ravishing. His face is accented by the flowers placed in a vase, gifts from Ashley during her weekly visit, due to her not living in their spare room anymore. Daisies and daffodils and sunflowers – all things that remind him distinctly of Ashley Graham, a way to have her here even when she’s gone. Luis continues, voice fond while he sips his own coffee, “you look nice this morning.” 

“You say that every morning,” Leon returns, picking up his cup to sip at. 

“Exactemente. I do, and every day, it only rings more true,” a compliment highlighted with teeth, a smile that stretches without a care in the world, “what, dear Sancho, are you trying to say? Calling me a liar?” 

“You said it, not me.” 

“Very clever, amor mio. Here I am, being sweet to you, and this is what I’m rewarded with?” Luis’ foot slides across the polished floor, slipping up over Leon’s ankle in a fond way. 

“No less than what you deserve,” Leon’s expression contradicts the words, he’s unable to fight the smirk on his face. His casual demeanor is slowly being cracked down the middle and peeled away, and there was no one better to do that to him than Luis. There’s a raise of an eyebrow, a drawing of silence, and then Luis gets up out of his chair. It may as well have been an electric shock – Leon shivers with the implications, and the soft steps on the wood confirm that their distance was going to close, whether it was preferred or not. 

“Perhaps I should do something to quell your disposition this morning, ey, Leon? Since it seems you’ve awoken in a mood,” Luis purrs, and there’s a swell in Leon’s chest that drops right to his belly. 

“Maybe you should,” Leon replies, scooting out a little from the table so that he’s more easily accessible, “don’t wanna put up with me like this all day, do you?” 

“Quite right,” his partner replies, stepping between the stretch of Leon’s legs which only open further to accommodate him, “would be cruel of me to leave you like this, no?” 

There’s a retort lingering in Leon’s mouth, but it’s forgotten in wake of Luis’ lips pressing against his, soft and reverent. It’s a warm embrace, a claim of affection that he’s weak to, jaw tilting up to support the angle. Warm fingers settle at Leon’s nape, nails scraping through the hair there, and this time he really shudders in the chair. A swipe of tongue follows, and Leon’s mouth opens on instinct, letting Luis into his mouth with practiced ease. It’s involuntary, then, that a moan sounds just with the movement – desire so potent that it flooded Leon’s nervous system with heat. Years later, every time Luis touched him, it only stoked the flames that burned within: no matter how many times they went at it, all of the feelings became reforged in the coals of Leon’s longing, growing larger instead of smaller as each ear passed. 

“Que rico. You’re so sweet, when you’re this excited,” Luis murmurs, kissing over Leon’s jaw where their stubble scratches, a laziness that he’d grown into. Facial hair seemed to bother less, and it was an opportunity to give as good as Leon got, scraping along Luis’ body and leaving a mark in its wake. 

“Shut it,” Leon replies, but his voice has lost its bite. 

“Interesente. Still insulting me, hm?” The words are stamped with kisses down Leon’s neck as Luis settles onto the hardwood floor, “look at how you make me, Sancho. Does it not please you, having me on my knees?” 

“Fuck,” the word finally cracks the act that Leon is putting on, down the middle, “yeah, it does.” 

“That’s what I thought,” fingers slide under the shirt Leon wore to bed, a thin cotton that crumples easily as his navel is exposed. Then, Luis leans close, breathing over his skin with an attention so intense that it seems dangerous, lips pressing to where his hips draw a line toward his groin. A slide of hot tongue makes a strangled noise slip out, and Luis’ chuckle vibrates against Leon’s flesh in a maddening way. Then, the elastic of his boxers is pulled back and slipped down his thighs just so, and his cock smacks on his belly – wanton and throbbing already, implications already morphing his state to needy. 

Luis chooses that moment to kiss the head of his cock, licking over the slit, and holy shit, it was already overwhelming. It’s embarrassing, how there’s an immediate gush of fluid, Leon’s gut squeezing indulgently. Somewhere, the emotion of shame was trying to manifest, but it’s quelled by Luis’ groan – enjoyment, in the most depraved way. Their eyes meet, and Luis’ burn akin to whiskey on fire, before his mouth opens and slips down Leon’s length without a single second of delay. 

“Luis,” the name comes out as a moan, desperate and heaving, “Jesus–” 

There’s some kind of echoing response, but it only comes as humming, the sound crawling up Leon’s spine with a suffocating kind of ecstasy. It’s too easy, to fall into proper habits – his fingers thread into Luis’ hair, soft between his fingertips. Despite the action being lewd, some part of Leon feels emotional as he watches the strands stretch in his grasp, how silver catches the light. Years ago, there was a consideration of never seeing this kind of future: that the likelihood that they would grow old together was foreign and unattainable. It’s such a beautiful thing, to love someone so long, to know that all of their changes – wrinkles and gray hair, voices deepening with age – would be witnessed together. Adoration that grows around his heart and ribs like ivy, forever. 

Movement comes easier now, Luis has set into a rhythm that leaves Leon disarmed, his thighs spreading apart with the languid feeling of intimacy, making him looser. Typically he’s so tightly wound that it threatens to jam, his mind a constant movement, an analytical headspace that drove him nearly mad: here, he was adored, and protected, unleashed in a way that he so rarely could be. There was no anxiety here, no lingering memory waiting to suffocate him into submission – affection flowed through him faster than his own blood, aided by the thudding of his heart in his chest, faster than bird wings. 

On Luis’ next ministration, Leon’s hips jut forward beyond his own control, the trembling from holding back explodes into a rapid thrust. There’s a slight noise of strain from Luis, and there’s a murmured apology. Leon wasn’t intending to make him uncomfortable, it was just natural continuity, and with a slick sound, they separate. 

“I didn’t mean to,” Leon says, low in his register, “I’m sorry, babe.” 

“Estas bien, amor mio,” Luis replies, his voice a little rough from the usage of his mouth. It only serves to make Leon’s cock throb with want, “you just surprised me. You can fuck my mouth, honey. Let me relax for you, hm?” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“Hush,” the demand is softened, but it was one nonetheless, and all fight floods out of Leon as fast as it came, “anda. Use me.” 

“Christ,” the curse comes out too easily, and the sight of Luis, tongue sliding over his teeth, is almost too much to bear. Even if he’d had reservations of doing this, even all these years in, his need wipes it away without a second thought. All the pressure in Leon’s gut is becoming very overwhelming, so he lets his body follow the urge: his length slipping back into the wet, hot cavern of Luis’ mouth. All of the world narrows except for where Leon was deriving pleasure, his head falling back with a moan that rings through the condo, panting obscenely as he does as he was told; his hips begin their own pace, quick and selfish. Luis’ tongue had no business taking him apart in such a way, his body shaking with the overload, and good lord – this was going to be embarrassingly quick. 

“Luis,” he breathes, on the edge of so pent up that he might combust. There’s no reply, just an answering moan, hands drawing up his sides in encouragement. All of it proves to be too much, the suction of Luis’ mouth, the fond way he touches Leon’s body like it were his own – all done with love, the kind that has enthralled Leon since the moment they met each other. His spine bends forward, hands splaying on Luis’ shoulders, feeling the sturdiness of him. One thrust, and then another, and – oh fuck– 

Luis’ fingers brush something that hurts, a dull throb, and yet it somehow does it for him: Leon’s orgasm hits so hard that he chokes on his own breath. He feels the pressure finally collapse in his gut, heat pathing up his length until he can feel himself coming into Luis’ waiting mouth. It’s obscene how Luis swallows, his facial hair scraping softly as he presses kisses to Leon’s inner thigh, smiling as if he were the happiest man in the world. 

Hello, Leon’s soul says, you are still everything to me, did you know? 

“You alright?” It’s a whisper, a bit throaty, but Leon still longed to ask. 

“Bueno. More than alright, prince charming,” his lover replies, beginning to stand up from the floor. Leon’s hands reach out on instinct to help steady him, and then stay wrapped around the width of his partner’s body afterward, just to feel the weight of him. Birds chirp outside, voices sound in the stairwell, and happiness brims and overflows in the depths of Leon’s body. For a moment, all is still, and nothing else matters. A rustle of fabric draws attention, and his eyes drop down to see tanned fingers pulling up the cotton, exposing a bit of Leon’s midriff. 

“You’re quite tender here,” Luis observes, fingers pressing lightly into Leon’s left rib, “it looks like Chris bruised you. Cabròn. I’ll have to get him for that later.” 

Leon, a bit dizzy after coming down from his orgasm, looks down at where his shirt had lifted up. Sure enough, there was a darkening of his skin, black and ugly – a bruise blossoming in wake of his hard work the week before. 

“Goddamn. Guess he did,” Leon murmurs, “I’ll ice it later. Don’t worry about it too much.” 

“Claro,” Luis returns, kissing the side of his face. “I love you.” 

Leon smiles. It’s the easiest thing in the world, and mentally, he categorizes the blood pooling beneath his skin for later, looking to make the hurt disappear entirely. 

Except the bruise never faded, no matter how much Leon tried – it only spread, like blood in the water. 

– 

The following day is worse than the one before, and Leon hadn’t even gotten halfway through it yet. 

It began with the buzzing of his phone, bringing him to consciousness, and it had been nearly violent sounding in his ear. Every atom enclosed in his body seemed to sing in complete agony, but he’d forced himself up with a groan, grabbing the device and answering. Of course, it had been Sherry, warning him of a report: a murder in Elbridge, meaning their lead was just found, quite literally, dead in the fucking water. It’d made anger spike, every nerve aflame with it, and he’d gotten dressed with an efficiency that reminded him of his army days: suiting up, to go face an unnamed threat, yet again. 

Every hour in the car was grueling, his hand burned, and flexing it did nothing to assist him. Atop that physical pain, there was the emotional one: another life lost, that Leon could have saved, but had once again run out the clock. A familiar wound, reopened and bleeding, slowly poisoning him with infection. Another second wasted on bullshit, and he still wasn’t doing enough, despite putting his own life on the line time and time again. It took active effort to unclench his jaw, to release the mounting pressure, because otherwise he’d cause more distress. 

By the time he’s looking at the body in Elbridge, a certain sense of dread settles into his stomach, investigating the markings that were growing throughout. A brand of destruction, a lasting nightmare that seems to stretch into infinity: the mark of Umbrella, and all of their wrongdoing, etched into skin until it decomposed. Sometimes, staring at it so starkly freaked him out a bit – like a window into his near future, should nothing be done, as the sand in the hourglass was beginning to move at a remarkably fast rate. 

It was an unfortunate circumstance, having to view the corpse: it shows the disgusting rot for what it was, and it only soured him on his own circumstances. What a horrid thing, to be stood in front of a decaying mirror, knowing exactly what would happen when the spreading affliction would consume his soul. Would it stop his heart in his body? Collapse his lungs? Or perhaps something worse, trap him inside his own consciousness, forced to witness the carnage wrought by his own hands and teeth? Taste the blood that would inevitably leak down his throat, like those he witnessed in Raccoon City? Who knew what this all was anyway, so it could be likely. 

I hope to God that Luis never sees me like that, he thinks wandering back toward the police tape. Or if he does, let him have the strength to kill me. 

When he gets back to where it’s closed off, red and blue lights dancing atop vehicles, he pulls it up to slip under. No sooner does he finish the movement when his ear piece crackles, a call begins, and he anticipates the voice before a word is spoken. 

“Talk to me,” Sherry requests, “is this one like the others?” 

“Same black blotches,” Leon replies, answering her inquiry. 

“And it’s not postmortem livity?” It was a valid follow up, but Leon finds himself somewhat disjointed: how could it be, when he bears the same mark of the beast? Rain pelts among the scene, pouring down from an unfeeling sky, dripping along the side of Leon’s face in an annoying path he longed to soothe. Instead, he wanders back to his waiting car, readying himself for what would come next. 

“No,” he remembers to respond, “no, this is different.” 

Every bootfall feels heavier than the last under the silence, his mind slowly recounting every face he’d been searching after for months, one after the other – a wretched pattern that showed no sign of slowing, only accelerating, until no soul from Racoon City was left to tell the tale. Him included. 

“That’s six now,” his tone is grave, the assessment damning, “six survivors of Raccoon City all dead from the same thing.” 

“Yeah,” Sherry matches his temperament, “that’s… not good.”

You’re telling me, Leon thinks, but does not say. 

“No. No it’s not.” Best to leave it at that, since what else was there to assess? What other damnation was waiting, other than to become a legacy tarnished? His gloved hand extends to open the door, a quiet safety awaiting him as Leon slips inside his car, settling into the passenger seat with a barely present sigh. 

“But,” the next word comes swiftly, “I have something for you. The team has settled on a person of interest.” 

His hand extends to grab his phone, a notification presenting itself: messages. Yeah, still there. Leon had gleaned it earlier, when going through files sent: the heading LUIS had stared back at him like some kind of entity, awaiting his eyes. It’d started with some kind of sentimental meaning, probably, because the preview had said I got your message, I wanted to… but Leon hadn’t bothered opening it. Not yet, and not here, where his heart was so terribly vulnerable. Instead, he swipes through the files sent by Sherry: a hooded figure with some kind of head piece that made him seem like a cartoonish villain. Leon a few years ago would have given some kind snarky remark, but in the present, it dies in his throat. 

“Someone with ties to Umbrella,” Sherry continues, “Victor Gideon.” 

Goddammit. Even years removed, the parasite of a company couldn’t stay where it belonged – buried in the rubble of the past. Leon feels his eyebrows pinching together, a strain that his whole body followed, tension spreading in every limb. 

“Who is he?” Leon asks, setting the device aside. 

“A former T-Virus researcher,” somehow, the present echoes the past, because Leon also knew of a former researcher that had shared his home for over two decades now. It breeds the emotions he feels tied to all this: disgust, and anger, that the rest of the world could not be as good hearted as Luis. Where was the conscience among these people? No matter how hard Leon tried to see it, a resounding truth only seemed to become more concrete. Rotten to the core. All goodness was torn out of these monsters, and Luis had merely been an anomaly. 

Sensing it would soon become of use, Leon produces Reqiuem, spinning the barrel with nearly surgical efficiency. Any moment now, these bullets would pierce through the last pulsating, disgusting bit of what was left of Umbrella. He would make sure of it, or die trying. 

“Hey,” Sherry interrupts his doomsday reverie with remarkable speed, “I just got a report of a missing police officer. It might be unrelated, but he disappeared where the fifth body was found.” 

Leon flexes his hand, attempting to focus, meeting his own eyes in the rearview. 

Take a good look, he thinks, your time is almost up. 

“You there, Leon?” A call of his name to garner a response he’d promptly not given. 

“Yeah. I’m here,” he confirms, a heavy weight settling upon him. One he’d been trying to set down for years, yet never could. 

“You okay?” Sherry asks, and wasn’t that the million dollar fucking question? 

He turns the engine over, letting the car come back to life, to begin his search into the shadows of Umbrella once again. 

“Send me the address,” he requests, shifting gears to begin leaving the scene, “I’ll check it out.” 

His foot presses the gas pedal and lets the engine roar to catch up, speed picking up by the moment. This was, for all intents and purposes, the closest to free that Leon had gotten to feel in the last few months: the speed made him feel as if he had bird wings, outstretched to take flight, weightless in wake of the pure movement. It’s a busy night, car headlights whirring by like spotlights, and it burns a little in his exhausted vision. Yet, there was no time to pause or rest, only catapult himself forward, a candle burning at both ends. 

Deeper in the city, it’s drearily metropolitan – people are crowding the sidewalks and the industrial wires hung overhead connecting building to building, buzzing with power. The sky lights up minutely with distant lightning, a soft rumble of thunder following that Leon is forced to hear in the silence of the car, because nothing seemed to distract him anymore – not even music, so it was better to sit with his thoughts, since there was nowhere to go. He turns left under a bridge, the rattle of a train passing felt in his palms with the vibrations. Traffic seemed congested here, so he slowed to a stop, surveying the passing civilians. So many of them, going about their daily life, are entirely unaware of the things lurking in the dark. If Leon had his way, they’d never glimpse them, kept safe by people like him. Or, what was left of him. 

“You almost there?” Sherry asks. 

“Just about,” Leon replies, absently. 

He’s a bit distracted, actually, when something comes into focus: a person, standing tall over everyone else, wearing a very familiar looking garment. It takes a moment to process, but he realizes it matches what was in his phone, a small frame slung over the shoulder. What the hell? Leon leans against his door, watching in abstract shock, before adrenaline kicks in and he acts. It’s too easy to open the door, much to the complaints of the drivers behind him, and he squints against the water dripping overhead to get a better glimpse. Sure enough, same headwear – it was Gideon. 

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he says, because nothing else covers it. 

Leon attempts to step out but is halted by the horn blast of a passing car. That has garnered attention, it seems, the looming form pausing and turning to get eyes on him. Every car that continues to whir past is an obstacle, and it makes Leon’s body jitter with inaction, longing to sprint. There’s some kind of altercation occurring, one that can’t be made out, and then a movement that has every hair on the back of Leon’s neck standing at attention. This time, he doesn’t give a shit about the passing traffic, walking briskly across the asphalt, putting his hand up in apology when a car nearly runs him square over. On the sidewalk, he watches as Gideon continues to walk, yanking his handgun from its hollister with efficiency. A pause in pace, a turn, and a cruel smile is given as a man writhes on the side of the walkway. 

Bastard, Leon thinks, get back here and face me like a man. 

His pace starts to speed up, echoing the footsteps, attempting to close the distance. People bump into him as he’s going the opposite direction, an annoying roadblock that Leon attempts to correct with a sharp breath through his teeth. 

“Leon, what’s your sitrep?” In the rush of trying to get his hands on the man responsible for recent deaths, Leon had almost forgotten that Sherry was on the other end of the line, waiting for his communication. 

“I’m going after Victor,” he explains, boots hitting the ground harder now. 

“Don’t do anything stupid.” 

“Me?” Leon questions, deadpan, “never.” 

With that, he feels encouraged to finally start looking properly. All other irritations are forgotten, his complicated place in life momentarily erased in pursuit of the justice that he’d craved since the age of twenty-one. Every breath seems to tingle his lungs, the low temperature getting stuck in his esophagus, but he forces himself to keep his breath even. Back in the army, he’d learned a boxed breathing pattern, and it makes use to fight the way his body wanted to break down. No time, and no intent to lose Victor wandering with some innocent soul on his back. The chase was on, it was just unfortunate so many people were wandering into his path – it was a lot of effort to weave between them, but Leon made do. 

Until a man yelps, falling onto the pavement with a harsh thud, a woman crawling atop him as if she were possessed. An arm extends, trying to keep a distance, and the man’s voice is panicked when it comes out. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey! What the hell, lady?!” His tone is trying for abrasive, but there’s a note of raw fear that Leon can sense, striking a cord so deep within him that it aches. 

“Help me!” The woman demands, her voice turning guttural by the end. 

“What are you doing?!” A reply interrupted as the woman leans in, fingers clutching, nails digging deep into cloth. With a disturbing adjustment, she leans in to kiss the man on the mouth, desperate and mindless. 

What the fuck is going on? Leon wonders, and only has the time to ponder it a moment, because the edges of teeth appear. With no hesitation at all, the woman bites into the man’s face, ripping his flesh and the skin of his nose clean off. Blood spews, tainting the air with an iron scent, and for a moment, there’s only time to stare. It touches the edge of an old memory, and just like that, Leon was back in the dingy hallways of the R.P.D, witnessing as men became monsters, and bit into each other without a second thought. Every day had been hard fought since, and yet, there he was again. A tale as old as time. A scream sounds, first from the man, and then overtaken by the woman, her body going ramrod straight as she stands up. Her eyes cloud over, and then fall upon Leon: a predator and their prey. 

Shit. 

She stumbles over the man she leaves in carnage, stepping toward Leon with arms extended, as if reaching out for help. Leon knew what that really was, and took a moment to steady his breathing that wanted to speed up in a panic. He extends his pistol, mentally already apologizing for the action he had to take, and with determination pulls the trigger. A bullet flies, an echoing bang resounding which causes panicked voices to clammer, and it zips through the woman’s skull faster than he can keep track. With that, she falls in a heap, put out of her misery. 

Gotta act fast, Leon thinks, this whole town is about to flip upside down. 

Construction blocks his path, keeping him from continuing the same path forward so he juts into the street, amongst cars that are forced to a stop as hysteria is beginning to take root. People are running from threats yet unseen, and Leon has to fight his way through them, some of them going fast enough it nearly knocks him backward with the force of their sprint. Cries begging for help, screams echoing off the buildings into his ear, it’s so overstimulating that it almost hurts. His eyes keep scanning the street, frustrated by the lack of vision he has because of all the movement. Jesus, this was already a shitshow, and no way to stop it – all of it headed downhill, and only gaining momentum. 

Another monster juts forward, dressed in a suit saturated with water, snarling its arrival. A life that is cut dastardly short by another bullet from Leon’s chamber, dropping the body within moments of its arrival. Another is positioned over a helpless woman, her cries going silent as she’s bit into, bleeding out faster than it can be stopped. Leon shoots the monster first, kicking it off, and finding the woman choking on her own lifeblood. He uses another bullet to make her suffering pass quickly, a horrible feeling settling in his chest like sludge – he can’t breathe, but he can’t not, either. 

It’s a stark reminder and a brutal facing of the past: Leon, in the first seven days of employment, had not shown up to work as advised by leaders in Raccoon City. He was warned to stay away, to take heed, and never set foot in the city until things were deemed under control. Every day that stretched made it seem that things would never settle, and that had been enough to get him into his jeep to make the drive straight there. His foot had never felt so heavy on the gas, and he’d thought with great optimism that he may be able to help in some way. Maybe, if he were present, things would calm down. His hand could extend to save those the way he wasn’t as a child, a beacon of shimmering light in a city that had been cast in darkness. 

Walking amongst the streets that were erupting into further chaos, he came to a steady realization: Leon was not there for outbreak day, to witness the last dawn before it was eclipsed in bloodshed, but this is what it would have been like. To have been living in Raccoon City at the time shit hit the fan, he would have witnessed what he saw now: total fucking destruction, and the kind of violent reckoning that his younger self would have found deeply disturbing. Even now, his fingers tremble with the weight of it, every block becoming worse than the last. Only one question remained: where was Victor? 

It seemed there was no sight of him anywhere, an evil that dissipated as if he were a ghost, the only thing to show for his presence was the slow descending into madness. 

Leon wouldn’t give up easily, though, so he continues his path forward, putting rogue infected in their place. Every bullet feels like shame, like guilt, gnawing away at him from the inside out. His heart still beat in his body, but for this moment, it had to be cut out — without stopping the raging threat, it would spread throughout the city, and Raccoon City would repeat itself. In order to atone, he had to make sure that did not happen, at any and all cost. So he went, every click of his trigger sounding like the ticking of the clock: for the town, for Victor’s escape, for himself. 

After making it a block more, he’s presented with another man growling and twitching at an intersection, and he raises his gun to put the bastard down. Then a honking, a gleaming sight of headlights, burning into his vision before colliding with another van that was speeding by. Another car whirs past, close enough that Leon is forced to stop, else he’ll be hit as well. A repeating alarm blares, and bodies crawl over the metal, at least a dozen more monsters turning toward him. 

“Well, fuck,” he curses, putting his handgun back into the hollister in favor of producing Requiem, “let’s make this quick.” 

When two of the afflicted stumble toward him, both with hands extended, intending to corner him – Leon fires, without hesitation. He feels the kickback in his wrists, up his arms, the power making his arms flex with the recoil. The blast blows both of their bodies apart in a spray of gore and blood, he can taste it in the air, and the smell of death was getting to him. He could run as far as he wanted, hide in a nicely furnished condo and in the arms of the man he loves – but it mattered very little, in the grand scheme. All roads lead back to this, no matter how many avenues he tried to take. 

“Can’t let him get away,” Leon resolves, his tone becoming more and more enraged. None of this would have happened, had Victor not done such heinous acts, and has Umbrella not aided in its creation of terror. 

His feet take him between cars, a grasp seeming to come out of nowhere to grab him, a growling cadence filling his ears. Danger, so close and imminent, and Leon shoves the offending body away from him. His right hand holds tight to the magnum, but his left reaches to grab his axe, swinging it with full force. It connects with a wet thunk, in the center of a skull that it slices right through, crushing down until the woman who had reached it falls to the ground. Yanking the tool back, he runs out of the crash and back onto the concrete, turning with great speed to look for some kind of familiarity. None is found, just an empty street, a distant wail of sirens, and the path of violence left behind. 

Nothing. 

Of course, Leon’s mind provides a depressing commentary, because why would anything about this be easy? 

“Leon, have you located Victor?” Sherry’s voice fills his ear, and the aburpt reality of his disappointing results seems acrid on his tongue. 

“I lost him,” Leon admits, and it hurts, all over again. His frustration feels like heated iron, being pushed into his skin, burning. “Back to square one.” 

For a moment, he’s merely left with the rain, his own failures, and nothing but distant brutality. 

“Not exactly,” such a relief could not be spoken aloud, but Leon feels a wave of gratefulness, that he isn’t alone, “Victor purchased a building after Umbrella went under: the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. I’ll send you the address.” 

That was good, because right now, it felt as if Leon was wandering aimlessly amongst the damned. What else could he do, but be left in his own head? Every wall both physically and mentally was starting to close in, and despite being alone in this moment, he’d never felt so fucking crowded. It was as if he was already in a body bag, breathing his last moments of precious life, doomed to suffocate. A tremble is persisting in his left hand, pulsing with agony, and he hisses in pain before reaching to begin to pull off his offending glove. Beneath the material, his hand is covered in blackened abnormality, and he’s forced to acknowledge his state of being: it has grown, and is only continuing to assault what remaining life he had left. 

His wedding ring shimmers, and with great consideration, he pulls it off his hand. 

Around his neck, a chain dangles, one that he always brought with him when going out on a job. Even if it never became of use, it still sat, having been used for years. What he intended to do, he had not done since many years prior, living alone in New York in the aftermath of destroying every interpersonal relationship he built. In the throes of alcoholism, he’d nearly taken his own life, but the necklace had reminded him what he once lived for. In that way, it had aided his way in a time where all other reminders had been absent. He hoped that looping it through the ring was not some metaphor for what was about to happen, that he wasn’t going to be wearing the sign of his devotion around his neck in death, and hopefully could place it back where it belonged when this was all over. 

For the thousandth time, he thinks of his partner, and longs for his presence. Luis would ground him, Luis would know what to do. Neither of these is an option, so Leon closes his eyes in defeat, letting the ring rest between his collar bones and close to his heart. 

“Leon,” Sherry says, “we’re running out of time.” 

That they were, and Leon takes a steadying breath, imagining the sunlight that would pour through the condo windows in the morning. His one place of solace, so many miles away, and one that Leon resolved to see again. If there was a God, and he was merciful, then let that singular prayer be heard: let him return to Luis, and let him live.

That in mind, Leon turns on his heel to head back to the car, letting the darkness of night swallow him whole.