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He was too old to be dating. Dating, for a man his age, had connotations: a younger woman (correct) that wasn’t too serious (incorrect), something for fun and pleasure (true, but to call it that alone was an insult to everything else they were) that was ultimately an escape, a last-ditch midlife crisis, trying to outrun one's own mortality—a notion so pathetic it made him snort. Bullshit. Leon Kennedy had made his peace with dying decades ago. That death hadn’t caught him yet was 80% skill and 20% luck, and the day his luck ran out? Well. An eternal vacation sounded pretty good; his only wish was that someone else was around to blow his brains out before his corpse started hungering for theirs.
But it itched at him, sometimes. The dating thing. Because that’s what they were doing, he had no other word for it, but it compressed, like a too-tight shoe. Itched and left blisters. Dug into him in a way that he needed to fix, but couldn’t. The sort of festering ambiguity settling under his skin like the well-worn suit it was. (He’d promised himself he’d stop with this shit. Stop panting after a woman and letting the undisclosed yearning fester. She wasn’t like that, but Leon kept finding himself behaving like she was.)
His ‘girlfriend’. Grace.
Girlfriends were a number in his phone he tried to keep up with but inevitably offended, disappointed, lost. Girlfriends cared about birthdays and holidays, weekends, evenings—predictable schedules, regular phone calls, emails, texts.
In his early thirties, he’d gotten a call the morning of his then-girlfriends birthday. Had left her cold and wanting when Hunnigan called the second time, which meant it was serious, and then spent two months in South America getting bitten by every insect possible and running on three hours of sleep a night until he’d passed out in a hollowed out tree stump. By the time he’d gotten back, he’d barely remembered her name.
(She’d left him a letter. On the kitchen counter, by the coffee machine, where he’d see it for sure. Her grandmother had died while he’d been gone. She’d celebrated her birthday alone, a quiet, kind girl without anyone else to care for her, always traveling for her own job. He’d had some amount of hope it would work out for that reason. That they were both on the same page. But she’d said she’d realized she needed more out of a relationship, and Leon hadn’t begrudged her that. She was right. He wished he could have been there, but not enough to regret all the time it had taken to crack a bioweapons smuggling operation apart, the lives it would save.)
DSO and the BSAA tended to attract a lot of military types. Washed out, unable to return to civilian life, looking for a thrill—it didn’t matter, though the experience helped. He’d heard the stories. Military wives. No one ever knew what they were signing up for—some loved it, having a wife to return home to, the fantasy of a warm bed and a hot meal and an eager spouse. But Leon had heard all the bad parts too. The worrying. Has she found someone else? Is the kid even mine? No one gets it, the shit we go through. She’s just living large on my paycheck, man!
DSO was worse. There was no schedule. Some nine-to-five, sure, when there was paperwork to be done, trainings to be completed, the same fuckin’ HR modules as every year—unbelievable, how bioterrorism just stopped when the government decreed a mandatory eight fuckin’ hours were needed to watch the same old videos about sexual harassment—but the rest of the time, they were called in whenever the DSO needed. A day. Three days. Two weeks. Eight months. Sure, they scheduled with enough time off to sleep (just barely), and the occasional long weekend due to mandatory overtime pay the government didn’t want to cover. The older he got, the more Christmases he’d gotten to spend stateside. There were perks to seniority.
Leon said no, occasionally. Just to keep people on their toes. But shit always rolled downhill when he did, so it was easier to just do the job and do it well. He’d long since given up on having someone waiting for him at home. It seemed cruel. Like getting a dog when you knew you wouldn’t be able to walk it.
So when they’d started fucking, he’d thought—
—well. He hadn’t thought. He followed his gut until it lead him straight between her legs, and whenever those worries started to itch at him—her age, the shit they’d gone through, if this was all just some crazy post-traumatic bonding fuck—he thought about how she’d put his gun to her head (a fucking waste—gutsy, though) and how she’d saved him, injecting him when he’d felt his heart failing in his chest—and wisely kept his thoughts to himself. She could have what she wanted out of him. Grace Ashcroft had earned that much.
She’d saved herself, anyway. He’d given her a gun and provided some suppressing fire when she’d had her hands full with a kid. If she hadn’t been carrying Emily, he had the nagging suspicion she’d have made it out by herself just fine. (The footage from Rhodes Hill backed him up on that statement.)
So. Grace could have what she wanted from him. Leon had no expectations, no demands; she’d get tired of him eventually, of having a cold empty bed, and if she wanted to spend a few months in her twenties riding the comedown from seeing the truth about the world, he wasn’t going to stop her.
But she’d get tired of him eventually. They always did.
And then—months passed.
Christmas. New Years. Spring came and went, and summer crept in—his wardrobe turned to tight T-shirts that Grace relentlessly pawed at, and he helped himself to pinching her ass once the shorts came out. “Fair’s fair, Ashcroft,” he’d said as she’d giggled and dodged, flushing a red that matched the bit of sunburn on her nose until he’d drawn her back in for a kiss.
(Elpis was a game changer. He felt healthier, better, younger. Happier. And the calls didn’t come as often. Word around the DSO was that bioweapon interest cooled overnight, once the first mass use of Elpis occurred. It was simple to mass produce, they said. Elegant. Like getting the source code to all Umbrella-derived strains, and dissolving them into harmless polymer chains. No one wanted to spend millions on something that could be rendered inert in seconds.)
And somehow, they were still dating.
(He had a birthday coming up. His 50th. She had plans. He knew she had plans, and that should have been off-putting, but wasn’t. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten more than a free beer or an emailed ugly and loud birthday card from Claire, who found them hilarious. The more it looked like it came from the geocities era, the better.)
As far as relationships went, they’d been coasting on easy, he figured. But the call would come.
Eventually, it did.
Sherry was always more apologetic than Hunnigan would have been. Most of the time, he liked it well enough, having a friend on the line. But Hunnigan had never pulled her punches when it came to telling him he was walking to hell. Personal life, work life. Clean separation. Sherry knew enough about both to have sympathy.
Leon slid the phone from his ear. Flipped through his contacts, and called her. “Grace,” he said, hearing muffled curses as papers slid around in the background, her slight breathlessness as she ducked to pick up whatever it was she’d just dropped. How she could ace target practice while still being one of the most disorganized, clumsy people he’d ever met, Leon had no idea. The one time he’d seen her desk at the FBI had been enough to provoke nightmares. “H-hey, Leon,” she answered, distant office chatter coming in from the background. “Sorry, crazy day—what’s up?”
There was no use wasting time. “I’m shipping out in 2 hours,” he replied. “No idea when I’ll be back, but I’d hazard a guess it’s gonna be a long one. I called you as soon as I heard.”
Her breathing sharped. Leon waited, hearing the moment ticking down; he could envision her clearly, standing stock-still in whatever carpeted federal building cubicle farm she was walking around in, ankles bared in those short slacks she favored, that distant look she wore when she was deep in thought. Wrinkled blazer—she’d picked it up off the kitchen table this morning, hurried to catch the earlier train even though he’d offered to drive her. He wished he’d driven her, now. Had that extra time. (She’d canceled this last weekend together. He tried not to overthink it, but inevitably did.)
“Fuck,” she said. “Leon, are you—do you need to pack or—?”
“Been packed for months now. Don’t need to do anything, just gotta be there mostly on time,” he replied. A feeling lingered in his stomach. Apprehension. Experience. First bump in the road, he thought.
“R-right. Okay.” Her breath hitched slightly. She’d started walking again, quickly at that. “Where do you have to be? An airport?”
He rattled off the airport. It was a public one, just smaller. Regional flights only, until he transferred. Not an OPSEC concern. Other DSO members had their families waiting sometimes. He killed the thought before it could sting.
Grace hummed over the phone. Heels clacked against linoleum, her voice turning tinny. Elevator. “Okay, got it. That’s—that’s about a twenty minute drive from here, another twenty from your place,” he could practically see the wheels turning, the way she’d bite her lip, pink against the whiteness of her teeth. Her next words, however, dashed any longing daydreams from his mind.
“Can you pick me up?”
“‘Course.” He didn’t need to think. The instant warmth was right. “I’ll give you my keys afterwards, yeah? You can have the car while I’m gone. Save my wallet from paying for long-term parking.”
“Oh! S-sure.” Her voice carried a hint of uncertainty. Briefly, he wondered if it was too much, too soon. Too intimate. She had a spare set of keys to his place, but hadn’t used them yet. Grace wasn’t the type to push boundaries. “I’ll see you soon?”
“Already on my way,” he confirmed. Not quite true, but about to be. A few minutes to brush his teeth, drink some water, grab the slowly-dusting duffel bag from the closet. Quick steps, a long-practiced rhythm in his bones. Lights off.
Leon hesitated over the milk. He normally poured it out, same with any other perishables, but Grace liked oat milk, said it lasted longer. Maybe she’d want it. Maybe she’d come by, water the plant she’d gifted him, and make herself a cup of coffee. The idea—nebulous, unlikely—but it felt right. He left the food in the fridge.
Moments later, he was out the door. A budding tension under his skin. Pulled out of the driveway a bit too fast. The tank was half empty—she’d probably fill it up, he thought. He’d have to pay her back whenever he got back.
Strange, to think someone would be waiting for him. Well. Hopefully. (He let the thought fade. What would happen would happen. No point chewing on it like an animal with its leg caught in a trap.)
Pre-mission jitters never went away. Not fully. An eerie calm settled through his body. Weighed him down, into the car’s leather seat. Focused. Leon flipped the seat heat on. For however many hours he was about to spend in some rickety plane, his back could use a little bit of relief. He wasn’t ashamed to admit the heated and cooled seats had quickly become his favorite part of the Porsche. That and the acceleration, the handling. Little luxuries he could afford these days. Few things wore down the soul faster than almost dying, then coming back home to a shitbox apartment with a broken-down car and threadbare sheets.
The countdown had already etched itself in his bones. Every red light ticked seconds away. Accelerated. Cut off an asshole dawdling—on their phone, of course. Slowed down again. Breathed, once, in and out. He drove one-handed, nudging the wheel with a light-fingered grip, relaxing into the warm leather, the clear, cloudless blue sky above mocking in its boundless freedom.
Grace was already waiting. A little flushed, her face pink, her hair messy and windswept, blazer folded over in the crook of her elbow, exposing a silken blue shell that bared her arms. She clambered into the car immediately, the car just having rolled to a stop; backpack sliding to the leg well as she immediately leaned across the console, her office-appropriate skirt hiking up just a bit up her thighs, and Leon accepted the kiss that came. Warm. Soft.
That little bit of tightness in his back unclenched. Something the seat heat couldn’t cure.
When she finally pulled away, her face was even more flushed, her lips red and swollen. Leon had half a mind to pull her in again; by the sparkle in her eye, she felt the same. “Hi,” Grace breathed. “Sorry, I—wanted to make up for not stealing one this morning.”
She hadn’t. She’d flown out the door with wet hair, calling out a shouted goodbye while he was still drinking his morning coffee. Leon had never gotten out of the habit of waking up early, after those god-awful training years, but Grace woke up even earlier than he did on weekdays, always running like she was late despite arriving just on time. Weekends, she caught up on those missing hours, sleeping so deeply she drooled. It was unbearably charming.
Or maybe he was just in love with her.
“Don’t hear me complaining, do you?” he replied, feeling his voice rasp a little. Didn’t try to change it—he knew she liked it, by the glimmer in her eye. Gorgeous girl. Her face was an open book.
He’d never realized just how much he liked that. Even her little sparks of irritation, standing out like flashing lights from far away—easy to notice, easy to handle, before they spiraled into something more. He’d known she loved him long before she said anything, written in every lingering glance and stuttered breath.
It was easy to make her happy. Easy to keep her around.
He couldn’t do that while he was gone. His heart clenched, briefly, at that.
Grace’s sweet face split into an easy smile. Bared a flash of her teeth, just slightly crooked, curling her cheeks rounder than one would expect. Kids had called her chipmunk cheeks as a kid, she’s confessed once, but Leon found it so fucking cute he had to resist the urge to pinch her every time. “S-so, uh, I had an idea, but I wanted to ask first. Do you have any plans? Any routines, or habits before you go…?”
Easy question. Easy answer. “I usually get a decent meal,” Leon replied. “No need for that this time though—I just finished lunch before Sherry called. There’s leftovers in the fridge, if you want them. Save me from having to clean out some carcinogenic sludge when I get back.”
“Sounds good to me!” She seemed genuinely pleased at the idea. Grace kept telling him he was a good cook, but privately Leon thought her standards were too low, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. She seemed impressed with everything that didn’t come from a box. “Is there anything I should do? I can check on your mail, or—unless you have a—a house sitter or something…?”
“Sure,” he said, and slid back into drive. A meter-maid was idling down the block; the quicker they got to the airport parking garage, the quicker he could go back to giving her his full attention. “You could water the plant. Take the trash out. If the plant makes it six months, that’ll break my plant-killing streak.”
Grace laughed, quietly. Leon laid his hand on the center arm rest once she’d clicked the seatbelt in place, glancing briefly at the strap angled between her breasts. She was wearing a bra. Shame. He liked the color on her, though. Her office attire always felt nice to touch.
As had become her habit, she made quick work of pulling off his glove and interlacing their fingers. He squeezed her small, warm hand in his. It was a perfect fit. Some women’s hands had been too small for his taste, oddly breakable in his hand, but Grace’s fingers laced perfectly with his. She squeezed like she meant it. He liked that, too. Her steadiness. Knowing that if he needed to, he could hand her a gun and she’d nail a headshot at a respectable distance, that she liked going to the range with him and was only getting better. She might not have the gymnastics experience Helena Harper had, or the martial arts training any of the female agents got, but her instincts were good, and half the time a cool head and a decent aim were all that mattered, anyway.
She’d started jogging, too. He’d been thinking about finding a martial arts class she might enjoy soon. Leon wouldn’t get anything out of it, but it would be good for her to practice with other people, build her confidence a little. Only if she wanted, though. He was still mulling over how to suggest it without her maybe taking it the wrong way, though. Leon had enough experience with women to know suggesting they pick up an exercise routine rarely went well, even if that wasn’t how he’d meant it.
“How was work?” he asked, enjoying the slow way her thumb stroked over his hand. Her other hand rested on his wrist, tracing veins with a soft touch. She’d curled around so much her knees knocked against the center console.
“Oh, fine,” Grace replied. “It’s a bit slow right now. I had to reschedule a meeting, but that’s alright, we’ll do it tomorrow. I’ll probably finish up my workday at home later, no point in going back.” Her gaze cut across the car; Leon glanced her way briefly, and she was still smiling, that soft, tender smile that curled her lips so lightly, now tugging at his own. Turning his attention back to the road, he slid onto the on-ramp, amused at how the acceleration knocked her back into her seat with a soft noise. Never got old, that.
Grace’s voice filled the quiet cabin after a moment, the freeway nearly empty at this time of day, the gentle background purr of the engine muffling all outside sounds. The clear blue sky stretched before them. It was a beautiful day for a goodbye, he thought, the feeling passing by like a cloud struggling to form beneath the punishing heat of the summer sun. “Honestly—I’m sad because you’re leaving, a bit nervous, if I’m being honest, but mostly I’m just happy to see you,” she murmured. “Feels a bit like a treat, you know? Like I was stuck having a boring day and now it’s so much better already, just because I got to see you sooner.”
What was there to say to that? She was so fucking cute it ached. Never had he thought he had a thing for such earnestness, for just how charming it was for someone to say what they meant and mean it. He lifted their joined hands and pressed a dry kiss to her knuckles, keeping his eyes on the road, though he could feel her smile. “Keep saying things like that and I’ll have to work on my lines, Grace, you’re leaving me in the dust here,” Leon said, and squeezed her hand again.
“It’s only been a few hours,” she replied. “I-I’m surprised at myself—I guess I-I’m a bit of a sap, to be honest.”
“Maybe a little,” he agreed, and smiled a bit to himself at her huff. “You’re in good company, though. We’re in the same boat.”
“Glad to hear it,” she replied softly. The moment lingered, but all Leon could do was hold her hand, and bask in the warmth of it.
Their conversation flowed easily. Grace had a few questions: what had been his longest mission? Eight months, but it’s usually a few weeks. Was there a way to contact him? Not really—Sherry can pass on messages, but she’s not a courier service. The encrypted phones they got during off time had a delay while security scrubbed through them, always on the lookout for moles. (There were more than you’d think. Espionage paid well—really well, and the DSO didn’t. Not until you had seniority, at least. Leon even had a pension waiting for him, a fact that had made Grace stare at him with an intense bit of envy in her eyes. Old at heart, that one.) Would he just be back one day, or could he give her a bit of a heads up, just in case she wanted to greet him at the airport, or make him a meal?
He laughed a little at that. Made her light right up, like a Christmas tree, and Leon shook himself, lighter and lighter. Usually a day or two. You don’t have to do that.
I want to, she said, intense again. It’s always something to celebrate, you coming back alive.
The mood turned heavy, for a moment. Grace quirked an odd smile, her timing off, but her attempt heartfelt. He had to slide his hand out of her grip then, to use the turn signals with terrible interpersonal timing. Y-you’re kinda heavy, you know. Not just anyone could lug you around like I did.
Leon snorted a bit at that. He was half-tempted to introduce her to Chris Redfield one of these days. Leon had bulked up in his forties, but he still didn’t consider himself a large man by any means; to Grace, though, he had the suspicion he was the most physically fit person she’d ever known. The largest, at least, by the way she stared at his arms when she thought he wasn’t looking.
Briefly, he considered it—pictured her lugging Redfield across a hallway, his modern day bulk dwarfing her threefold; but while the humor was there, the image started to morph into a shootout, contusions and blood dripping from their wounds, so he dropped the thought before it could continue. Brushed away, like leaves clogging up the gutters.
“You’re welcome to stay over at my place, you know.” The words came from his mouth before he could stop them. Too soon, Kennedy, he thought, that pre-mission apprehension still sitting in his stomach. More present, now, at the sudden quiet as he pulled into the parking garage.
Your mouth’s gonna get you in trouble someday, Krauser’s half-forgotten face growled. Asshole, Leon thought back. God, he was too fucking old to remember a man nearly thirty years dead, still remembering his words as if they were wisdom. “Clear out the fridge, enjoy the TV, whatever. Same with the car. Move your things over, if you want.”
Fuck. Fuck.
If desperation had a name, it was Leon Scott Kennedy. They’d been together seven months—eight, if you counted those first two hookups he didn’t but knew she did, and she’d said she loved him, but he hadn’t said it back yet. Knew he did, though. Just—
—wasn’t right, yet.
Leon clenched his jaw, just a bit. Picked a spot further back in the garage, in a corner where no one else was, and if he curved a little hard into the reverse, Grace didn’t say a thing about it.
It was Ada this time he thought of, her dark eyes and coy smile. His heart on a platter—she’d liked that about him, he understood that now. Got the appeal. But he’d sent her running, eventually. Holding that responsibility was hard in its own way.
“Y-you think you’ll be gone a long time, then,” Grace interjected quietly, breaking the silence. The Porsche slid into park. “O-or—that you’re not coming back at all?”
“No, Grace.” That, at least, he could answer immediately—Leon turned, unlatching his seat belt, and her face was already coming closer—he caught her easily, held in the palm of his hand. Her pale gray eyes with just the faintest bit of hazel to them, the light frown he already wanted to soothe. “It’s a regular assignment, just a longer one than usual. Sometimes it gets dragged out. Sometimes it doesn’t.”
Still, her frown lingered. She was biting her lip again, pale eyebrows pulled together. In his hand, her neck and cheek rested fully against his palm. It stirred something inside him, sometimes. How wholly she trusted him, despite having seen the violence he could inflict. He could kill her in seconds, and it was a thought he hated. “I-I’d just like… some clarification,” she said. Her gaze searched his, flickering back and forth, as if he were somehow hard to read, as if he didn’t say how he felt about her with every action, with every way he let her slide deeper and deeper into his life. Like she’d been meant to be there all along, growing something new together. “Do you want me to move in with you?”
And Leon found himself at a loss for words.
Yes? Too soon. He’d come home one day, and she’d be gone. No? Rejection—he’d never. Thoughts raced through his head, diversions—he had a bone to pick with her apartment, that much was true. It wasn’t good for her, staying where she’d been stalked—it was small, overpriced, too far away, she spent half her nights at his place anyway, but she was afraid to break her lease—but that wasn’t what this was about.
So, ultimately, Leon settled for what was true—true enough, and kept his feelings out of it. “If you want to. Thought you might, with how I keep finding your hair in my shower.”
But the frown remained. “Le-on,” Grace said, dragging the syllables a touch long, and like a starving dog, he caved.
Jesus. Fucking whipped. But that had never changed. There were far worse people to hold his heart than Grace Ashcroft.
He looked away. Settled back straight into his seat to soothe a budding twinge in his lower back, inflamed at the twisting motion. Slid his hand down to hold her hand again, and her fingers curled around his palm, cool and soft. “People don’t do well with this. Going on missions, being gone for a long time. I know that from experience.”
She was quiet. Then— “An ex-girlfriend left you, r-right?”
God. Grace. Blunt as a bull in a china shop, stuttering through every bulls-eye statement. He’d wondered what a shaking leaf of a girl like her was doing working at the FBI, but her instincts were rock solid. When it came to stating facts, she had no shame whatsoever. “Yeah. A few,” he said.
Squeezed her hand again, looking out the windshield, but there was no one else around. His mental timer ticked down. They still had about an hour, though walking over would take at least ten.
Now, the heart of the matter. No use in hiding it from her, when she had her teeth in him like a bulldog. “I’d like for you to be there when I get back,” he said simply. Looked at her, then, partially obscured by his hair slipping forward. “I like waking up to you in the mornings. But it can wait, if you want. Your call.”
Maybe part of him was still stuck on that skipped weekend. She wasn’t staying over as much as she had before. He wasn’t counting, but his mind noticed things like that. Patterns.
(He wasn’t going to say anything about it. Grace could make her own choices. For all her hemming and hawing, she was decisive when it came down to the wire. He liked that about her too, how she didn’t listen to him over her own instincts, how he never felt like he was pushing her into something she didn’t want. That had been his biggest concern, with her young age. But she had a spine of steel under all that softness.)
The frown remained, but some tightness lessened around her eyes. The pinkness of her chewed lip grabbed his attention—the urge rose, to kiss her, but he could tell she wanted to talk. “I-I’d love to, but…”
His heart dropped. Grace shook her head, her hair a messy mass of blonde curls he yearned to touch. “…not until you’re back, Leon. We—we gotta talk about things. But I’d love to! Really!” she added, wide-eyed, and Leon knew, then, that something had shown on his face.
She was reaching for him, and he let it happen, her cool hand sliding up his neck and into his hair, light and soothing over the patchwork of ugly, tight scars the T-Virus had left behind upon his skin. “Leon, you know I love you,” her grey eyes searched his, looking for something he couldn’t tell, “and it’s okay, you don’t have to say it back, I know you care for me. But—Leon—“
Grace exhaled. Blinked, long and slow, and inhaled deeper than this conversation warranted, in his opinion, that same apprehension digging tight within as tension built in his back once more.
“—Leon, you hate my apartment.”
That—wasn’t a question. “Yeah,” he said.
“You hate my apartment,” Grace repeated slowly, “and don’t like my messiness, or my amiibos.”
That—was also true. If her desk at the FBI had been a nightmare, her desk at home was worse. And the figurines—amiibos—she’d had a few before, but had bought even more in the past few months.
Leon tried not to judge, he really did, but the games, the figurines, the couple of digital art prints she had on the walls—it was all very… he’d had some rich friends, with rooms like that. Back in the 80’s. Back in grade school.
(He’d put a gun in his mouth before he said that to her.)
Time was ticking down. This was not going how he’d hoped it would. “I can get used to it,” he said. “It’s not a deal breaker. Maybe they’ll grow on me.” Like mold, he thought. Or a fungus.
Didn’t say that one either. Even an old dog could learn new tricks.
But Grace still shook her head. “I-I don’t want to just—move in all my things while you’re gone. It's your house, it would feel—weird, like I took it over or something. We’ll figure something out when you get back, okay? A-and… honestly, Leon…”
Her thumb stroked down his throat. He didn’t swallow, but it was a near thing, having her so close, smelling her hair, knowing he could kiss her, now, and touch her, and that he wouldn’t be able to for weeks or more once he got on that plane. The pale blue silken shell she was wearing hung loose around the collar, exposing the barest inch of creamy skin. Had he known he was leaving, he’d have peppered her skin with hickeys and bruises, like a goddamn teenage boy let loose at the buffet table. She had that effect on him. Made him stupid, made him want things he couldn’t have.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she whispered, her bright eyes pleading, pinched by the awkward twist of her mouth. “I-I’ll miss you and I’m a bit scared, a bit n-nervous, but—I’m looking forward to having a bit of alone time, too.”
Words failed him. Of all things, he hadn’t expected—a weight was dropping in his stomach, sinking lower: it was time, then. Leon had known it would happen eventually, expected it, but that didn’t change the feeling—he’d thought—
But Grace was still talking. Her lips moved, but he didn’t register the words until afterwards, coming from far, far away. “I’m getting really into GTA 6,” she breathed. “I’d heard it’s amazing and it is, and it took so long before I could afford a new graphics card, seriously, they’re so expensive these days—and you’ll hate it, I know you will, it’s like every cheesy action movie blended together—“
Getting into. The words reverberated. Patterns. “That’s where you’ve been?”
Shamefaced, Grace nodded. “Y-yeah. I—I didn’t want to explain it,” she said quietly, her palm down from his neck to rest against his thigh, thumb stroking, soothing, and Leon remembered, all of a sudden, that he was still holding her other hand in his loose, limp hand.
The relief was almost instantaneous, though some tension lingered. Another sign of how besotted he was. God. He was too old for these emotional ups and downs—it made him feel vaguely pathetic, like a badly managed midlife crisis. The much younger girlfriend should have been a clue, maybe.
The self-deprecation took some of the wind from his sails. Forty-five minutes. “Could have said something,” Leon said, and instantly hated how needy he sounded. Keep talking, Kennedy. Pivot. “But alright. How long does that take, anyway? Couple hours? That’s not so bad.”
Again, Grace’s face twisted into an awkward grimace that looked a bit pitying, that instantly made him feel like he’d made a huge error, like he’d proven himself out of touch. Again. “More like eighty, if you don’t do any side quests,” she said. “Probably about one hundred and twenty, if you really get into it, which, uh, I t-tend to do.”
One hundred and twenty hours. What—what the fuck were they doing with games these days? “Right. Guess you’ll be busy,” Leon said, from far, far away. Guess you won’t miss me, he’d stopped himself from saying last minute, fully aware of how petulant that would have been.
Christ. Maybe he was nervous. Once bitten, twice shy.
Almost like she’d heard his unspoken thought, Grace nodded, slowly, hesitantly, flushing a cute, embarrassing pink that nearly melted all thoughts from his brain. “I’ll probably play it again immediately. So, uh, don’t worry about me getting bored or anything—I’ll miss you, but I’m—,” she sighed, briefly, before barreling on, “—I’m very used to being alone, and entertaining myself, and I’ve been looking forward to this for years. So. Please don’t overthink it and think I won’t miss you, I will, but I know this is normal for you and you’re very good at your job, too. So—just be careful, alright?”
Her smile turned impish, for just a moment. “And maybe—maybe I’ll hook up my pc to your TV, okay? Make myself comfortable, and we’ll test it out. And you can tell me when you get back if you’re really okay with having my stuff around and hogging the TV, okay?”
The image she painted in just a few words was perfection, dreamlike. Grace, curled up on his couch, whatever Nintendo controller she had in her hands, focused as she was at the gun range, wrapped up in a blanket, because she was always cold—maybe she’d make herself some tea, or stay overnight, sleep in his bed and leave her scent behind; he’d come home to her waiting for him, in those loose shorts she wore at home, draped in one of his old T-shirts. Domestic. Happy, and safe.
His mouth dried instantly. Or maybe it was just his blood rushing elsewhere. Elpis. Goddamn miracle drug. “Sounds perfect, Grace.”
All at once, the tension relaxed. What weight had been there dissipated, the world coming back as one. They were still in the Porsche, in the parking garage, deep in one corner with nothing but a few other cars around. No one else had driven by, nor were there any pedestrians. Only them, and the cabin quiet.
Her breath echoed. A relieved exhale, the little bit of tension that had curled her shoulders loosening. “Great,” Grace said, squeezing his thigh. Her eyes regained a bit of their sparkle, that daring look. “H-hey, how much time do we still have?”
He told her. Grace nodded, biting her lip again, and Leon got a slow, rising feeling, that whatever she was about to say was what had been on her mind all along, before he’d shoved his foot in his mouth. “That’s plenty. H-hey, could you shift your seat back? I have an idea.”
She did. She had many ideas, in fact, which began with her squirming in her seat as her fingers hooked up under her skirt, sliding a slip of fabric to pool around her ankles in the leg well of his car, and her next idea was even better, as she slung herself across the center console and into his lap—
—and Leon thought, thirty minutes later as they hurried over to the airport lounge, still on time but just barely, his carry-on a few grams heavier, that maybe, just maybe, he would have someone waiting for him, when he got back.