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Leon doesn’t think he’s ever seen Krauser in such a terrible mood.
Sure, they’ve had their differences, and he can be a massive asshole at times, but even his most brutal drill exercises rarely leave him this grumpy. He’s always grinning as he tosses the soldiers he’s training to the ground and taunts their survival skills, gleeful in his criticisms. Today, though, he’s anything but; scarred face stormy and insults biting deeper than they normally do. He’s been stalking angrily around the room for the last fifteen minutes, hands tucked behind his back as he scrutinizes their collective attempts to practice field medicine skills. Leon eyes the man across the room that Krauser’s just smacked upside the head, cussing out his inability to follow directions. The man currently tying Leon’s arm up in a sling—Harris—shakes his head, muttering under his breath.
“What the hell is his problem today?”
“Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?” Leon murmurs back, shrugging. “He’s always shitty.”
“Ha. Well, you would know. You’re his pretty-boy rookie cop, after all.”
There isn’t much venom to Harris’s jibe, and it’s far from the worst thing Leon’s heard during his time here—this time, there are at least no slurs involved—but the comment still rankles. It’s true that he and Krauser have been building a rapport, but some of the other recruits don’t like that he’s risen to the top so quickly. He hates the constant reminders.
“ ‘Least I look better than you do,” Leon says simply, testing the sling when Harris backs away. It traps his arm across his body, thin fabric securing it against his chest. Nice. He unravels it easily, gesturing to Harris. “Your turn.”
Across the room, Krauser’s voice raises.
“Are you an idiot, Santos? Are you a fucking idiot? Don’t pull that shit with me, because I’m not about to sit down and listen to you bitch all day. Do you even want to be here, soldier?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Santos says, offering a hasty salute. Krauser sneers, turning on his heel to address the rest of the room, most of the recruits having stopped to listen in.
“And what the hell are you all doing?” he spits, the scar on the right side of his mouth twisting as his brow creases into a scowl. “Quit being so goddamn nosy!”
Harris raises his eyebrows, and Leon does his best to refrain from shaking his head. Krauser’s gaze sweeps over him, eyes narrowed, and Leon turns back to the sling before he can catch a comment like Santos did. There’s no point in getting in his way.
His goal for the day is avoiding Krauser’s irritation, and he nearly manages— nearly . It’s only when they’re made to run the assault obstacle course that he slips up, landing wrong on a muddy patch and ending up flat on his back in the grime. He huffs, going to sit up, but a boot lands on his shoulder, plunging his back deeper into the mud with a wet squelch.
“Not much for balance?” Krauser mocks above him, grinding his heel into a spot on Leon’s shoulder that aches under his weight. “C’mon, Rookie. Messy mistakes cost you your life!”
Leon does his best not to get angry, staring impassively up at Krauser until he scoffs and lifts his boot, stalking off towards another section of the course to berate another poor soul. Leon shakes out his arm, grimacing at the ache of the muscle. What a dick. Whoever it was that originally pissed him off and set him into this vengeful rage had better count their days.
The rest of the day proceeds much the same, Leon exchanging looks with other recruits whenever Krauser explodes over insignificant mistakes. Dinnertime can’t come soon enough, and Leon’s prepared to make a break for it the second the hour chimes, turning on his heel to jog towards the mess hall building.
“Rookie!” Krauser calls, and Leon resigns himself to defeat. He turns, warily, pausing in place to see the Major standing a few feet behind him. He still looks murderous, those icy eyes glaring up at Leon through his downturned brow; but instead of berating him for something new, he merely asks: “Sparring, later?”
“Oh, sure,” Leon manages in surprise. It’s something they’ve been doing together with more and more frequency, Krauser taking pity on Leon’s pathetic self-defense skills and beating him into the mud every chance he gets in order to help him ‘practice.’ Leon tries not to feel apprehensive as Krauser nods and stalks off towards another building. If Krauser’s just doing this to let off his emotions… Leon has the feeling he’s going to get his ass handed to him tonight.
Krauser’s already in action by the time Leon makes it to what’s become their sparring room, silver blade flashing through the air as he defends himself from invisible attackers. His movements are quick, harsh, and Leon sighs. He’ll need to watch his step. Krauser pauses when he enters the room, steely eyes gleaming in the dim fluorescent light.
“Evening, Rookie,” he says gruffly, his voice raspier and slightly deeper than normal. Leon steps into the circle, retrieving the second practice blade Krauser offers him. The rubber hilt fits easily into his hand, muscle memory allowing him to settle into a fighting stance and meet Krauser’s heavy gaze with his own. Leon exhales—and Krauser explodes into motion, a wave of harsh slashes and feints Leon immediately meets with attacks of his own. He doesn’t even need to stop and contemplate his next moves anymore, the weaving of their blades finding a familiar rhythm. It’s inexplicably simpler than usual, but Leon doesn’t even notice until he’s gaining the upper hand, a few short slashes driving him so close to Krauser that it’s child’s play to bring his blade to Krauser’s throat.
Leon's stunned for a moment, staring up at Krauser as he shifts lightly on the balls of his feet. Krauser looks drawn and pale now that Leon’s in his personal space, eyes sunken and slightly bloodshot. Leon could almost dismiss it as exhaustion or stress, but Krauser coughs before he can back away from Leon’s blade, a rattling noise that makes his breath catch. It’s followed immediately by an actual sniffle , and Leon stifles a laugh.
“Feeling ill, Major?” he hedges, letting the knife drop to his side. The glare Krauser fixes him with is poisonous, and Leon realizes incredulously that he really is sick—and that he’s been taking his discomfort out on his recruits all day. Leon feels his lips quirk up an instant before Krauser is diving towards him with another strike, and he finds himself quickly swept off his feet and thrown bodily to the floor as Krauser crouches over him with the point of his training blade tucked against Leon’s jugular.
“I don’t get sick,” he hisses, irritated and very clearly lying. “Focus on yourself.”
He doesn’t even offer Leon a hand to help him up, and Leon bites back the urge to make a stupid joke. His ribs already hurt from Krauser slamming him into the dirt, and he’s not about to incite more violence towards himself. Still… he shakes his head. What a stubborn asshole Krauser can be. All that posturing and unnecessary reprimanding, just because he rolled out of bed with a cough and a runny nose. He’s like a child and an old man, all rolled into the dangerous body of a well-muscled military leader.
“Oh, sure, sure,” Leon agrees blithely, grinning in a way he knows will only make Krauser angrier. “But I’ll know where I got it from, when I wake up with a cold tomorrow morning.”