Chapter Text
Love was a painful, painful word.
Leon understands it well, eyes glued to his figure in the mirror, stuck staring at himself and the stubble on his chin, years of work wearing him down as if he were some dulled-out axe retired on the wall of a carpenter, no longer needed as newer, better technologies were introduced to the workspace. Yet, he is there, trusty and well-known — reliable and well-mannered, oldie but a goodie. He does not know. He does not remember. There had been a sense of excitement at first, and then there had been the reality of the situation. He did not want to be here. He has not wanted to be here in a long, long time.
He did not love himself the same way he could have had he not been in this line of business, and he could not have loved someone else in a normal way either as a result of it.
So, he is stuck staring himself in the mirror, same, dreadful look on his face, bags under his eyes and hair unkept, something akin to a strange sense of depression, yet not quite depression.
He wanders in the purgatory between normality and dysfunctionality. He's stuck in the twilight of life and death.
Yet, he shows up to work, drinks at night, and learns to live. For what he lives for, he is not sure, but he lives, trudging on slowly, learning to get along with the hatred that ran in his blood whenever he looked himself in the mirror.
Lips pulled into a thin line, dead eyes staring into the mirror, rusted razor on the counter, hard water droplets embedded into the glass of his shower.
Leon wonders where the eagerness he had when he first started went, but he does not get the right to complain.
Perhaps, his version of love was just permanently embedded into his soul — and he would be cursed to look for someone to fill the shape of someone he knows he can not have.
Ada can come and go, but he can not. She can chain and unchain him, leash and unleash him, claw at both his skin and heart until he tears, but he can not do the same to her. Perhaps he is simply cursed to be someone always used by him — not that he cared. He could not find someone to fill the space that was shaped to be her and her alone. It would be cruel to force someone into her shape. It would be cruel for him to be on the giving end to someone else — to force someone into the skin of someone he could not have and force them to learn all of her characteristics all so he could have what he wants.
He can not name the number of times that Ashley has attempted to hook him up with someone that she knew might like him back. It did not matter how similar they were to Ada. They were not Ada. They could not be Ada. They would never be her, and he was aware of it. Perhaps, he was stuck wallowing in something that he could not touch, drowning in something he could not swim in, burning in something that he could not breathe in. He would be haunted by the scent of her perfume, but he would never get to see her face in the light of the morning rays. She is in the dark for the vast majority of his memories, forever enshrouded in some kind of darkness that he can not see in. Yet, he welcomes it, closing his eyes and sinking into the embrace of her skin on his, some sort of twisted addiction that only she could satisfy.
He is stuck, he finds.
Crossroads of destiny, crossroads of doom, crossroads of light, yet he chooses the path that will lead him to his demise.
Is it love? Will he learn what love is? He does not know. He fears he might never know.
So, he's forced through the movements of his day to day life, nothing new, nothing old.
Lanshiang hurt him more than heal. He is aware — more than anyone, he fears, that he has been preserved in some sort of inescapable love for Ada. He can't. Perhaps it is cruel to everyone, but he is haunted by her figure in all of his dreams, forever stuck staring into the dark of her eyes and red of her clothes. He dreams of her over and over again, staring into the darkness as she disappears from his life once again — over, and over, and over again. She would not stay, but then again, he supposes he has never asked her to.
He wonders if he could ever be in the right headspace to accept someone into his life.
Ada Wong or not, he probably does not have the ability to love someone the way they deserve to be.
So, he settles in his routine, mind wandering to Ada when he has too much free time, mindless buzzing of the TV in the background as he sits on the couch, whiskey in his hand as his brows knit together and he ponders just where it all went wrong. What went wrong? Had he done something to deserve to be in the position he was in? When was the last time he pondered over whether or not he truly enjoyed his position of work? All of this is to accomplish what? What does he receive in compensation for years of wearing down his body until he was all shattered and broken on the ground?
What is the point of holding onto an axe that should have been retired eons ago?
He glances at himself in the mirror once more, stubble grown out more, bangs pressing on his cheeks, hair dark, eyes dull and lifeless. He would not be someone worth it, he finds. He pushes his hair back, trying to remember just how he looked years ago when he was a rookie, but to no avail. Simplicity is a luxury now. He misses being excited to start his job. Now, every time he is sent out, it is something that will inevitably drain more years of his life of him. Even if Ada was there, he can not relish in the simple joy of seeing her. He has not been able to rest in a long, long time.
The exhaustion that drags through his body is a far harder fuck than any time he had hooked up with Ada in the privacy of his mission.
He grumbles, tearing his eyes from the mirror, loosening his grip around the sink, sigh on his lips as he reminds himself to throw out the razor in the morning when he was sober enough to deal with a blade. (It was a lie, he finds. He is never too drunk to remember the blade training he has)
Yet, he does not trust himself with it out of a fear of... something. He supposes Spain still hadn't left his system despite the mandatory therapy he had been held to after. Ashley is all healed up, so that's all that matters to him. That's all... that matters...
When he wakes, it is the last of his days of rest. Mandatory time off, he had been told.
He reaches for the rusty razor on the counter, tossing it into the trash, staring at the water stains on the glass of his shower, and he gets cleaning, fingers oddly light as he scrubs it all away, eyes still weary with a dread that if he does not maintain it regularly, the stains will return, but he does not think of it. Days where he can do things without thought are now a luxury to him. He ponders, if in another life, he would be doing this with someone. Perhaps in a world less cruel than this, he gets to settle down and live a life of mundanity. Perhaps, in that world, Raccoon City did not get wiped, or he was not sent there.
He no longer remembers what it was like to be a cop. Well, not that he ever had the experience. The most he could have remembered was training, but the training to be an agent has long replaced the training to be a mere cop. The lines on his face have grown stronger, and he is no longer half as young as he once was. Perhaps he would look younger if he just shaved, but of no avail with a rusty razor. Perhaps he needs a new one — and, while he's out for it, he should get proper food to eat as well.
It is not a one day process. The food in the fridge might go bad again, and the glass panes will stain with water once more, and his razor will rust, but he will continue living.
He wonders if it starts with himself before loving another.