Chapter Text
It’s been three months since you first started your job at the division of security operations, a dream you’ve had since you were little. You’ve always wanted to be part of something meaningful, even if you were just a small function in the code. Speaking of code, you hoped to be on the technological side of things, never having really been a hands-on person—well, at least not confrontational hands-on like this job requires. You’d figured it was the perfect choice; what job wasn’t desperate for another programmer? The research you did on this place was insane; you wanted to make the best impression and land a job straight out of university, and your hard work paid off because pretty soon you got that letter. It was an assistant position for some random manager. Okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly what you hoped, but everyone started somewhere. Besides, experience gets you places you were sure you’d learn something in the time you spent working under them. Right?
Wrong. You rock back and forth on your chair for the third time that hour, absolutely bored out of your mind like a little kid restrained from toys. Sorting out the filing cabinets was suddenly the least of your problems when they gave you access to at least a hundred emails to read through. Not to mention your manager practically gave you permission to respond to them however you see fit (not without a glare and warning if you said something stupid, though). Every day you clicked a stupid delete button, the more you started wondering if this was an internship or just absolute hell. Once you hear your manager’s footsteps approaching again, you sit back up with a long sigh, knowing you could either continue this work or sit in a toilet stall and play games on your phone. The latter was looking more tempted by the second, but you quickly reminded yourself that you’re 23 now, and this is work! Clicking on the first email, you’re quick to delete another empty report from an intern.
Your eyes flitter over the next few emails, clicking away mindlessly before you pause..an escort is needed? Only two emails in, and this one seems a little different from the usual data assignment in an Excel document. This one was addressed by another manager, and damn, their title sounds fancy even if you don’t know what the hell it means. You sit up in your seat as your finger runs against the mousepad of the laptop, scrolling down the page. This could well be the stupidest thing to consider. Who would actually consider being an escort to some random agent all the way to Miami?? And stay there until he’s done?? In your own hotel?!
You, that’s who. You didn’t care if he made you carry his luggage or if you did paperwork for the whole plane trip. This could be your big break, working with an actual, experienced agent. If you could just help him out a smidge, that could take you a mile in your work! Peeking over your desk, you make sure your manager isn’t looking before quickly writing back the most sophisticated response along with a quick mention of your name as a candidate. You’d probably be screwed if he did find out you practically promoted yourself on his behalf, but realistically, he won’t. The chair creaks as you lean back again, groaning softly as you remember that an email response will definitely take a week to come back.
Before you know it, you're already switching departments and knee-deep in a tonne of new documents to fill out for the trip. Why the hell hadn’t this agent gotten his passport renewed?! ‘Does he never go on holiday?? Is he an overworker or just the biggest shut-in ever??’ You weigh up all the options as you step your way into the small desk space they allowed you to occupy, your hands preoccupied with a laptop, papers, and way too many things in your head. Oddly, this busy office block feels like home, like the corridors of your university cafeteria. This also means you know how to manoeuvre through this situation with ease, getting to your desk quickly and efficiently with no awkward interactions. Though you used to take your time and wish you’d bump into the love of your life and he’d pick up your books, you wanted this job so badly that it was out the window. Thankfully, this had been one of the best first weeks you could have so far; it was practically second nature—
You bite your lip so hard that you can’t tell if the pain is from the blood on your teeth or the hot coffee seeping through the back of your new shirt. Groaning softly, you turn to face the culprit, hoping that they’ll be nice about it like you were. Accidents happen, you think; maybe he just slipped. After all, there’s probably a bunch of interns here too; they’d be in a much worse position than you. But there's no culprit waiting to say sorry or offer to fix your shirt—only a man swerving through the crowds with a suspicious coffee mug that is only half full as he rushes through. Great. Not even a prince charming who will pay for your dry cleaning.
It’s only a few days later when that same man walks by again, and again, and again, until eventually he stops in front of your desk. You lift your eyes from the small little corner you own, stacks of paperwork before you, just because the agent you were escorting was that important.
“Hey- you’re my escort, right?”
And unfortunately, that agent was this man before you. Yes, you would have thrown a fit about the coffee; yes, you would have refused to work with him or forced him to apologise. But damn, you just really wanted that job. You nod your head, sitting up a little straighter as you push away any of the burning distaste for him and give him a polite look. “Yes, I’m your escort.”
“You sure..? I mean.. you kind of just look like any odd intern, no offense. Actually, the interns get a better desk than you.” His blue eyes pierce into you, one hand rubbing at the stubble on his jaw as he raises an eyebrow at you. Only now have you actually gotten a full look at him and his well… unkept appearance. His hair is tousled, stray pieces fall over his face, and dark bags tug his eyes down. If you had to predict his future, you’d be sure he’s on the path to being the embodiment of a die-hard metal fan. You also had a pretty confident guess he’d end up being the boyish lazy agent upon seeing how he grabs one of the sweets off your small pot and pops it into his mouth.
“I can show you the documents, Mr. Kennedy, if you really want—I’m pretty sure I'm your escort.” His words had annoyed you a little, but you couldn’t just get angry at him. He’s practically a veteran agent, and it’s clear that he doesn’t even know you existed before today; no one really has.
“I’ve had enough of doing paperwork; I’m just glad you’re doing mine. So, what have you got planned for me, escort?” He’s a little sassy, it seems, definitely not what you had expected, but you just had to remember to stay professional and keep to expectations. You stifle a sigh as you begin talking again. Maybe this really was a bad idea.
At first it didn't seem to be too bad; you’d carry his important documents stiffly as you escorted him to the meeting with another high ranking official or the like. Even if they were boring, you had to remind yourself that life had its stepping stones, and you’d just have to work yourself through this one to be able to comfortably pay your rent this month on top of chasing your dream. He’d disappear some days off on a mission before he’d come back looking far more grouchier than before. It only seemed to worsen as you soon came to realise that, in the simplest words, Leon had just as much hope left for himself as Chris Redfield did—which was in the depths of hell. You’ve watched him be shouted at numerous times in the passing days over lost work, unfinished reports, denial of missions, and straight up.. slacking off. It was concerning to say the least, and you’re starting to regret all of this already. Most days he barely even had a routine, too hungover from last night’s drinking session to think twice before he started another one at midday.
“Um.. Mr. Kennedy?” You have to speed walk just to catch up to his long strides as he heads towards the exit of this DSO building, already beelining for the bar.
“What?” His voice is sharp and barely restrained as he slightly turns his head only to catch a glimpse of you and your meek face trying to ask him something. “Oh, it's just you, escort. What do you want now?” He raises an accusing brow at you as if you had just interrupted something so very important with something that seemed to have the significance of the size of an ant.
“Well, I need you to fill in these documents—“ You begin before he cuts you off, rolling his eyes at your words.
“So? Just put it on my desk. Can’t you escorts do anything right?” That only makes you grit your teeth in anger— how dare he insult you because of his grouchy behaviour?
“Mr. Kennedy, you told me that last week, and you still haven't done it!”
“Exactly, I told you to do that. So just do it.” With that, he reaches the double doors that lead to exit the building, pushing past into the evening air and leaving you dejected in the lobby.
You couldn’t just let that go, obviously not, so you’d return to his desk every day and slap down another high stack of paperwork onto his desk. If that's what he wanted, so be it—he can deal with it when he practically can't see over his desk. You have a smirk on your face as you contemplate that, imagining him huffing as he goes through the stacks.
However, you’re only met with horror as you realise he’s not even at his desk, already heading down the corridor with a bottle of beer in his hand again. What the hell? You want to scream right now because there is no way you could have landed a job this badly. Yeah, you’re a bit of a hard worker, but this is the DSO—you have to be one. This occurs more and more frequently, watching as he just saunters down to the bar again or maybe to the balcony for a smoke; either way, he doesn't intend to look at a single word of the work set out for him.
It gets to the point where you have Chris coming for you too, asking where the hell the mission reports are, but all you can do is show him the place where Leon’s desk is, the reports overflowing. The agent begins to dislike you after that, scolding you for “snitching” him to Chris and then stating he’s had enough of your persistence. So, instead, he tries to annoy you and slaps twenty dollars in your hands. “Go buy me a bottle of beer, and then i want you to go to that diner down the road, order the special, but specify that I want no mayo in the burger and a seedless bun”
So of course, you trudge yourself down the road to the diner, pickup the food all while cursing him out before returning only to be met with another twenty dollars and another order. This repeats again, and again, and he seems to seethe each time you give him that same unfazed look upon your face.
In the past four weeks of this job, somehow you had dropped from earth to hell and then lower. It was like he was actively trying to kick you out of this place, and if you didn't have the paycheck and a dream right now, you’d go in a heartbeat.
You didn’t realise the severity of the situation until you’re panicking on a Monday morning, trying to find him because you both have to be at a meeting in ten minutes and he still hasn't clocked in for his shift. You’ve practically begged every security employee to tell you if they see him, knowing that Chris might just have your head if you don't get there in time. It’s even worse that the meeting is twenty minutes away from the DSO building you’re always at—this is a guaranteed failure. The phone goes to voicemail again, so you reluctantly decide to just attend the meeting anyway. You usually weren't allowed to sit inside with him, but the least you could do was give them an apology to save the DSO some face. Even if they wouldn't take ‘I have no idea where he is’ as an excuse.
You stop outside the building, cheeks flushed from the cold since the traffic was so bad outside you had to jog over to the building. Taking the lift up to the meeting room, the other attendees give you a dirty look, assuming you were some stupid intern in the wrong place. Their looks almost made you cower, but you know you aren't doing anything wrong. “Excuse me, sir.” You stand awkwardly in front of the meeting’s host, your body awfully rigid from your next words.
“Yes?” He looks at you with disdain, not expecting to be spoken to by some kid.
“The agent I'm escorting here, Mister Kennedy, will be a little bit late or may as well not turn up at all. I.. uh, hope you understand?” You attempt to explain, not really sure how to word this. What you didn't expect was for the man to grow furious, slamming his hand against the wooden table, which immediately made the entire room stop their menial chatter to stare.
“What do you mean he’s not coming? He’s our top agent.”He barks out, and you have no idea what to say, backing up from him as you fumble.
“I’m sure he’ll be here soon, but—“
“You’re only sure? What kind of escort are you?”
The red that coats your cheeks is humiliating, deepening with each second the silence continues on for. You grit your teeth, muttering out apologies as fast as you can before he eventually dismisses you, and you’re halfway down the stairs before you know it. The back of your hand wipes your face, small tears forming in your eyes at all the gazes fixed on you.
If that hadn't taken the cake, you didn't know what did. To think that he was getting away with all of this was a severe understatement; he was slowly deteriorating his own life from his habits. He’d been kicked off missions permanently now, and then work for him started slowly dwindling. It sounded good—less work, right? Wrong. He was practically a week away from being fired altogether, which also kissed your job bye bye. The interns had already begun to snicker about it, even going as far as to ask you questions about him as well. As much as you hated his guts for his behaviour, you hated the sneers on their faces even more. It was the third time you’ve given them a dirty look now, even going as far as silencing one with a sharp glare. You couldn't help but scoff, a mere intern trying to mock an experienced agent? Who the hell did they think they were?
However, after another week passes with little to no improvement, you couldn't deny that the longer this continued, they wouldn't even have someone to mock anymore. The issue was, what the hell could you even do? Chris had fully given up on him at this point, as had most of the operatives here, and as much as you hated it, it seemed like you were his last hope.