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The comfort of being on death’s door is much too familiar to Leon.
His whole life had always been one wrong step away from the fiery gates of hell, and he had always been prepared for it, no matter the situation. With his will written since he was only twenty-two, and his belongings labeled by who out of his very small pool of loved ones will be given them after he dies, he could at least know that he could die without loose ends. It’s not really a matter of if to him, but when. With the way he lives, he knows he’s going out sooner rather than later.
Although, as the familiar tell of black webbing crawls up his neck and down his cheeks, he can say with confidence that this is the first time in a very long time that he’s really regretting it.
If this had been prior to China, then he’d say that he would have welcomed it with open arms. Maybe even happily. This nightmare can finally end, and he can rest after his countless years of fighting. The weight of the world, and bioterrorism, and all the people he couldn’t save, all the ones who died in front of him, all of it, could be blissfully lifted off his shoulders. His nightmare could be someone else’s.
It’s in his nature to keep fighting even when there isn’t a chance for it to end, but a permanent break from life has always rested comfortably within the edges of his scattered mind, begging for a chance of solace.
That was until Ada entered his life again five years ago, and stayed.
Permanently.
It’s unusual, even after all these years, to assign any form of permanence to Ada Wong. She was a ghost in all matters of the way, a mere whisper that entered Leon’s mind as a prayer in his times of need. A healing salve, only there to temporarily remedy a gaping wound that always failed to close. She had always made it very clear that she was never going to stay.
He remembers that particular day started with the faint shattering of his window, and a familiar cry that he rarely heard, but that immediately dropped his guard. In his living room was a heaping swath of red that was surrounded by shards of glass, twinkling like stars around her frame, heaving with suppressed sobs. She was hurt, filled with sorrow that wracked through her violently. Tiny cuts and purple bruises marred her skin, and of course, Leon was by her side in an instant to carry her to the couch.
This was far from the first time he’d seen her in his apartment. Many reasons had occurred for her impromptu visits over the years, but never in this state. He’s seen her, felt her, tasted her in so many ways, but it pains him to think that this kind of vulnerability from her was something he’d given up on years ago. In all the ways he’s thought of her, a mask for every instance took its place.
Ada was stoic. Ruthless. She would leave a trail of kisses that would melt his insides, but then ice him out in one night with a lipstick-stained note wishing him farewell. At that moment, none of it really mattered. Her tears left trails that spoke volumes more than her kisses ever did. This was enough for him.
Leon cupped her cheeks softly, as if he were handling something incredibly fragile, and wiped the tears away for her. Her tired laughs echoed in the room, but she didn’t pull away, instead turning her face closer into his caress.
“You just love saving pretty girls in distress, hm?” Ada kept a neutral face as he brushed over her cheekbone with his thumb. He didn’t resist the grin that crept up on him at her remark, his mirth more visible as her neutrality broke into a faint smile.
“Kinda seems like you’re a little too into this, hon," she remarked, but not unkindly. "Don’t you have other ladies to get to?”
“You know that I’ll always have time for you.”
Every other time, his sincerity had always brought her guard up. Immediate hackles raised, a quip always ready in response. He expected one from her now, to protect the little that she hadn't shared already in just one go. Perhaps an attitude, or another hand, pushing him away. What he got instead was her resigned, tired sigh, and a wobbly smile that broke down to reveal more of her tears.
There was a silent understanding that they both fell into afterwards. It was his turn to take care of her that day, even if he could see how uncomfortable she was as he cleaned her wounds. Underneath that calm and collected exterior, Leon could always sense a sort of tension itching to get out of her skin when she wasn’t in control of a situation. A tap of the foot, a slight edge to her face. He softly apologized for having to have her relinquish some of that control to him, pressing small kisses to the very cutesy pink bandages he used that he'd left buried in his medicine cabinet. To add a bit of color, Sherry had told him.
When Ada changed quietly into a shirt that he fished out of his drawer for her, he considered taking the couch. After whatever had shaken her up that night, he wasn’t sure she wanted company. He wouldn’t blame her. Most nights, he never wanted company unless it was the bartender pouring him drinks.
The moment he tried to move, a hand shot out to grab his wrist. Without hesitation, he got under the covers with her, holding her just as tightly as she had held onto him. He didn’t have to hear her say anything to know what she wanted.
Don’t leave me.
One night turns into two. Then, into a week. He blinks, and suddenly, her clothes take up more room in his closet than his own. Her vast amount of skincare products and makeup (that he insists she doesn’t need) litter the edges of the bathroom sink instead of laying empty, spare for a toothbrush and a razor. His poor excuse for food is replaced with heaps of groceries that she brings home some nights for them to learn to cook meals together. Within a mere month, her presence is felt in every corner of his apartment, down to the laptop charger that’s taken residence in the dining room outlet.
She’s bossy, and even more beautiful than he’d ever thought she could be. She’s witty, and can only cook one meal well. She’s trying so hard to stay, and he thinks he loves her more and more with each passing moment.
Ada shows him scars that he’d only had the chance to glance at before, with the scars getting deeper as more time passes. Some days, it’s surface level cuts, like the first time she’d had to eat something raw on a mission, or her feelings on how some of her favorite dresses have gotten ruined beyond repair in the line of duty.
Other days, it’s about the first time she wielded a knife, when she was six, or how she was taken from her family at birth to be used as a weapon. They trade stories with varying levels of intensity, but somehow, after each one, the load on their shoulders is lifted, even if it's only a little.
One night, she tells Leon that she doesn’t remember her real name.
In fact, she doesn’t think she’s ever had a real name, and that a number that's been tattooed into her scalp since childhood is the only thing that she carries as a real identifier of who she was supposed to be. The truth is that Ada Wong started in Raccoon City as a fake identity. Merely an alias that she had picked on a whim, with no plans of becoming attached to. She had planned to discard it after the mission was finished, but kept it because it was the only time someone used her name as if she were a real person.
She liked the idea of Ada — a person that somebody could actually love.
“I don’t even know why you still loved me after that night,” she admits to Leon under the cloak of midnight, once the sun is long gone and they’ve gotten ready for bed. He can’t see her face at the moment, but he imagines it’s filled with the same kind of bitterness that he’s been getting used to seeing her with as of late. He loves it more than how he’d always seen her prior, with her masks of perfect stoicism hiding something so much more kind and real under so many walls.
He doesn’t know how to explain to her that even after the weight of her betrayal, he could still see that there was so much more to her. That she helped him, even when he knew she was perfectly capable of getting that sample herself. That the trench coat she draped over him when he was hurt was an act of kindness he knew wasn’t out of necessity. That even if she was using him on that train car, it was out of desperation.
Instead, he drapes his arm over her body and brings her closer. Every part of her brings him a love that he can’t contain. A kiss to the crown of her head, a kiss to her lips. Even if she thinks otherwise, she’s made up for her wrongs so many times over. He doesn’t think he could ever hate her, even if she shot the gun that night.
“I wasn’t even a real person,” she whispers softly, burying her face into the crook of his neck. His heart shatters with the statement, and all he can do is cradle her head and pet her hair gently in an attempt to soothe her, like her presence always did for him.
“You were to me.”
Grace, that poor, sweet girl, frantically wakes him up from his haze of dreams that he’s reserved for his final moments. His visions of a woman in red, who shares a matching ring that he keeps tucked safely in a sewn part of his pocket, are replaced with a girl who desperately needs his help. He hopes that he’ll get to die with the ring on his finger, but he knows he probably won’t be so lucky to not die fighting. Still, the ring being on him is enough, at least for her.
But Grace… Grace is more important than his life right now. The mission is not over, and he hasn’t died yet, even if he can feel it coming. There’s still someone left to save.
“Hey you,” he says, in an attempt to reassure her, “I was just resting my eyes.”