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Leon had never been the best at deciphering his feelings. Part of it could stem from the fact that he’s emotionally repressed and doesn’t allow himself the gratification of such human acts, or the fact that he is legally not allowed to make his own decisions. The choice to choose, to feel, is not something Leon has the privilege of doing.
Leon didn’t think the day he met you would be special, forced to go to a STRATCOM lab because his handlers worry that he’s a biohazard, a plaga-infested asset that needs to be monitored lest their best agent turns into a mutated fuck-up. Hunnigan told him not to worry, that a few weeks of blood analysis and monitoring would be enough to appease upper management.
He shows up, not expecting much, not caring that he wasn’t in control of his autonomy–again. His body wasn’t his anymore, so why should he care? He walks into your lab like the obedient dog he is.
Your lab is clean, generically so, and it's almost remarkable how copy-and-paste they all look. He doesn’t see anyone, and it’s unnerving how quiet it all is. He stands in the entrance for a moment, hesitating as he looks around the empty space. He hates labs, medical spaces in general. Ever since he was a kid, and his foster families would take him to get his flu shots, Umbrella only worsened that dislike. He remembers the HIVE, the sterile hallways that connected to rooms littered with monsters, the birthplace of what had derailed his life. The memories are giving him a headache, and he turns on his heel to leave when a voice breaks the silence.
“Agent Kennedy?” the voice rings out, your head popping into view as you poke out of an office.
“That’s me,” Leon grunts.
“Hi – sorry for the wait, got a bit distracted on a personal project, this way please,” you say, gesturing to the office behind you, disappearing back inside the room without waiting to see if he’ll follow.
Leon doesn’t want to follow; he doesn’t want a stranger poking him with needles and analyzing his blood. He wants to go home and try to forget Spain ever happened.
He follows you anyway.
You're standing by the exam chair, a tray of equipment at your side, fiddling with a syringe as he enters.
“Please take a seat,” you politely instruct.
Leon does as he’s told.
“Alright, Agent Kennedy, can I see your arm?” It’s not really a question.
“At least buy me dinner first,” he huffs, mostly to himself. Most of his fellow coworkers, Hunnigan especially, have grown used to his ill-timed jokes, his poor attempt at easing his nerves. They ignore it or cast him annoyed glances; he considers it lucky if Hunnigan cracks a bemused smirk.
Not you, though, you snicker at his lame joke as you gently grasp his forearm.
“I think that might violate a few HR rules; professional boundaries and whatnot,” you chuckle.
Now it’s Leon’s turn to laugh. He’s not even upset when you plunge the needle into his vein without warning. Instead, he focuses on the way your brow furrows in concentration during the extraction. The way you purse your lips as you watch the blood fill the barrel of the syringe.
“Take a picture, it might last longer,” you murmur, not looking up as you slide the needle out.
The corner of your mouth is tugged back into a smirk as you turn to set the sample down. Leon can’t help but feel his face heat up in embarrassment, cheeks flushed as he tries to shrug it off.
“Wasn’t staring,” he mutters weakly.
“Mhm.” You peel off your gloves with a snap. “I’m sure you weren’t. Shame, I was hoping you flirted with all lab technicians.”
“Only the ones stabbing me.”
This causes you to laugh again, a bright and happy melody, one that sounds so earnest. Leon feels his stomach erupt with butterflies, a light, airy feeling that leaves him feeling dizzy.
Wait, he actually feels dizzy.
“Hey there, big-shot, don’t go fainting, not in my lab,” you say. Leon hears you shuffle around, and suddenly, something cold is being shoved in his hand.
“What–?” he starts, only to be cut off.
“It’s just orange juice, the sugar will help, trust me,” you say.
Trust you, Leon thinks, sipping from the tiny plastic straw. Yeah, he thinks he does.
_____
Meeting up with you has been the highlight of these past few weeks, hell, probably the highlight of the past year. You’re smart, quippy, and Leon finds himself missing you after he’s left the safety of your lab.
One day, he catches you outside of your lab. It’s surreal seeing you out in the sunlight, not under white LEDs. You're leaning against the wall of the building, a cigarette dangling between your lips as you fumble with a lighter.
“Damn butter fingers,” you grunt, words muffled.
“Those things will kill you, ya know?” Leon jokes, hands shoved in his pockets as he approaches you. You raise your gaze to meet his, frustration melting away as you chuckle.
“You sound like my mother. Help me out?”
Leon can’t stand the smell of cigarettes; he hates the way it seeps into the fiber of clothing and lingers in closed spaces. It’s a stench that lingers, a stench that reminds him of people he’s failed. He can’t say no to you, though, not when you give him pleading puppy dog eyes. He just gulps, nodding as he takes the lighter from your outstretched hand, flicking it, sparking it to life. He protects the flame from the chilly breeze, leaning in closer as you take a drag from the cigarette, the end smouldering to life.
“My hero,” you sigh, eagerly taking another puff. Leon feels a sharp ache in his chest. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, maybe it's the foul smell of the cigarette, but he’s transported back to Spain. The teasing words of Luis Serra ring in his ears, and the image of him in his final moments, smoke still lingering in the air as he died.
“I–I have to go,” Leon says suddenly, backing away. You tilt your head, confused by the sudden shift, but nod nonetheless.
“See ya around,” you call out. Leon just waves dismissively, hating himself for doing so.
_____
The rain pelted against his window, thunder cracking loudly outside. Leon just took another sip of whiskey straight from the bottle, wincing as the loud booming sound echoed through his apartment. He turned the television up, hoping it would drown out the sound of the storm and his own thoughts.
He hated this, hated feeling so lost. He has another appointment with you tomorrow, his last one before his handlers would be satisfied that a parasite wouldn’t burst from his skull and infect half of the agency. Leon finds himself dreading it. You’ve been the only good part of his days, the only part of the day he got to talk to another human being and just be himself. He wasn’t used to that. He doesn’t know if you laugh at his jokes out of pity, but he doesn’t care. Because, regardless, your face lights up, and you banter back playfully. Being near you felt easy.
And tomorrow it was all ending.
Leon takes another drink of whiskey, letting the nausea pool in his stomach. The sickness felt better than the dread.
_____
Today was the last day of his blood analysis appointments. Leon had woken up with a hangover that was only amplified by his anxiety. He had taken longer to get ready for work than normal. Scrubbing his body under the hot water until his skin was tinged pink. Styling his hair, combing it – trying to tame a stubborn cowlick on the side of his head. Leon had even remembered to put on cologne; he wanted to leave a decent last impression.
But maybe it didn’t have to be.
On his drive to work, he gripped the steering wheel, debating either driving off the road or asking you out. Leon had to remind himself that there were far scarier things in life than asking someone out on a date.
He’s sitting on the exam chair, watching with bated breath as you examine the sample under the microscope, jotting down illegible notes as you work.
“I’m going to miss this,” Leon says suddenly, his cheeks heating as you jerk your head up with a small smile.
“It’s been a nice routine,” you agree. “You’re much less of a jackass than some of the other agents they send me.”
“That implies I’m still somewhat of a jackass, though,” he argues.
“Hey, you said it, not me,” you snicker, returning your gaze to the microscope. Leon scoffs at your words, smiling regardless because he’ll take whatever jab you throw at him.
“Well, I still have to run the sample through the scanner to confirm you’re not riddled with the Plaga, but based on my examination, I’d say – with 99% confidence – you’re completely parasite-free, my friend!”
“You’re really going to send me back out there when there’s a one percent chance I have evil worms in my brain?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s trying to stall; he’s not ready to leave your lab yet.
“I’m afraid that’s a risk we’re going to have to take,” you say, nodding earnestly.
Leon manages a nervous chuckle, clasping his hands together as he takes a deep breath.
“I– um was wondering….” his words die in his throat as you look up at him with that innocent, friendly look on his face that’s been haunting his daydreams ever since you first stabbed him with a needle.
“Wondering what?”
Leon just lets out a nervous, strained chuckle, shaking his head as he slides off the exam chair.
“Nothing, don’t worry about it.”
You quirk your eyebrows at him, eyes narrowing slightly, but nod regardless, already turning away from him to return to your work.
“I’ll try not to,” you chide.
Leon stares at you for longer than necessary, trying to etch your features into his memory. He should have taken that picture. After a second too long, he forces himself to move toward the doorway.
“I’ll see you around, doc.”
“Yeah, see you around, Leon,” you reply, not looking up from your work.
It’s like a knife to the gut as Leon turns on his heel and leaves your lab for the last time. He doesn’t look back as he exits, trying to ignore the way his chest stings. He knows if he does, he’ll only make a fool of himself. Leon Kennedy knows he hasn’t earned a happy ending. Besides… the quiet is easier.