Work Text:
The rain is coming down hard when you finally get out of your old car, conveniently parked right in front of the entrance to a quiet pub you’d been scoping out for a while now. The vehicle is marked by dents front, side and back and the door sometimes needs a little extra encouraging to close, but this time you don’t bother with it. You look through the large windows of the place, low lights on, almost no customers inside. You’re pretty sure a lot of people wouldn’t spare this bar a second glance. The sign on the window has faded, and you can see the wood in the door rotting from years of neglect.
To be quite honest, this isn’t a place where you’d usually picture yourself either, but today you were on a mission.
The rain drenches you before you even reach it. Hair sticks to your skin uncomfortably. You feel a droplet on your eyelashes threatening to slip free, so you wipe it before it gets in your eye. You hate the feeling of water in your eyes.
The middle-aged woman behind the bar doesn’t pay you any mind when you bust through the door and quickly wring the worst of the water out of your hair. Part of you is glad for it. You don’t have time to make small talk and attempt to look like you belong in here, because you know the longer you wait, the more courage slips through the cracks of your fingers. It doesn’t take long before your eyes are used to the low light, and you zone in on the subject of your frenzy.
Sitting all the way in the back of the small space, hidden behind a potted tree that has seen better days too, with his back turned to you, you find the man you’ve been dying to talk to. With your bag in hand, you take calculated steps. One, two, one, two, you think of what you wanted to say again.
He doesn’t look up when you reach his table. There’s a glass of whisky (or at least you assume that’s what’s in it) in front of him. It looks untouched. Only when you lean to the side and scrape your throat, does he lift his head and look at you. Worn, blue eyes send jitters through your spine. “Hi. Leon Kennedy?”
You can tell the cogs in his brain are working when he realises you know of him, eyes quickly scanning your person. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m glad you asked,” you say and give him your name with enthusiasm, as you put your bag on a seat opposite of him and slide into the one next to it. He probably already knows that you’re really not — you would’ve sat down across from him whether he acknowledged you or not. “You work for the DSO, right?”
The man stares at you quietly. You find yourself drawn to those eyes, so light blue, so tired, but despite his apprehension you just see kindness. Maybe part of that is just what you’d like yourself to see. You’re painfully aware that you’ve never met this man before personally, but you like to credit yourself for two things: your investigative abilities, and your intuition. Surely one of those things would be right.
“I’m with the FBI,” you continue, “wanna have a little chat?”
Leon gives you a quick scan again and frowns. “You’re no FBI.”
You laugh, wondering what gave it away — was it the faint foreign accent? or because you are young and clearly too free to be concerned with bureaucratic business? Leaning over the table, you rudely slide his glass over to your side. “No, I’m not. Perceptive. I like it. Do you mind?” Though you ask, you already have the glass to your lips before he even knows what’s happening. The whisky (you can definitely confirm it is that, now) burns your throat pleasantly, and you throw your head back to gulp it all down at once.
Just a little courage, you tell yourself.
“Sorry,” you say as apologetically as possible when you slam it back down on the sticky table. “The next one is on me. Anyway, I’m with the journal, and I’ve been doing a lot of reading about you. Now, I realise you’ve never agreed to speak to the press, so let me just cut straight to the chase. I have a proposition for you.”
What you don’t care to tell him, is that you’ve only been on the job for a year or so, fresh out of college, where you studied not journalism, but law. Honestly, the job just kind of happened. A year ago, you wouldn’t even have thought you had a knack for investigation. This may just be your first real shot at something big, and you’re betting all you have on it.
Leon sighs, leaning back in his seat. He’s an attractive man, you knew that already, but seeing him in front of you in the flesh was something else entirely. Years of working out and combat had bulked the man up. The leather jacket he was wearing just barely fit the size of his arms, you bet. Even with the space between the two of you, when he stretched his legs, his knees bumped into yours.
Exhilarating. You knew that you weren’t here to ogle an agent, but who could blame your eyes for doing what they were made to do?
“What makes you think I’ll be interested in this proposition of yours?” he asks. His voice is deep and gravelly and you wonder how often he uses it. Perhaps you’d like to hear him say your name, just once.
“I don’t think you are,” you admit honestly, as it’s something you had given a lot of thought to. Being the youngest in the office with no relevant credentials behind you sure got you used to not being taken seriously. “But I’m here now, and about to order your next drink, so why don’t you give me five minutes, yeah?”
You don’t wait for a response when you flag down the lady behind the bar — something you realise probably also looks out of place, but given she has nothing better to do, she sighs and trudges your way anyway. You take our your notebook while you give her your order (of course, not forgetting to make up for Leon’s stolen whisky) and smile amicably when you realise she seems like she wants you out of there sooner rather than later. Likewise, you got used to that as well, well aware that you’re an acquired taste.
Leon watches you as you get your bearings, curiously and cautiously. The owner of the place — Linda is what she goes by, you learn when Leon calls her by name — shuffles away to get your drinks only when he gives her a shrug. He’s just as confused as she is, but you take him for a polite and kind man. At least, you’re kind of banking on that to have any sort of success with this encounter today.
When she’s gone, you finally allow yourself to settle down for a moment and listen to the music playing. You recognise the song as ‘Easy’ by The Commodores, a song you grew up with, as many kids had, with your late father playing it in the car often. You liked it. At the very least it helps ease your restlessness.
You turn your attention back to the man you’ve been wanting to talk to for weeks and observe. He’s observing you, too, noticing that you have the habit of nervously chewing on your lip piercing. He also takes note of your notebook, filled to the brim with sticky notes and loose papers. It’s so thick that the elastic band you keep around it seems close to snapping. But you find that he eases down most when he scans your body and notices that you must not be armed. There is no concealed weapon on you, and by the looks of your tote bag loosely pooling on the seat of the chair, you don’t have one there either. That reassurance will have to do for now, since he has a feeling that he won’t be rid of you that easily.
“How did you know who I am?” he speaks, almost suspiciously. You relish in the fact that this is the first thing he said something out of his own volition, even if you’re aware it was but crumbs. You’re young and motivated and suck up every crumb like a dust buster.
“It’s just as I told you.” You take something out of the notebook and slide him a business card. “I’m with the Journal. I’d be doing a pretty shit job if I didn’t know who I was talking to, huh?”
He tentatively takes it and you can’t help but lick your lips at the sight of his hands. Sometimes the job came with benefits, and you certainly didn’t mind this one. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ve heard of the murders popping up recently. I have reason to believe there is more at play than a simple serial murderer. I know you’ve been investigating them, too.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, unsure whether to be irritated or impressed with that knowledge. You pause for a moment when Linda comes back with your drinks and hand her more bills than necessary. She just raises a brow and walks off, leaving the two of you to your… monologue.
“So that makes me wonder, what is the Division of Security Operations doing hanging around these crime scenes?”
“That’s none of your business.”
He doesn’t say it unkindly, even though you’re aware he’s not much comfortable with your unexpected intrusion.
“I thought you might say that. The victims — they all had the black marks, didn’t they?” You take a sip of your beer. It’s not the quality you would’ve sought normally, but you don’t let that stop you from taking two more gulps. When you put it back down, you lean over the table and lower your voice. “Much like your own.”
You sit back down, missing when Leon shifts in his chair uncomfortably. “I want to ask you to take me to the next crime scene.”
“Why would I do that?” he retorts, turning his attention to his drink for the first time since your arrival. You realise you’re asking a lot. Possibly — no, certainly — more than you can bargain for. This whole investigation has been a long shot; even your superiors were unsure about what you were doing, but you had convinced them and you were determined to convince Leon, too.
Knowing that you had only one shot at this, you let the silence draw over you like a blanket. You watched him turn his discomfort to the drink, his expression only contorting so slightly you would have missed it had you not been paying close attention. The lines in his face confirmed what you already knew; this was a man that had seen the worst of the world and more. Despite how that lifestyle often hardened the people who lived it, behind layers of self-protection, you thought you saw something. Was it guilt? You would have to peel slices of that guard one by one if you wanted to find out.
“Because you want to get to the bottom of this as much as I do. And,” you pause to sift through the papers you kept in your journal, stopping when you found what you were looking for. You take the photo out and hold it out for him to see. It’s seen better days, crinkled and worn, despite it being relatively new. “Because I may have a dog in this fight, too.”
You find your strategy is effective, when he relaxes ever so slightly. The wrinkles in his forehead smooth out. He scratches the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. It seems your gut feeling about him was right; you were sure he would deny you this… partnership of sorts due to bureaucratic reasons, but at the very least, he would let you down gently, you hoped?
“You were there in Raccoon City,” you pressed more. The agent stiffens when you bring that name up, a name that’s surely still a ghost haunting him every step of the way. “So was he. After investigating these deaths, you and I both know that’s not what’s happening. I need to investigate this, but the police won’t let me any closer than I already am. The FBI is tight-lipped, as they always are. I need to see this up close.”
Leon scrapes his throat uncomfortably and you know what’s coming. You see it in the way those blue eyes seem to sympathise with you. But it’s not sympathy you came looking for. And now that you know what he’s going to say, you realise you’re more dogged than you were aware of yourself.
“Whatever we have is classified,” is what he says, and it hurts because it’s nothing new to you. “I wouldn’t be allowed to take a civilian with me, even if I wanted to. There are rules.”
Of course, you knew there were rules. You are young, but not stupid. Even at your job you were often met with ‘rules’, limitations on your research or what you were allowed to spend or even if you were allowed to write what you had in mind at all, but you were never one to pay too much mind to those rules. Guidelines, you used to say to your sibling.
“No one has to know,” you shrug, cocksure and stubborn. “Who’s going to know? For all the cops know, I’m one of you.”
“I don’t work alone.”
“I’ll be quiet as a mouse. Not one word, I promise.”
He raises a brow and you know he doesn’t believe that one bit; and if you’re honest, you don’t either.
Maybe it’s the low light, the heating inside the pub, maybe it’s sitting across a man you didn’t expect to feel so attracted to when all you wanted was business, or maybe you were already catching a fever from the rain; but you are starting to feel too hot and uncomfortable and come to the conclusion you have to get out of here before you blow this.
After chugging the beer down in one go, you shove your notebook back in your bag and hope the moisture doesn’t ruin all of it before you get back in your car. Before you stand up, you push the card you gave him earlier to him again.
“My number is on there. Just so you know, I have managed to hound my mother into kicking me out of the house. Consider that a warning. Call me, yeah?”
When you walk away, you hope you look nonchalant. At least until you got back into the safety of your car where you can scream your nerves out. But more importantly, you hope that he calls you — or so help you God, you will really have to track him down like this again and again, because one way or another, you know you will get through those irritating police tapes.
It would just make it a lot easier — and safer — for you to do that with the help of the DSO’s handsome golden boy.
Written by a human in Ellipsus.