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The breakdown was subtle at first.
He was quieter, more introspective. The rare moments of genuine laughter faded, replaced by something subdued and almost empty; the light in his eyes barely, then noticeably, dimming.
There were nights where he would disappear on the excuse of needing a shower, the cool water an asset against the patches of red, rash-like marks cutting an ever growing path across his skin. When minutes ticked into ten, then twenty, you would quietly pad to the bedroom door left slightly ajar; never entering, only watching where he sat at the edge of your bed, the small box of mementos open before him.
"Old junk" he'd said when you’d discovered it years ago, hidden in the deepest corner of your closet behind jackets hardly used. A headshot from his first day of police academy, all innocence and nerves but resolute in his decision, not yet aware of what was to come. A flip-top lighter he’d revealed was from Spain, the initials LSN etched into its polished silver surface. And more simple, unassuming objects with no rhyme or reason to the unsuspecting eye.
He would thumb them in rotation in the dark room, forearms resting on his knees, eyes downcast. Then he’d notice you through the sliver in the doorframe, discarding his keepsakes with feigned nonchalance and a smile that no longer reached his eyes.
When the rash, the sickness, progressed—the red now a necrotic, veined black—things grew worse, like the mental toll was equivalent to the physical. The pattern of bodies began appearing almost concurrently, and you knew before he told you that the investigation would fall to him.
Your goodbyes were careful, somber in a way that felt different than all the others.
“Come back to me.”
“You know I will.”
A lie, but a necessary one for both of you.
. . . . .
The text came later. One that you were far too used to receiving, yet still triggered the cold rush of anxiety despite the years passed.
I’m ok. Investigation took a turn. Will call as soon as I can.
Hardly changed in content, but not the same. This time, he wasn’t solely fighting external threats, but also himself, his own body. It was giving up on him, that was clear enough. And you’d seen the casualties, the photos released without reservation online. A gruesome window into the last moments of the people they'd been.
You hadn’t mentioned that your nightmares saw him among them.
And then there was the shift, now noticeable in everything he did. As if after countless years of pretending, cracks threatened the façade he’d fought too long and hard to keep up. Like he now had something to prove or die trying.
The time you spent waiting alone, blind to it all, was pure torture.
. . . . .
Your screen flaring to life in the early hours of the morning wrenched the knot from your chest with such force that a sob broke out of you, quick and heavy.
Recouping, you answered. Breathless. “Leon”.
“I’m comin’ home.”
The relief in his voice settled another lump in your throat, but you choked it back, afraid that any crack before he was physically in front of you would upset whatever universal force was in your favor.
When the familiar sound of keys jingling and the doorknob winding broke the heavy silence that evening, you straightened from your position on the couch, met with his loaded exhale as he slid his duffle from his shoulder. It hit the ground of the foyer with a loud thud, the door closing softly behind him.
His eyes immediately sought you out.
A tired, sideways grin. “Hey.”
Dirt-covered, still bloody. You could never tell if it was his or theirs—the norm for these reunions. Nothing out of the ordinary. But as you approached him, you noted the youthful brightness there. The new lack of barely hidden pain.
One hand to his chest, you brought the other to his neck. Smooth skin met your fingertips as you inspected him, your breath hitching.
“It’s gone?”
He brought his forehead to yours, smiling still. “It’s gone.”
Somehow, you sensed a meaning far greater than the illness that had nearly run him into the ground.
You wrapped your arms around his neck then, crushing yourself into him as his own enclosed your waist. He buried his face into the familiar crook of your neck, breathing you in. Tears spilled and you held each other, silence filling the spaces words couldn’t yet reach.
When you finally pulled back, hands cupping his cheeks, you could see the fatigue overtaking him. As if here, with you, his body finally felt safe enough to let his guard down, and with it, the crushing weight of what he’d just endured.
Eyes searching his, you stroked his stubble with your thumbs. “We can discuss it tomorrow.”
He nodded once, gratitude overwhelming the hard lines of his face. “Deal.”
. . . . .
Grace. A name fitting for what she was to him, what she’d done without trying.
You uttered it with a soft reverence whenever she was mentioned, which was frequently in the weeks following the fall of ARK. You weren’t supposed to know any of it, of course. But after the endless grilling by the bureaucratic powers-that-be, Leon told you all of it—and the parts he’d left out of his debrief.
The police department. Kendo’s shop. An onslaught of the ghosts of his failures; nightmares again brought to life.
Then, the waste pit. The terminal. Elpis. Grace.
Whatever it takes, count me in.
His eyes took on a gentle awe as he recounted it, like it was playing out right there in front of him: the image of his younger self and the woman before him overlayed and asserting in tandem. The moment that small seed of change took root somewhere deep within.
It was visible in how he carried himself, how he loved you and those in his circle. Light in a way you hadn’t seen in months, god, maybe years.
You would catch him humming—humming!—to himself, songs you had all but forgotten he liked after he'd stopped listening altogether. His laughter was back and brighter, the freedom in it so apparent that you had to catch your breath against your chest threatening to burst every time you heard it.
He no longer roused you when his dreams walked too close to reality, more flashback than fantasy, drenching him in a cold sweat and leaving him tossing in the effort to escape. Instead, he slept curled into you, chest rising and falling steadily under a blanket of deep, dreamless sleep.
The memories, the wounds—now, they were scars. Roughly healed, slightly raised, but the kind he didn’t have to check so frequently anymore.
All thanks to a young FBI analyst resolved and willing to keep going despite the odds stacked against her.
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