Hi There! Dropping By To Say I Hope You Had A Great Day Today And That Youre Doing Alright! Sending Lots

hi there! dropping by to say i hope you had a great day today and that you’re doing alright! sending lots of hugs your way <3

- 🤍

awwww tysm 🫶🏽🫶🏽

I HAD A LOVELY DAY! IM DOING GREAT! hugging ya back thru the screen ❗️❗️

did that upset u 🫶🏽🫶🏽 did i hurt ur widdle feelings...

you big baby

you are not cool buddy

:-(

---

one more thing:

the secret santa im participating in will go to @held-in-my-heart , so no one gets left out!!!

hello everyone.

im deleting this blog.

ok, well, im not deleting my blog. no, that wont happen. but look.

i know that i love this app, all the friends ive made here, everything truly has inspired me so, so much.

and its bad for me.

ive found writing to take up so much of my time now, taking up so many of my thoughts that i feel like things arent changing between how i wanted to balance my life out

.... which was the whole reason i downloaded this app. its doing nothing for me aside from the friends ive made.

and while i can at least give myself a speck of admiration for writing, id like to still see it somewhere, just to know ive done something with my life.

so im asking @held-in-my-heart to hold them with her. harshi, i met you basically three days ago, but we've talked so much, it feels like i've known you forever. i love you for agreeing to do this.

and i understand if you have no idea what the hell im blabbering about, and thats okay. recently i was told my attention is elsewhere and my mind is always straying.

and i know why.

that is to say, i love all of you.

i truly do.

but ive had a short stay, what, a month? and ive been completely infautuated with everything here, and im losing my focus.

so this is goodbye, huh?

who knows? i might be back, someday in the far future, when everythings settled down.

but for now,

goodbye.

---

Subject 003: Aquatic Humanoid

(Full description ahead!!!)

<<To: ———>>

<<From: L.S.N>>

Physical Characteristics:

Height: 250-255 cm (approximately 8 ft 2 in - 8 ft 4 in)

Body Type: muscular

Skin Tone: Pale

Appendages: Fins on hands and feet, resembling those of a fish; tail closest to a betta fish’s

Behavior:

Demeanor: Generally calm and non-aggressive. No signs of hostility observed.

Habitat: Deep oceanic waters

Diet: Suspected to be carnivorous, feeding on fish and other aquatic organisms.

Capabilities:

Aquatic Adaptation: Highly adapted to underwater environments.

Luminosity: Fins can emit a bright, bioluminescent light.

Offensive Abilities: Nails are capable of piercing and cutting through skin.

Notes:

While no direct threats have been observed, caution should be exercised when interacting with this subject due to its potential offensive capabilities.

The subject appeared to exhibit signs of jealousy when any other fish in its aquarium were being petted. This suggests a possible territorial or possessive behavior.

Further research is necessary to fully understand the subject's biology, behavior, and potential societal structure.|

<< Classified >>

---

Missin' You

A bad history makes for a wonderful future, right? You're willing to forgive and forget for the man you've always been down bad for.

a/n: OK THIS IS A REALLY OLD FIC... i haven't edited it too much or anything i just added some things here and there yk yada yada did stuff

first smut fic like explicit... ish... whatever. honestly this is just to address the allegations of me being a minor (UNTRUE.) and just for me to see it put out on something official !!

anyways @bunnivievve SHE MADE THE BANNER ART GO CHECK IT OUT ITS ACTUALLY WHAT INSPIRED ME TO DIG THIS FROM THE GRAVE AND REVISE IT!! LYSM GIRL <3333

tw: literal smut. like mdni seriously. also mentions of gore, death, a lot of references to spain just assume that the reader was with leon in the events of re4.

wc: 14.5k

The guy lunges for you, hands outstretched, a determined expression on his face. You step back and slam your rifle against his head, then open the door he was guarding, crushing his microphone under your foot before stepping inside. You grip your gun tightly, alert for potential threats, but it seems they forgot to guard the inside of the room.

"I'm inside," you say quietly, pressing a finger to your ear. The feel of the smooth black metal soothes you. "Permission to—"

"No," Rebecca replies immediately. "Absolutely not."

"What happened to Chris?" you ask, slightly confused as you traverse the room. He had told you he was the commander for this mission.

"I kicked him out because he would’ve said yes," she states simply.

"Sometimes I hate you." You were counting on Chris to give you permission for this. It was your only way to a promotion, which meant more money.

"Your request is denied," she repeats. "Turn back, we're sending in—"

You don't let him finish. You take out the radio that controls the communication device and switch it off. Breaking it would be too risky in case you get yourself into something.

You shoulder your rifle against your back as you press against the wall, glancing into the open doorway. You shine your flashlight once, twice, and one more time before stepping into the room with your gun raised. Almost immediately, relief floods you as you see Sherry sleeping soundly on a bed on the other side of the room. You walk around the table in the center, brushing against the chairs, growing more excited with each step.

This was it. The first mission that Chris had entrusted you with since he learned about Spain and... him. You promised that everything would go smoothly, but he still warned you to be wary of everything. Now it seemed too easy.

You near his bed, heart pounding. Then you smack straight into something, but there's nothing there. You step back, shaking your head, dazed. When you stretch out a tentative hand, fingers shaking, they graze a surface you can't see. You push your palm against it, forming a fist.

"What the…" you whisper to yourself, debating whether or not to report this to Piers. Just as you bring your hand up, you hear the distinct click of a magazine reloading and duck.

The bullet flies past your head, barely missing your skull. You can almost feel it parting your hair. Crouching to the floor, you pull out your gun. Luckily, the table provides ample cover as you stalk around to the other side, keeping your footsteps as still and quiet as you can.

"You're not as quiet as you think," a sultry female voice says. 

Screw that, then.

You grit your teeth and glance under the chair to see a full-length, ebony blue bodysuit with black accenting straps. Blond hair pulled back into a slick ponytail and piercing brown eyes scan the room as her shoes clack on the tiles, slowly nearing you.

You don't recognize her, but her voice stirs something inside you, a faint memory. Those eyes seem familiar. 

You bolt for the door, mind racing. She's too busy examining Sherry, too busy stirring her from her sleep, too slow to stop you from slamming the door behind you. About ten feet away from the room, you circle around the same pathway you used to get inside, to the parking garage just as the door's hinges give way as it crashes to the floor. The woman recoils from an extremely powerful kick, her gaze finding you.

You skid to a stop as her brimming eyes ground you to where you are. She breaks into a run, and that jolts you back to reality. Her... eyes. Sherry, that smart, smart girl sneaks around the back of the corridor to join you.

But as you faintly register her gentle touch, you’re still staring at the woman.

"Jill?" you choke out, a click of recognition. Her footsteps grow louder, more insistent towards you.

You swing your legs onto the motorcycle.

“Wait,” Sherry calls out, voice faint. “Just…”

You grip the handlebars tightly, then turn on your comms. Almost immediately, Rebecca’s voice comes through, panicked. And as everything is going to shit, of course, Sherry collapses in front of you.

"Are you stupid?" she lectures, oblivious. "Why would you turn the only way we can communicate with you off? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Calm down, I'm fine," you say, glancing down. "But I think you might want to come get the target."

"Why?" she asks, and you suppose you should be grateful she only sounds slightly angry. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. She just fell."

"I'll send a team out right now—but do not move," she says sternly.

"Don't worry, sir," you reply sarcastically. "I won't go anywhere."

"They're on their way. Please—" Rebecca gets cut off as the revving of another engine startles you. You glance to the other side of the parking lot, the realization that you aren't alone hitting you. Another motorcycle shoots from the entrance, heading for you.

You’re about to make the most insignificant escape in history when you see Sherry lying facedown on the concrete. Great, they're here for her, you think, then quickly lug her in front of you. It's an uncomfortable position, but the other motorcycle is catching up the ramp quickly.

You shoot towards the exit, cradling the girl between your legs as you carefully maneuver between lanes of traffic. You make it to some abandoned wasteland, thinking that you've lost the pursuer.

Then the same flashy, ivory motorcycle bursts through the brush and skids to a stop in front of you. You quickly start the engine again, but they've already caught up. You race alongside each other in silence, and you can't tell if they're here for her because they make no move to try and get her.

You look to your side, and the motorcyclist is looking straight ahead. "Are you part of the team?" you shout over the wind. Their head snaps towards you, but you don't get a reply.

You assume that the defenses will take care of them when you get to the base, so you skip the detour and race straight for it. The walls open, but no one tries to stop the other guy. The new sentry tries to convince the seniors, but they all shake their heads, smiling, as if they know something.

Confused, you swerve around shipping containers, ditch the bike, and sling Sherry’s arms around you, carrying her inside. You can't see where the guy is, so you drag her into the base and into the elevator.

They go through all the protocol—checking identity, running tests, all that bullshit. No one seems concerned that an intruder's lurking inside the base.

What if they don't know? A realization hits you. What if they managed to evade them somehow?

There's no way, another voice, a logical one argues. How could they have? We have the best technology in the US.

Not like that’s done any good shit for you.

A few nurses roll the girl in on stretchers, and you collapse onto the couch.

"You look like shit," Rebecca comments.

"Shut up, you wouldn't know anything about it. After all, your job is to send reinforcements to people that actually need it," you say jokingly.

Your friend fakes a hurt look. "Is that how you talk to your friend?" She sits down beside you, pulling up her tablet. "You wanna know about her?"

"Why not?" She hands you the tablet, and you read the profile. "Sherry Birkin… as in… Raccoon City?”

"That's the one."

"And?" Rebecca's eyes darken, but she tries to hide it behind an innocent smile.

"I don't know, actually. We... never got the data. Only that she’s been harboring the T-Virus for a long time."

"Liar," you say, but you let it go. After all, if she's not telling you, there's a reason behind it. "I like her though. You know, a guy followed me inside."

"Who?" she asks almost immediately. It's so fast that you get slightly suspicious. "I mean... do you know?"

"How should I know?" you say, crossing your arms. "It's not like anyone tells me anything around here. Besides, he practically followed me in."

"About that..." she begins sheepishly.

"What?" you demand.

"We all took a vote," she says quickly. "And we decided it would be better not to tell you about the new arrival because of your past and all the things you've told us, and we thought you might not be happy with it—"

"Just get to the point," you interrupt. "What's going on?"

"So... that guy who followed you in? He just joined, but he's made it clear he's one of the DSO’s best agents. I don't think you know he exists because the admin made it clear we shouldn't tell you."

"And why should I not know about this mystery man?" you raise an eyebrow.

Rebecca shrugs. "Dunno. Apparently he asked to be kept secret."

"So a mystery man who doesn't want me knowing that he exists... hm, wonder who that could be." You pretend to feign ignorance for Rebecca's sake, but your mind's already formed an idea of who it is.

After all these years, he's back for revenge.

"I can't tell you," she says apologetically. "Maybe you'll meet him at that conference today?"

"What conference?"

"Girl, seriously? The one with the agents? About the mission?”

"That's today? Shit!"

"Yeah, you're getting paired up." Rebecca stands and pats her coat down. "I'm going back to the lab. I'll see you later."

<><><><>

"So..." Chris leans back in his chair, resting his head on his hands. He looks oddly relaxed given the situation. "Wesker's not going anywhere since he’s managed to cheat death twice. It won't take long to infiltrate his manor. What now?"

"Either we take action, or we sit and wait," Helena replies, gritting her teeth. She has a somber look on her face. You don't know much about her, but she seems mysterious, as if she's hiding secrets. Then again, aren't we all?

"Why are you here, again?" Piers Nivans, Chris's new recruit, asks with his eyebrow raised.

"I'm on the mission," she chides. "My partner isn't here yet."

"Do you know who your partner is?" you ask her.

"Of course I do," she snaps. "Do you think I'm dumb?"

"Can I... know, by chance?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It doesn't concern you." She turns away from you, crossing her arms.

"So... I guess you'll be paired in case her partner doesn't show." Chris glances at the ground, his expression darkening as he mutters, "I wouldn't expect him to, anyways."

"And how do you know?" you ask quietly. Chris doesn't respond, his face stony.

The air turns awkward, and you sit in silence for a moment longer before Piers interrupts, "So, uh, captain, we should get some sleep."

"Good idea," Chris says quickly. "We need our rest." He stands up, but you grab his arm before he can leave, looking up at him.

"Wait, if Helena's partner shows up..." you trail off, hesitant.

Chris smiles wearily. "Don't worry. You'll still be with her. Trio wouldn’t hurt."

You exhale, relieved, then smile. "I'll hold you to that. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he replies, shutting the door behind him. You can hear his and Piers's footsteps fade away, and then you glance at Helena. You open your mouth, but she shuts you down before you can say anything.

"Before you ask, no, I'm not going to tell you who my mission partner is, and I'm not interested in getting to know you."

"... I was going to ask if you could hand me that blanket."

You don't know how long you sit there. Helena stares out of the window, legs and arms crossed. You slump onto the pillow, clutching the blanket around you.

"I think that it might help if you learned that you might need to work with me," you say.

"I know," she says simply. "Phase one of the operation happens tomorrow. Get some sleep. And... don't take anything too lightly, okay?"

You don't know what she means by that. You're still thinking about it on the car ride to the manor. As you pull up, you cast a glance at her face, soft and fresh. When you woke up, she was making coffee for you both. You wonder why she switches back and forth with you.

"Alright, people, this is it. Everyone clear on their roles?" Chris’s weary tone holds an undercurrent of urgency.

"As clear as it'll ever be." You run your hands through your hair, nerves getting the best of you. Helena’s face softens, a reassuring look in her eyes. You feel like glaring at her. Your feelings about her are "don't trust her" at best.

Piers speaks again, his gaze boring into yours. "We blow this, there's no second chances. You listening, rookie?"

You stiffen defensively. "Hey, lay off, I know what I'm doing."

Chris cuts in. "Enough, we don't have time for this. Helena, you're on watch. Piers, you've got our exit. And—" he fixes you with a steely glare— "don't screw this up."

You nod, anxiety mounting. Helena peers through her scope. "Alright, looks like they're moving in."

Piers steps into position by the getaway vehicle. "Hurry it up, I don't like standing still for long."

Chris hands you your gear. "You're up. Do your job and we all go home, a step closer to beating this asshole. Understood?" You take a slow breath and check the belt, lined with tactical knives and daggers. You slip it under the hem of your dress, hidden from sight but easily accessible.

"He'll tell me the code, right?" You glance up.

Chris gives you a curt nod and a pat on the shoulder. "We're counting on you."

"Jesus, it's like you're expecting me to fail," you say, a small smile curving the side of your face as you turn away. You take a deep breath, then approach the entrance of the manor.

You could get turned away right here. The scary thought flashes through your head, almost stopping you. You could fail the mission right here. You could mess everything up.

"Excuse me, miss," a voice says, giving a small smile. The man to your right, guarding the entrance, extends a hand. "Invitation, please?"

You slip out the thin paper, the fake engravings brushing your fingers as you pass it to him. He gives it a cursory glance and nods to you. You dip your head and step inside.

The air is cooler than the summer air outside, probably due to air conditioning. Your eyes adjust to the dim lighting from the chandeliers, and you're immediately awestruck. A majestic staircase rises up and curls elegantly along the wall, its polished steps gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Intricate carvings adorn the banisters and newels, depicting scenes of frolicking angels and mythical beasts.

Even with this masterpiece, there’s still enough room for guests to mingle around the area. Built into the bottom of the staircase seems to be a bar of some sort, at which people laugh and drape their long, nimble fingers over glasses of swirling wine.

You walk slowly towards the staircase, feeling out of place. The carvings seem to come alive as shadows dance across their surfaces, leaping for you, telling you that you don't belong here.

You take a moment to wait for anyone to approach. No one does. You assume your partner must be running late and commence with stage one of the operation: find someone close to the target.

Taking a steadying breath, you near the grand staircase as a swirling sea of aquamarine silk and satin. There's a soft ballad starting to play, and you realize that if you don't find someone to dance with quickly, they might single you out.

Your eyes flit over the glittering crowd, picking out a victim turned away from you, engaged in animated discussion with several others. He turns to the side, exposing his face and laughs, flashing white teeth, then you recognize him.

James Marcus. You would pull up a profile on the man, but there's barely any information about him—known to you, at least. His white hair is chopped back in that classic old-man haircut, and you grimace, wondering if you really have to. Across the room, Chris gives you a look, his eyes holding a message. You can almost hear his voice yelling at you.

Hurry up before he leaves. Another voice argues, what if he doesn't want to dance? How will you keep him occupied and get information?

Only one way to find out. You glide over, catching the tail end of their conversation. "...simply unacceptable, the terms must be renegotiated." You try to make your presence known with what was meant to be a delicate cough, but it comes out as... well, something. It gets their attention. They glance over at you with bewildered eyes. You continue with a subtle, "Pardon my interruption, but might one of you honor me with a dance?"

Please don't have one of those other guys say yes, please, please, you repeat in your head, stealing a look at a burly man standing close to him, his suit looking as if it's about to rip.

Marcus eyes you appraisingly. Oh shit, he's going to— Before anyone can say anything, he suddenly bows. "The pleasure is mine, my lady." Relaxing slightly, you let him take your hand and lead you into the dance.

As you move in time to the orchestra, you try to feel him out, probing for his relationship with Wesker and other targets you had your eye on without arousing suspicion. His answers provide mere grains of insight, but he guards his full thoughts well.

You break away, smiling politely before heading for the bar, another face catching your eye. Just as you step towards the stools, a figure crosses in front of you, stopping directly as you glance up, slightly irritated.

"Hey," the waiter says casually, a tray of drinks balanced in his hand. He's wearing a black mask, the edges fanning out, looking soft and light. You want to reach out and touch them, but you don't. Even though you're glaring intensely at his face, he doesn't meet your eyes. "I don't suppose you're..."

"You've got the wrong person," you say quickly, stepping to the side. He copies you, blocking your path. The target, Edward Ashford, laughs and turns away, calling for another glass of fancy wine. "I think you're forgetting where we are."

"I'm not that certain," he replies smugly with a small chuckle. He still doesn't look at you. "Care for the next dance, my lady?" Great, another distraction.

You argue that if you give him one dance, you'll get back to the target faster. The ball lasts for three hours; you have plenty of time. Besides, you're intrigued. There's something familiar about the glint in this guy's eye, the fall of his hair over his ears.

You place your hand in his, allowing him to sweep you into his arms. He spins you around for just long enough to slide his tray, still clustered with drinks, onto the bar counter without spilling a drop.

You blink in confusion, but he pulls you near the clump of people, and as you move in time to the lively rhythm, he leans in, warm breath ghosting your ear. "Simmer down, Falcon. I believe we have... business to discuss."

You inhale sharply but don't miss a step. So this is more than just a chance. "I see. And what business might that be?"

"Only that I've been assigned as your partner for the duration of this mission. You didn't really think they'd send you in alone, did you?" His eyes gleam with quiet amusement, gaze flickering to the weapon hidden beneath your evening gown, a silent reminder of the danger you're facing.

"They told me," you say indignantly. "They also said you wouldn't show."

"Well, you can count on me, princess," he says, flashing a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, then glancing down at your dress. You feel silly in it, but Rebecca insisted it was essential to the look.

So, this is him. Your new partner, and somehow you’re slightly disappointed to find he’s nothing like who you expected, at least not based on outward appearances. You fight to control your expression. For now, you simply say, "Don't call me that. We have a lot of work to do."

"We're not going to that guy you were looking at," he says quickly, bristling. "He won't be useful."

"How do you—"

"I just do." You blink in confusion before shrugging. As you circle the ballroom again and again, searching, you notice the amount of weird looks you're getting.

"Hey, they're giving us weird looks." You look up at your partner. "What's with them?"

"Well, we're not dancing correctly," he says flatly. "Maybe that has something to do with it?"

"What?" You kick away the hem of your dress. "Why are you just bringing this up?"

"I mean, I tried getting you set correctly, but you keep slapping my hand away," he says, a twinge of exasperation in his tone.

"We— I— You—" You stutter, a faint heat fanning your cheeks. You thought he was trying to do something less civilized.

"C'mere," he says, his voice suddenly low. He puts a gentle hand on your waist and curls his other hand around yours. He tilts his head to his shoulder. "Other hand, here."

You do as he says, and for the next few rounds, people don't turn over their drinks to look at you as often. There's a foreign feeling in your stomach, igniting fire in your chest.

"Looks like Wesker's enjoying his show," he remarks.

"Maybe he just prefers operating covertly instead," you hiss. "Like we should be. Keep your voice down."

"Perhaps, but we won't get anywhere cowering in the shadows," he replies with an impatient edge that seems oddly familiar.

You frown. "Proceeding with caution is not the same as 'cowering.' Rushing in could jeopardize the entire mission."

"We need to take the initiative if we want results," he insists stubbornly. There’s something in his tone you think you recognize, but you've never met him. Of course not.

"Initiative is one thing, but not without a plan. Discretion is key here," you argue diplomatically.

He scoffs dismissively. "Plans tend to fall apart. Better to act and adapt than overthink ourselves in circles."

Engrossed in your debate, you take a step forward just as he does and collide directly into his solid form. He lets out a surprised "oof" as the wind gets knocked out of him.

Flailing your arms to catch your balance, you only succeed in further unbalancing you both. Your partner windmills helplessly, grasping for any support, and ends up seizing hold of the poor server who had been quietly passing by with a towering three-tiered cake.

The man goes toppling over with a yelp, and the magnificent confection sails up into the air as if in slow motion. You watch in horror as it seems to hover there for an eternity, the frosting and pastry suspended, while you and your partner collapse on the floor in a sweaty heap, the servant stretching his arm in a failing attempt to save his masterpiece.

Time speeds back up as gravity takes over, and with a massive splat, the entire cake slams into you and your partner. Icy frosting and chunks of sponge coat you from head to toe in an instant.

The ballroom falls deathly silent, all eyes now turning in shock to the spectacle you had unwittingly created. Through the mess obscuring your vision, you make out your partner staring back at you with equal disbelief written across his visible features.

Someone storms from a metal door, raising a spatula angrily. "L'ho appena sfornato! You know how long it takes to bake a cake?"

Meanwhile, the server whispers to himself, "I'm going to get fired, I'm gonna get fired, my life is over, I'm so done for," as if it were some reassuring mantra he was chanting.

The cream from the cake bursts forth on impact, now oozing over your shoulders and down your arms in long, dripping ropes. Your hands and legs below are caked in a technicolor mess—swirls of blue, pink, and yellow seeping through the thin fabric of your gown.

Through the haze, you see Chris push through the crowd, crouching down to help you. There's a strangled expression on his face, but he calls out to the crowd, "Sorry, my daughter and her fiancé are new to this. Please accept our apologies and we'll be headed home."

The murmur of people around you, their soft voices and judging gazes, aren't what stings and provokes your forming tears. What hurts is the disapproving look on Chris's face as he lugs you out of the ballroom, the sun heating your chilled arms, and the realization that you've failed everyone.

<><><><>

You slowly tug off the silver mask, then your billowing dress, covered in crumbs and frosting, and throw it aside. You kick your heels off and unclip your hair. It falls across your bare back in cascades of brown dotted with blue, pink, and yellow as you step into the bathroom. You switch the setting to the hottest it can go, which isn't even close to the burning, searing feeling in your chest.

Not the one you felt with your partner, but the one that slowly began to spread when you tried explaining to Chris what had really happened, and all he said was to leave.

"That's an order from your commander," he had said quietly, eyes cast downward. "Now get out of my face."

The scalding water pours over you, but does little to soothe your thoughts. You lean your head against the cool tile and try to process the events of this evening.

It looks like your own commander has lost faith in you, his dismissal cutting deep. As the clouds of steam envelop you, you try to decide your next move. You don’t know if you should abandon not only the mission, but the job entirely. It seems you can’t do anything right, huh?

A quiet knock at the door startles you. "Hello? It's... your mission partner. We need to talk." His muffled voice holds a note of concern that gives you pause.

"I don't want to hear your voice right now." If it were just you, Chris wouldn't have been disappointed. You wouldn't have failed him.

"I have plans. We can still get Wesker," he insists with determination in his voice. His tone gets you thinking. Maybe there's still a chance to prove to Chris that you know what you're doing.

After toweling off and changing into a random pair of shorts and a tank top you find in your closet, you brace yourself to face whatever awaits on the other side of that door. You grasp the door handle and try twisting it, but something blocks it.

"Hey," you call out. "I can't—"

"I know," he says suddenly. "I... don't want you to see me."

"You were the guy who followed me into the base," you say, the realization hitting you. "Who... are you?"

You hear a sound against the door, and the door handle tilts to the side, but the door doesn't open. You suspect he's let go of it, trusting you enough not to open it.

"Sit down with me," he says. You sit down with your back against the door, knees drawn up protectively over your chest.

"Who are you?" you repeat.

A weary sigh comes from the other side of the door. "Let's just say... we have a shared past with the man you're after. A past I've been trying to make right."

You offer calmly, "You don't have to face this alone. If we're honest with each other, maybe we stand a better chance of stopping him."

A long silence stretches before he replies. "Alright. No more secrets between us. I'll answer any questions honestly... if you promise to work with me as a team from here on out."

"Deal," you reply. "So, who are you?"

"A friend," he says with a smile in his voice. "But you can call me Condor."

"Really?" you deadpan. "You can't tell me any more than that?"

"Not yet, sweetheart. You'll have to wait a little longer for that."

As night falls, you decide to do some reconnaissance of the nearby training area. Moving quietly through the shadows, you spot a lone figure practicing maneuvers under the moonlight. You see the mask and know it's Condor (what kind of name even is that?).

At first, you take him for keeping his skills sharp. But as you watch closer, you begin to note subtle details. The graceful yet powerful way he flows from one form to the next, mixing kicks and strikes with fluid precision.

You had worked with agents from BSAA for over two years, and yet no one you'd trained with had this precise style. No one displayed this. It's a style you know well, one you have analyzed endlessly trying to gain any advantage in your mission together. A style belonging to only one agent you had ever seen move with such skill and poise.

His style looks like Leon's. His name sparks something inside you. Watching him just reminds you of heartache—of the months following Spain, searching endlessly for someone who didn't want you to find him, of erasing it from your mind, steeling against memories of him.

He doesn't see you observing from the treeline as he runs through an attack sequence on a training dummy, perfectly focused. But you see every telltale motion, recognizing the techniques you had practiced and perfected as partners long ago.

You continue to watch silently, taking in the bittersweet memories his fighting evokes. It couldn't be Leon, though. You had pulled up his file mere weeks ago, and the database had marked him as MIA. Maybe…

You shake your head and turn away, pressing your back and hands to the concrete wall that separates you. Your chest heaves with heavy breaths, and you feel sweat trickle from your forehead.

It's not Leon. You're imagining things. Anyone could learn such elegant moves like his. There's no chance it's Leon. Don't get your hopes up. You'll just be crushed again. You're not stupid.

Curiosity gets the better of you, as it always does. While he continues training, you stealthily make your way to the armory. Flicking on the lights, you scan the row of lockers until you find the one labeled only with a number—his designation, it seems. Taking a steadying breath, you input the code and swing the door open.

At first glance, his arsenal looks standard issue—a selection of handguns and knives arranged with military precision. But you look closer and notice subtle modifications.

Most oddly, you recognize most of this gear. Old and worn with time, but still vaguely familiar. You brush it off as having seen them in the weaponry store Chris had taken you to when you were a freshly minted agent.

Extra notches filed into certain knife handles. Markings you had seen countless times before, wielded with deadly accuracy and calm focus under pressure. But this could all be from one big brand that created everything, custom-made.

You pick up a knife and run your thumb over the distinct patterns worn smooth from years of use. A memory surfaces of your first lesson with knives, Leon's hands over yours. The thought hurts, so you push it away.

As you throw the weapon back, your eyes fall on dog tags hanging from a hook on the back of the locker. Steeling yourself, you reach out a hand to grasp them when a voice stops you.

"Going through my stuff, huh?" A chuckle escapes him, and you glance at Condor, cheeks burning. "When I said we'd be honest, that didn't mean you could go through my stuff."

"I was just—routine check," you fumble.

"I did my own check yesterday." He crosses to you in long strides, slamming the locker door shut. His hand is still firmly planted on the metal as he leans closer. "You can't lie to me. What were you really doing?"

You purse your lips and try your best not to shiver under his gaze. His eyes wander over your face, a cursory glance that stops at your lips.

"I suppose I should be asking you why you still have that stupid mask on," you retort. The curved, ivory edges of his masquerade mask seem to shine in the dim light, seemingly freshly cleaned.

He coughs and steps back, bringing his hand to cover his mouth subtly.

 "Don't let me catch you going through my locker," he says, half-joking and fully ignoring your question. You nod quickly, not thinking too hard about it, and notice the wet patch staining his combat shirt. He follows your gaze and turns slightly to hide it from you.

"Did you... get hurt?" you ask, slightly curious.

"I'm fine, it's nothing," he says quickly.

"It'll get infected," you reply, your voice a bit louder. "Let me treat it."

"I'll get a nurse to do it," he says, stepping back.

"The nurses aren't on night duty. It's just me and you," you say defiantly, stepping forward. His mouth parts slightly, face flushed, eyes wild through their mask, and he glances to the side as if someone's watching him.

"You won't—"

"No, you won't be going anywhere until I've seen to that wound," you insist, already rummaging through the nearby medkit propped up against the bench.

He starts to protest, but you level him with a stern look. "No arguments. Now sit before you lose any more blood." Reluctantly, Condor begins to peel off his bloody shirt, revealing a long gash that runs from the base of his forearm to his wrist. A flush rises in your cheeks at his bare torso on display, muscles gleaming with a sheen of exertion.

Another reason it's not Leon—Leon wasn't that comfortable with you.

If he notices your reaction, he gives no sign, focusing on the injury. But you see a hint of pink tinting his ears as he sits bare-chested before you, awaiting treatment.

Averting your eyes to the task at hand, you get to work cleaning and dressing the gash with steadier hands than you feel. Your eyes wander over his familiar yet unplaceable scars. One high on his left shoulder draws you in, a long pale line raising questions.

It tugs at something in your memory, just out of reach. You trace the scar gently, trying to place its significance. Your companion tenses at your touch, watching you intently.

"Does this wound mean something to you?" you ask cautiously. He frowns.

"It's a reminder that I'm never safe."

"Wow, uh, okay." At a loss for words, you finish dressing his gash in a bandage and order him to sleep. You watch him stalk off, raising his hand in a goodbye gesture without looking back. You also see him wince at the effort before cradling his arm and scurrying away.

<><><><>

The next day, at the dusk briefing for the mission, you lean back in your chair and sip from a cup of steaming coffee, courtesy of Helena. You sit together and watch Rebecca, Chris, and Piers argue over something on the map.

"You'll kill them if you send them there," Rebecca protests. "Just skip that sector and move to the next one. There's nothing there!"

"We're missing the intel on Irving's future plans. We used to have Sheva stationed there, but we pulled her back to train troops for the scaled invasion," Piers retorts. "Without that information, we're all going to be killed."

"Besides, I have faith in them." His eyes find you. You can't muster the courage to meet his gaze. "I'm sure they can handle it."

Condor enters the briefing room with his arm in a sling. You wince at the splatters of blood streaking across the patchy white material. Obviously, whoever treated his arm was not thinking clearly. He wears a face mask, one of the blue sterile ones. Believe it or not, it does a good job of hiding his face.

Chris stands at the head of the table, maps and reports scattered across the surface.

"Glad you could join us, Captain, even in your state," Chris says. "I know you're itching to get back in the field. Well, I may have a mission that will suit your skills and let you prove to me that you can be trusted to succeed in a mission that should be as..."

"Easy as cake?" Condor offers, a small grin quirking his lips.

"Exactly." Chris's expression mirrors his. At least he's not yelling at anyone.

"Let's get to it," Rebecca interrupts, raising an eyebrow at you. You can hear her silent question—what's going on?

You shrug as Condor takes a seat next to Helena and leans in. You do the same, eager to hear the details. Piers launches into an explanation. "Our troops had to evacuate sector five off the east, but they left valuable information behind. If this were to fall into enemy hands, we would be done for. Not to mention that without it, our whole mission would have to be rethought."

"A small strike team going undercover at night is our best bet." Chris nods to Condor. "You up for a reconnaissance mission, Captain?"

Condor nods, though he holds his injured arm gingerly. "Just say the word, Commander. I'll have our best men ready to move out at your order."

"Good man. Get some rest, and I want you geared up and prepped to leave at 2200 hours." You all stand. "Dismissed."

As you prepare to leave, Condor lingers. He looks up at Chris from his seated position. "I won't let this injury slow us down, sir. We'll get you the intel you need."

"Maybe," Chris says with a half-smile. "Don't get injured training by yourself in the first place." He nods to you with a genuine smile before turning and leaving.

<><><><>

The cover of night provides just the cloak you need as Condor's strike team moves stealthily through the forest. You follow close behind him, determined not to let his injury sideline your efforts. As his mission partner, you’ve vouched to replace the squad medic, Nathan, who will stay behind to watch over the injured soldiers that arrived from sector seven.

You creep toward the enemy encampment, relying on night vision goggles to pick out defenses and patrol routes. Condor signals a halt, then motions for you to join him.

"Take a look," he whispers, handing you the goggles. His uninjured shoulder presses against yours as you peer through and count at least three dozen hostiles milling about. They all seem to be guarding the warehouse where Chris says you would find the information. After surveying the perimeter, you pass the goggles back with your assessment. "We need to map their positions and strengths before heading in."

Condor nods. "You heard the woman. Fan out and record all details. Move fast but stealthy—we can't be spotted. Radio check-ins every 15 minutes."

The squad disperses on your assignments. You realize that you don't know any of them—not even their names, and promise yourself to ask after they return. You hang back with Condor, insisting on keeping his injury immobilized. "Don't overexert that arm," you warn softly.

He flashes a grin. "No promises, but I'll try for you, Doc."

Your heart skips. Then shouts arise almost out of thin air, and enemy fire lights the night as your team engages. You drag Condor into cover. "Time to pull out. Mission's blown. Have they got—"

"We're clear to leave, but they've gotten themselves into a bit of a problem. Turn on your radio," Condor urges.

You do as he says and almost immediately are met with gunfire and the sounds of panicked soldiers.

"I repeat, Captain, we need backup!" A woman's voice comes through only to end in a scream. The radio fades to static.

"Don't assume the worst." Condor stands up, helping you to your feet. "Let's get over there. We've got this."

<><><><>

You definitely don’t got this, you think barely a few minutes later, surrounded by seemingly never-ending hordes of zombies. It's been a while since you've seen those rotting, decaying corpses stumble toward you, but the memory of dispatching them has never been clearer.

"Leon, behind you!" you shout.

"I see them," Condor insists, plunging his knife into an attacker's throat before whirling to face the next. "Watch your six; there's more coming!"

"I've got it covered," you pant, gunning down two more enemies with practiced precision. "How many are left?"

"Too many," Condor growls through clenched teeth, blood dripping down his face from a fresh wound.

"Shit, you're hurt!" you cry out in alarm.

"It's nothing," he retorts. "Focus on staying alive—we'll worry about this later."

Your backs meet in the midst of the fray, fighting off assailants on all sides as if you’re two parts of a well-oiled machine.

"Behind you!" you warn, just a split second before it senses you.

He spins and fires without looking. You feel Condor's guard shift in turn to cover your exposure. "Thanks for the heads up."

"You're welcome," you say between shots. The crowd seems to be getting smaller, but you’re not going to say anything about it yet. "How's the shoulder holding up?"

"It's fine," Condor grinds out through clenched teeth.

Suddenly, you realize that even with dwindling enemies, your rhythm is thrown off by his compromised mobility. Condor struggles to keep up, taking more hits than usual as you fight harder to cover for him.

"We need to fall back," you say urgently, grabbing his uninjured arm. "We can make it back. The others already escaped."

"Not until they're all down!" Of course, he refuses to retreat, stubbornly fighting through the haze of pain. But his sluggish reflexes keep putting you both at greater risk.

When the last of the zombies' bodies litter the ground, the grim smile is evident in his voice, if not his expression. "Think that's the last of them?"

"I hope so." You scan the mounds of decaying flesh, gun at the ready. "Condor, you're looking a little pale..."

He opens his mouth to protest, but instead his eyes roll back. He starts to crumple to the ground before you manage to catch him in your arms.

"Shit, no!" You ease him to the ground, gripping his sides in panic. Blood pulses thickly between your fingers from the wound at his shoulder. "Don't do this to me, stay with me!"

Condor's eyelids flicker open, his gaze finding yours with effort. "Hey... get out of here. Before more come."

"I'm not leaving you," you say fiercely through tears. A weak smile touches his lips. You rip fabric from your shirt to bind a makeshift dressing, tears mingling with the blood on your cheeks. "Why'd you have to play the hero, huh? You couldn't dodge one lousy hit?"

"Had to... keep you... safe."

"Well congratulations, genius, now we're both screwed." Your breath hitches on a sob. "Just hold on, damn it! You're not dying on me, do you hear?"

Condor's hand finds yours, grip tightening with determination. "Not... going anywhere. Promise."

You press your finger to his lips, trying to draw strength from the lingering warmth of his body against your legs. But you know that out in the open, he won't last long without medical help. You have to get to shelter, and fast.

"We never got to learn... to dance," he says quietly. You bring your attention back to him.

"What?"

"Spain... you and I... you knew," he says with a small grin. "You knew... it was me." He gasps for air, and you shake your head.

"I did," you say softly. "I knew it was you, Leon."

You see the flash of his teeth in a quick smile before it vanishes, and a strangled moan escapes Leon's lips. "Just hold on, damn it! You're not dying on me, do you hear? You don't get to leave me twice in a lifetime!"

"Wish... I was... with you," he says quietly. A gentle smile tugs at his lips. "Always... knew you... cared..." His eyes slide shut as consciousness flees from his body.

The heavy thrum of approaching rotor blades cuts through your panic like a knife. You lurch your head to the sky, the sun blinding you, desperation fueling your exhausted limbs into one final sprint.

Waving your arms, you stumble directly into the landing chopper's spotlight, shielding your eyes against the blinding glare. Two medics leap out, bearing a stretcher between them.

"Please, help him!" you scream over the deafening noise, dragging Leon's limp form the last few feet. Your fingers cling to his jacket even as the medics pull him away, wanting nothing more than to keep contact.

For a second, you let yourself think that he'll be alright, then they whisk Leon aboard and settle him behind shatterproof glass, disappearing behind a tangle of cables and medical equipment as the chopper shoots skyward. You take an automatic step to follow—only to smash into an invisible barrier, your bloody hands leaving pale prints on the reinforced hull.

You see Leon's silhouetted form lost amid the bustle of medics working frantically to stabilize his critical injuries. Your shouts are drowned out by the thrumming engines. All you can do is watch helplessly through the frosted barrier, pounding your fists bloody against the unyielding glass.

A kind-eyed paramedic finally takes your elbow gently but firmly, guiding you away as an IV needle slides into your battered arm. You sag against the hull in reluctant exhaustion, unwilling to take your blurry gaze off Leon even as he starts to swim before your eyes.

The medic presses an oxygen mask to your pale face, assessing your injuries with a worried frown. You lazily recognize the face as Nathan's. But all you can really focus on through the haze is Leon’s still frame across from you, bathed in shimmering halos of light from above.

Your bloody fingerprints streak down like tears as you curl onto the cold steel floor, fingers clawing compulsively at the transparent wall between you. All the anger, fear, and desperate longing to bridge that gap come pouring out in a broken sob you can’t hold back any longer.

Through the pane, Leon remains ominously still—the rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he’s still alive. Nathan's hushed whispers are the only reason you feel safe enough to let darkness consume you. You let your eyes close.

<><><><>

It seems like the next second, you open them. Gasping for air, you clutch the arm in front of you.

"Ow..." Rebecca recoils, a grin on her face as she shakes her arm. "Well, I was going to discharge you, but it seems like your murderous thoughts have other plans."

"Never mind that," you reply impatiently. "What about Leon? Is he alright?"

"You knew?" she asks, eyes wide with surprise.

"I'm not as oblivious as you think," you retort. "Now please, tell me how he's doing."

"His shoulder was bothering him a few weeks back," she explains. "I managed to keep him resting it. But it seems fighting like that reopened the injury."

"Weeks?!" you exclaim in frustration. "Why am I only finding out about this now?"

"I thought you were already aware..." Rebecca glances down regretfully. "He was admitted about a week after you."

"So for three years, he's pretended not to know me." The fear for Leon's safety swiftly transforms into an unquenchable fury. How could he deceive you for so long?

"Calm down, he can explain himself," Rebecca says soothingly. "Let's get you to his room so the two of you can talk."

Her words do little to quench your simmering anger, but you nod curtly anyway.

"Lead the way," you say tersely to Rebecca. She gives you a worried look but compiles, guiding you out of the patient room and into the hallway.

You walk in strained silence for a few moments. Your thoughts swirl with questions and suspicions. After six long years apart, Leon owes you the truth. Why did he lie about being here? Why didn't he tell you?

"So how have things been around here?" you ask, your tone hardening on the last word as you shoot Rebecca a sidelong glance. "Is there something else that you've been hiding from me?"

She purses her lips, hesitating before answering. "There's no use taking it out on me. I should have told you sooner, I know. But Leon... there were reasons, I'm sure."

"What possible reason could justify this?" you scoff. "Unless the truth is even worse."

Rebecca opens her mouth to reply but is cut off by a shout up ahead.

"Hey Doc, think you can speed it up a bit? I think I'm dying over here."

Your head snaps forward at the familiar voice. Leon. After everything, you'd know that voice anywhere. A fresh wave of anger and hurt rises in your chest. It's time for answers.

"We're almost there," Rebecca calls back uneasily. "Leon, you have a visitor."

You quicken your pace, bursting through the door with Rebecca close behind.

Leon is propped up in bed, eyes closed as he massages his forehead in apparent frustration. "Tell them to fuck off. I don't want to see anyone right now."

"Leon Kennedy, you open your eyes right this instant," you say sternly, hands on your hips.

At the sound of your voice, his eyelids fly open in shock. "What are you—Why are you up—"

"Save it." You hold up a hand, your ice-cold glare stopping his question dead. "We need to have a long overdue talk. Alone."

Rebecca smiles apologetically at Leon. "I'll leave you two to sort this out. Call if you need anything." With that, she slips quietly from the room.

An uncomfortable silence falls as you and Leon size each other up. You've dreamed of this reunion for years, yet now only outrage remains. He fidgets under your burning stare, opening his mouth hesitantly.

"Look, I know you must have a lot of—"

"Questions? Accusations? You bet your ass I do." You pull up a chair and lean in close, lowering your voice to a furious whisper. "Start. Talking."

Leon sighs wearily, running a hand through his cropped hair. "I'm really not up for this right now. My shoulder is killing me and I just wanna get some rest."

A noise of indignant disbelief escapes you. "Too bad! You don't get to leave me for three years and then play the injured card."

"I never meant to hurt you," he insists, frustration evident in his tense features.

"Bullshit! You lied straight to my face." Your voice rises as your temper flares further. "Was our friendship some big joke to you?"

Struggling to sit up taller, Leon grits his teeth against the pain. "Of course not, you know that's not true. But I had my reasons, okay?"

"What possible reason—"

"I was trying to protect you!" he seethes, immediately recoiling as his shoulder flares up painfully.

You open your mouth to respond, but Rebecca must've already heard the commotion because she immediately rushes in with a syringe at the ready. "Alright, that's enough, you two. Leon, take it easy before you tear your stitches."

He relents with a weary sigh, allowing Rebecca to administer a sedative. Within moments, the tension seeps from his body as sleep claims him once more.

You slump back in your chair, fists clenched in your lap, overflowing with questions that will have to wait. Leon's deception cuts deep—but seeing him injured stirs regret along with your lingering anger.

"Okay, he's in stable condition," Rebecca says with a huff, stepping back and dusting her hands. Her eyes flit to you. "But he won't be much longer, by the look on your face."

You don’t want to admit it, and you definitely don’t say it out loud, but he’s gotten more attractive over the years. I mean, he was good-looking to begin with, but he aged well—taller, with darker hair and eyes, but you still recognize them with the same challenging look in them, daring you to speak out against him.

You clench your fingers together, watching the blood drain from them. "Leon… fucking Condor. You thought you were slick with that name? I'm going to fucking—"

"Come over here and talk it out?" Chris says from the doorway. He leans against the frame, a questioning look on his face as you approach, closing the door behind you. "Alright, so what's got you so worked up?"

"I won't work with Leon," you declare, arms crossed.

"So you know. Who told you?"

"Why does it matter when you hid it from me?" you retort. "I'm not working with him."

"You already have, but whatever," Chris says with a shrug. "We didn't know how to tell you, given how you react whenever he's on TV."

"That was once," you protest. "Jesus, you still haven't let that go."

Chris chuckles and shakes his head. "You acted like he was really there." A wistful look crosses his face. "Ah, I should've recorded that."

"Take him off the team," you insist. "You need me. Besides, you saw how the mission failed when he was there with me."

"That was partly your fault. And the second mission went perfectly fine. True, we might need you," Piers agrees. "But we definitely need him."

"No, you don't!" you protest. "All he does is 'protect' you when you don't need it and then ghost you for six years. And then work in your agency for three years that you only joined to spite him in the first place."

"We can still hear you," Rebecca calls from around the wall.

"Shut up!" you say, louder than you want to. Then you say to them in a quieter voice, "Look, I just can't work with him. Every time I see him... all I can think is..."

"Woah, calm down, I don't need the details," Chris says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You flush and swat at him.

"It's not like that! You're insufferable," you say exasperatedly.

"The admins need you to work with him," Piers says suddenly. "Wesker hasn't recovered from you destroying his image, and if anything, your actions have caused him to stray further from the media's presence. In order to get our team back, you need to get everyone to take the bait."

"You have to be kidding me," you grumble, running a hand through your hair. "There's no way I can act friendly toward that guy."

Chris sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, I know you two have... history. But orders are orders. This mission requires the full cooperation of our team."

"Yeah, easy for you to say," you retort. "Leon didn't ghost you for six years."

Piers chimes in, "I know it's not ideal. But staying committed to the plan is crucial. The fate of our organization depends on it. We've come too far to let personal issues get in the way."

"Be friendly or they're firing you," Chris interrupts. "You have to fool Wesker, therefore the world, into believing that you're friends with him. It's really not that hard. If the target finds out you aren't friends with him, things could go wrong."

"Then get Helena to do it; I don't fucking care!"

"I'll be visiting inside, thanks," Helena says, appearing around the corner. She opens the door and steps inside, leaving it slightly open.

"Just give the man a goddamn chance, would you?" Chris sighs, a troubled sound that makes him sound far older than he really is. "You're always so quick to judge."

"Who else is on the team?" you ask, deflecting the subject.

"Well, we're supposed to have Sherry Birkin and Jake Muller. But right now, it's just us," he says, gesturing to himself and Piers, "and then, of course, Leon and Helena."

"So we're missing, what, a fourth of the team? That's not too much. We can manage without him." You roll your eyes and avert the subject again. "So about my group..."

"You're being grouped with Leon," Chris says flatly. "We argued about this for three months and we decided that Helena's only here for backup, in case something goes wrong."

"Three months? You've known about this for three months?" you sputter, stepping back.

"Wait, why can't I be backup?" you protest.

"Because you know Leon better," he says simply.

"I used to think that too," you say sweetly. "But obviously, we were both wrong."

"We were watching you while he had the mask on—"

"Whose idea was that?" They stare at you. "The mask, I mean."

"That was this guy," Chris says, gesturing to Piers, who flushes.

"It was part Leon's idea too!" he protests. "Besides, we knew you would recognize your partner any day now."

"So you're both in on this, huh?"

"You can say whatever you want, but the moment you're back in Wesker's estate, you better act like the sun shines out of his ass," Chris warns.

You frown. "Isn't that from—"

"Don't patronize me! Now, are you on the team or not?" Chris asks. There's an expectant look in his eyes. Your gut tells you to do one thing, but the agency expects something else from you.

You let your shoulders slump, catching a glimpse of Leon's darkened blond hair from the sliver in the doorway. You shake your head. "Fine then, put me on the team."

"That's what I like to hear," Chris says, beaming, all traces of his bad mood gone.

"So... now what?"

"Now, we wait for tomorrow. You might want to get some rest. You need to look nice for tomorrow." When you tilt your head questioningly, he smiles mysteriously and heads back into the room with Piers.

The door closes agonizingly slowly, and you catch a bit of Leon and Helena's conversation.

"Heard you got grouped with my favorite rival. Trying to steal my spotlight again?" Leon manages, coughing afterwards.

Helena huffs in amusement. "In your dreams, pretty boy. We all know who the real star is around here."

"Of course I do, sweetheart."

Pretty boy? Sweetheart? Since when are they so close?

You shake your head, not wanting to look at Leon any more than necessary, and you certainly don’t want to talk to Helena. You make the decision to head back to your room. You take the elevator up, walk to your door, and unlock it, stumbling inside.

The bedroom door's open, so you shut the window to block out the moon rays. You lay on your bed, resting your head on your pillow, and try to sleep. When you wake up again, the moon has moved further down its path to the horizon, not quite reaching it yet.

Still half-asleep, you pull open your drawers and grab your glasses, wanting to catch up on the announcements you must've missed. The first thing you do is call Rebecca, hoping talking to her might ease your conflicted feelings.

"No way, you called me back!" Rebecca dramatically gasps, covering her mouth with her hand. "I think I'll have a heart attack!"

"Save it," you grumble.

“What's got you so depressed?” Rebecca asks, her voice tinny over your phone’s speaker. On the screen, her brown hair is down, smooth and tame, and she’s poking at one of her dozens of window plants, vibrant shades of crimson and navy.

"The whole mission's going to be shitty." You groan. "Honestly, I don't know what they were thinking, putting us together. I hate his guts."

"I don't think you do," Rebecca replies thoughtfully with a smile. "For someone you hate, you sure do talk about him a lot. And I’m pretty sure you knew about his identity from the beginning, didn’t you?"

"That's only because he's a prick—I would know that from anywhere—and everyone needs to know that," you say dismissively.

"Well," Rebecca giggles, "I think he's quite charming."

"Great," you deadpan. "You can have your happily ever after with him."

"Actually, I meant for you," she says.

"You're exactly like Chris."

"Ew." She makes a face, and you start to laugh, but you cut off when you hear rustling from the entrance. You cover the speaker and peer out of the door frame.

Quiet footsteps approach. You step out of the bedroom. A light flicks on in the hallway, and the person who stumbles into the kitchen is Leon.

"Wait, is that—" you disconnect the call and shove your phone into a pocket. He’s rumpled and half-awake, shoulders slumping as he yawns. He stands in front of you wearing a light blue hospital gown. His hair is a mess. His feet are bare.

Leon freezes when his gaze falls on you. You stare back at him. He suddenly stands up straight, but his face is still bleary and confused.

"Hello," he says, his voice hoarse. "Sorry. I was just... Häagen-Dazs."

He gestures vaguely toward the refrigerator, as if the name somehow explains his odd behavior.

"What?" you respond, bewildered.

He crosses to the freezer and grabs a small box of individually packed ice cream, showing you the Häagen-Dazs logo printed across the front. "I was out. Knew they'd stocked you up."

"Did you—do you raid everyone's kitchens?" you ask accusingly.

"Only when I can't sleep," Leon replies. "Which is always. Didn't think you'd be awake." He looks at you, deferring, and you realize he's waiting for permission to open the box and take one.

"No," you say firmly.

"Why not?" Leon whines, a sound you’ve never heard from him before. It's oddly satisfying for him to push back against your refusal, but after all these years, conversing with him feels like a foreign practice.

You shrug and roll your eyes, and his face lights up as he grabs the box anyway.

"Have you practiced what you'll say tomorrow?" he asks suddenly.

"Yes," you reply, bristling immediately. "You're not the only professional around here."

"I didn't mean—" Leon falters. "I only meant, do you think we should, uh, I don’t know, rehearse?"

"Do you need to?" you retort.

"I thought it might help." Of course he thinks that—he's probably been around the world, mingling with all kinds of people. He’s never thought you could handle yourself, and it seems he still hasn't changed.

You walk toward him, unlocking your phone. "Watch this."

You line up a shot of the Häagen-Dazs box on the counter, Leon's hand next to it, and the side of your face as he glances up, confused. You open Instagram and add a filter.

"'Nothing like,'" you narrate flatly as you type a caption, "'midnight ice cream with my new partner.' Posted." You hold the phone out for him to see. "There's a lot of things worth overthinking, believe me. But this isn't one of them."

Leon frowns at you over his ice cream, looking doubtful. "Does this mean we're okay?"

"Oh, no," you say, a sappy smile on your face. "We'll never be okay. What you did was unforgivable." Dramatic, but it works.

"Well, uh, thanks." His eyes meet yours, and his icy blue eyes are full of emotion, glazed like they're brimming with tears.

"For what?" you say, your voice softer than expected.

He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, lips pursing. "For the ice cream," he mumbles quietly. It's a goddamn box of ice cream; just take it.

"It's fine. Now, are you done?" you ask. "I was on a call."

Leon blinks, then folds his arms over his chest, back on the defensive. "Of course. I won’t keep you." As he leaves the kitchen, he pauses in the doorway, considering, leaning against the wood.

"I didn’t know you wore glasses," he says finally.

He leaves you standing there alone in the kitchen, the box of chocolate-swirl ice cream sweating on the counter, and the faint wish that he had thanked you for something else.

<><><><>

The drive to the interview is hot and stuffy, and it probably didn’t help that the driver refused to put down the windows and that you were seated right next to Leon, your legs almost brushing.

In the room, stylists twist Leon's hair into elaborate patterns that fall over his eyes, casting shadows over his pale blue irises. He gives you a crooked smile with the side of his face as a makeup artist dabs his cheekbones with powder.

Leon’s wearing a sweater that matches yours, except unlike you, he looks like he’s attending a private school in England over the summer, spending his days playing polo and betting on horse racing.

You don't understand why Leon needs makeup. He already looks fine, but you suppose "fine" won't suffice for the rest of the world—or Wesker. You realize you’re glaring at him and quickly look away.

"Alright, let's go over this," Helena says quietly, crouching near the edge of the couch you're sitting on. "You need to make it seem like you've been close friends with him, kept in touch for a long time."

"Got it," you say, slightly bitter. "Why couldn't you do this?"

"Because I didn't want to."

"And you thought I did?"

"It doesn't matter what you want," Helena says, but a small smile has crept onto her face. She shakes her head and glances up at you, eyes flitting to the complex camera system. "Do what you need to. Remember what's at stake here."

You nod, and she stands, dusting herself off before walking away. Someone shoos all of Leon's artists away, sending them scrambling like a school of fish. A voice counts down, and you glance at the preppy interviewer sitting near you, smiling eerily.

"So, you two, you look cozy over there," she says, waggling her eyebrows in a way that makes you want to throw up. "Let's hear a bit about yourselves before getting to the main questions, huh?" She turns to you, wide eyes boring into you.

"Uh, hello?" you begin unsteadily, introducing yourself. "I've been working as a government agent for around five years, skilled in combat and medical fields, and have been..." You falter here.

"We've been friends for a long time," Leon finishes for you. "Contrary to what happened at the gala, we're very close, and what occurred was just a misunderstanding." He smiles warmly at the camera, and the interviewer's own smile only grows.

"So, you've been friends since the Raccoon City Incident of 1998, yes?" she asks, directing her pen toward both of you.

"Uh..." Leon's eyes cut to you.

"Yes," you say for him. "It's almost like we've known each other for our entire lives."

"Mhm, yup," Leon affirms, like the easier thing for him to do is lie with a sweet smile on his face, the smile you know sends your knees buckling and stomach fluttering.

"Now, here's the biggest question on everyone's mind," she says, leaning forward in her seat. "Two special agents working together to serve the government. It sounds like a romance novel!" She giggles.

"I'm... sorry?" Leon tilts his head, and by the confused look in his eyes, you see he doesn't understand the full length of what the woman said.

"I understand what you're implying," you begin.

"What, wait, you do?" Leon turns to you, raising an eyebrow. "What does she mean?"

"Go ahead. Tell him what I mean," she says, eyelashes fluttering. She waves the camera over, and you feel the gazes of multiple people on you.

It's Leon. He'll laugh at the implication and wave it off. He's your Leon. The one you know. You can trust him.

"She, along with the rest of whoever 'everyone' is, thinks we're dating." The room holds its breath, Leon's expression unchanging. Then he smiles.

"Are we?"

"No, stupid."

"Women," he says, scoffing and turning to look the other way. The camera zooms in on his face, and you can see a smile creep onto the side of his lips.

"Leon has very readable emotions," you say, immediately getting his attention. He snaps back to you, eyes meeting yours in a challenging glare. You sit forward, and he copies your movements, his glare cast downward as yours is cast upward. Your faces are so close that your noses could be touching.

"My partner has visible reactions to everything I do. I guess I'm just too handsome for her to leave alone," he says smugly, a smirk curving his lips.

"Fuck off, you self-absorbed prick."

Leon leans forward. "Are we giving them something to talk about?"

You meet his gaze without flinching. "No."

Leon smiles strangely. "Your reaction says otherwise."

Your temper flashes. "Don't flatter yourself. I couldn't care less what people think. What even were we?"

"You know what we are," Leon says, meeting your gaze. His eyes, however much they've darkened over the years, are still his, full of emotion. There's something different now, though. There's something guarding them, some kind of emotional barrier to keep from showing too much.

"I used to think I did," you say. "But I don't think I do anymore."

"Why are you acting like this?" Leon asks, his voice suddenly angry.

"Like what?" you retort defensively.

"Like it's my fault this happened!" Leon says. "Did you honestly think I was gonna come meet you right after risking my life multiple times to save you and Ashley? Not everything is about you! I have people to meet, duties to fulfill, and places to be!"

"Your life doesn't have to be about me!" you protest. "All I wanted was to know that you were at least alive!"

"Maybe I should've," Leon says, sounding genuinely guilty. "Maybe I should've called you once, and then let the government kill you? Is that what you wanted?"

"Government... kill me?" You pull backward. "Why would they—"

"They threatened to find you if I didn't leave you the day we got back to the US. They thought I would tell you government secrets and they would get leaked." Leon crosses his arms and tries his best to look away from you.

"But... I don't understand," you say, raising an eyebrow. "Don't they know that you always put your work first?"

"I usually do," Leon agrees. "But... Ashley might’ve gone to ask if you could be added to her team."

"Team... like, security?" you ask. "Of course they said no! What was that girl on?"

"Actually," Leon says sheepishly, "they said yes. They figured if you survived through all that with no training, you must have raw talent. They liked that."

"So... why was I not with you and Ashley for these past six years?" you ask accusingly. Leon's eyes darken.

"Because I refused," Leon admits. "I didn't let them get to you. I told them you would be too big of a burden and that I'd take all the responsibility to keep you safe." Leon pauses as he runs a hand through his hair. "Because..." He trails off. "Look, I made a mistake. I know I should have called you after those six years. But I thought that you understood why I had to do what I did. I was protecting us."

"I don't need to be fucking protected by you, Leon," you growl. "Seriously, you thought I couldn't handle myself? That I need a big strong man to follow me everywhere because I'm too weak to protect myself? Jesus fuck, I'm not Ashley!"

"You're not Ashley," Leon acknowledges, anger in his voice as he flushes. "But you would've gotten yourself killed without me in Spain, watching your back!"

"You would've died from a blood infection if I wasn't there," you retort, crossing your arms. "You wouldn't have lasted a day without me."

"Why couldn't you trust me? I knew you would survive. You just had to wait. Why couldn't you wait longer?"

"I waited six fucking years, Leon," you say, tears stinging your eyes. "How much longer did you want me to wait?"

"I don't know." Leon mumbles. "Maybe two weeks. Maybe a decade. How am I supposed to know? They don't fucking tell me anything." His feet shuffle on the floor.

"A decade?" you laugh dryly. "We're getting pretty damn close to that milestone, aren't we?"

Leon’s eyes flash dangerously. “You know it isn't that simple.”

“It was for me,” you retort. "I grew to depend on you, and you left."

Leon leans in closer, voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “If you thought I would do anything other than that, you’re more naive than I thought. You have no idea what was really at stake.”

You match his tone, eyes glittering. “Enlighten me then. Go on, tell me where you really were.”

Leon recoils slightly but quickly masks it. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

“Coward,” you spit.

“Watch yourself, rookie. You’re treading on thin ice.”

You lift your chin defiantly. “Or what, Leon? You’ll leave me again?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. Finally, he straightens, avoiding your eyes. You regain notice of the cameraman, peeking out from behind his set, mouth slightly open. “We’re not having this conversation here.”

"Cut the cameras," the interviewer hisses, tracing a line along her throat. Her earlier giddiness seems to have vanished. “Actually, you know what? Cut all that out. He’ll have my head if that government shit airs.”

"No need." You grit your teeth. "I'll be taking my leave. Helena, let's go."

Your questionable friend stands up with you and walks out the door.

"Was that really the way to tell him your feelings?" You slump your head against the wall.

"I don't know how else to." Your eyes well with tears that sting. You swallow painfully past the lump in your throat and stand up straighter. "What's with you?"

"I don't follow," she says cautiously.

"The flirting. The pet names. You think I can't hear?"

"We have history. I don't like him in that way."

"Leon and I have history too," you reply coldly. "So I hope you'll understand why I'm quitting the mission."

"You can't!" she bursts. "We need you!"

"You need Leon more," you say flatly.

"I understand this is difficult for you," she soothes. "Working so closely with Leon again after… everything. It's a lot to process."

You say nothing, staring numbly at the floor.

Helena presses on gently. "If you feel you need space, we'll respect that. Your well-being is what matters most right now. We need to make this believable."

At this, your head snaps up in surprise. "You'd… let me quit?"

Helena nods. "This is about more than just the mission. It's about you finding your way forward, in your own time and way."

You think of this during the car ride back, in a separate car from Leon, and all the way to the base. And all you can remember is the anguish he caused when there were miles and miles between you, when you forgot the sound of his voice, crying for it at night.

So you might’ve taken a few drinks, waiting for someone to fetch you.

You might’ve let the alcohol get to your head.

What does it matter when you let Leon get to your head too?

Crying out helplessly, silently. Wishing for solace.

<><><><>

You storm up to your room, emotions raw. You throw open the door to see the person you just cannot stand, Leon Scott Kennedy, at your desk.

Leon looks up coolly. "Trouble knocking?"

"It's my fucking room, you..." You seethe, hands balling into fists. "You miserable piece of shit."

Leon raises an eyebrow. "To what do I owe this hostility?"

You step forward, flicking out your knife, all your emotions welling up inside you. You find the strength to slam him back against the wall and press the knife against his throat.

Leon grunts in surprise, but his eyes gleam with interest rather than fear. "I see you've come ready to play."

You press against him threateningly. "Give me one good reason not to end you here and now."

"Fuck, you've gotten good with that thing, haven't you, sweetheart?" The term stirs something inside you. His expression is suppressed, and he makes a strangled sound deep in his throat.

"You... you—" You break away from him, shivering. You collapse against the wall, your anger evaporating into a wave of despair so vast you think you might drown in it. Leon lowers himself beside you against the wall's solid support. His proximity feels both foreign yet familiar.

"I wasn't happy where I was." He lets his head lean back onto the wall, gazing up at the moonlit ceiling. "I hope you know that."

"Say I do," you begin half-heartedly. "What'll it take for you to be happy again?"

"You," he responds almost immediately. "I don't want you to be mad at me. God, you're all I need to be happy, doll."

You move closer. "What was that?" you say teasingly, resting your head on his shoulder.

"You heard me," he chastises.

"What about Helena?" you test.

"I..." He looks away sheepishly. "Let’s just say my efforts to get over you were in vain."

"Is that so, pretty boy?" Your lips quirk in a smirk as Leon sharply inhales, eyes fluttering closed.

"One more time," he says, his voice rough velvet against your ears.

"Hm?" you ask innocently. His eyes open, and when they meet yours again, stormy seas roil beneath the surface.

"Call me that one more time, and I swear I'll—"

"Make me, pretty boy. Prove you mean what you say."

Leon’s eyes burn into yours as he struggles to maintain control. He leans in close, whispering harshly, "Do you really want that?"

Your breath hitches at the intensity of his stare, your heart pounding in your chest. But you can't resist the challenge. "Go on then," you dare him, your voice barely audible. "Prove it."

Leon’s lips twitch into a grin, the tiniest hint of satisfaction lighting up his features. He pulls you closer, your bodies pressed tightly together. His hand moves to cup the back of your neck, his thumb brushing softly against your sensitive skin.

"I don't think you understand what you're asking for, doll," he warns softly. "This isn't what you want."

You reach up to grip his wrist, using it to guide his hand lower, tracing a path down your spine toward the curve of your hip. Your eyes never leave his, the challenge still present in their depths.

"I'm not sure you'd know," you counter, your own voice low and sultry. "But I know exactly what I want."

Leon’s breath hitches, his grip on you tightening as you slide your free hand up his chest to grasp the lapel of his jacket. Panic flares in his eyes, and he pulls away, standing up afterward. You follow his movements, watching his gaze on you.

Did you go too far? You quickly reach out for him, trying to reassure him with your eyes that you didn't mean anything, but he steps back, shaking his head minutely. His breathing is labored, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Are you drunk?" he rasps, taking a few steps away from you. At your silence, he shakes his head again. "We can't do this. We shouldn't. Not while you're like this."

But even as he tries to distance himself, you can see the fire in his eyes refuses to die down.

"Why not?" you retort, mirroring his movements except forward until you're once again only a few steps away from each other. "Because you still care about me? Because I bring out feelings you'd rather bury alive? This isn't about me being drunk; this is about you being too much of a coward to admit your feelings!"

Leon clenches his jaw, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each labored breath.

"You want me to admit it?" he snarls, narrowing his eyes dangerously. "Fine! Yes, I still care about you. I even love you. But that doesn't change anything!" His fists clench at his sides.

"Then why fight it?" you whisper, feeling boldness surge within you. Your hand reaches out tentatively, tracing along the edge of his shirt where it meets his waistband.

"Because it leads nowhere good," he growls, catching your wrist before you can venture any farther. His grip is firm, but not painful.

"Maybe somewhere better," you murmur, looking up at him with wide eyes. Desire courses through you like wildfire, igniting every nerve ending with its heated touch.

"What if I hurt you?" His eyes flash with fear.

"You underestimate me, Leon," you murmur. "I'm not as breakable as you think."

"Please, don't push me," he breathes hoarsely, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "I don't know what I'll do if you keep pushing."

"Why don't you understand that you don't get to decide everything? It could be my relationship too!"

Leon’s grip on your wrist tightens as he stares into your eyes, searching for understanding or defiance.

"You don't get it, do you?" he snaps, his voice low and dangerous. "I tried to protect you before, and look where it got me! Another man could've had you!"

"And now?" you question quietly, trying to reassure him with soft strokes against his palm. His heartbeats pound beneath your fingertips, syncopated with yours.

"Now..." Leon swallows hard, looking away briefly before meeting your gaze once more. "Now... I have you. And despite everything, that scares the hell out of me."

You glance up and kiss him.

The tension crackles in the air, thick and palpable. He leans closer, his voice a low growl. "And I'm telling you, I'm the last thing you need."

Your heart pounds in your chest. "Are you suggesting someone else?" you dare to challenge him.

"Fuck no." His eyes narrow, a flicker of jealousy crossing his face. Then, in a swift movement, he pins you against the door, his hips pressing against yours. The relief you feel at his answer is quickly replaced by a surge of pure desire.

"Good," you breathe, tilting your head up to meet his. You capture his bottom lip between yours, sucking gently before nipping it with your teeth. "Because I only want you, Leon."

Your words seem to break something within him. He finally gives in, your mouths colliding in a kiss that is hot, fierce, and utterly out of control.

Need pulses through you as he grasps your backside, pulling you flush against him. Your back grazes the wall as you use it for leverage, pushing closer to his strength. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind him. Your nightgown rides up with the motion, but you don't care. All you can think about is the way he's kissing you, the way his mouth moves against yours, the way his tongue dances with yours.

The world narrows to this kiss, this moment, this man. He is yours. Or maybe you are his. It doesn't matter, as long as he keeps kissing you.

Heat floods your body as his mouth trails down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

"God," he murmurs against your skin.

Then, you're moving. You hear a crash as your desk chair hits the floor, and the next thing you know, you're sprawled across your desk, your legs wrapped around his waist. He leans over you, his fingers tangled in your hair as he devours your mouth once more.

You kiss him back with a hunger you've never known before. Your hands reach up to brace yourself, knocking over anything and everything in your way. Time seems to stand still.

"You'll hate me in the morning," he says between kisses, his voice husky. "You don't really want this."

"Stop telling me what I want," you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair. You tilt your head, giving him better access. He takes it, his mouth moving down your neck to where it meets your shoulder.

Every touch of his mouth to your skin is like a spark igniting a flame. You gasp when he lingers on a particularly sensitive spot, taking his time.

"Unless you don't want me," you whisper, a flicker of doubt creeping in.

"Does this feel like I don't want you?" He takes your hand and guides it between your bodies. Your fingers curl around his length, feeling the evidence of his desire. You whimper, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of his need. "I always fucking want you," he groans as you squeeze him. He lifts his head, his icy blue eyes locking with yours. You see the raw desire reflected in their depths, mirroring your own. "You walk into a room, and I can't look away. I get anywhere near you, and this is what happens. Fucking hell, I can barely think when you're around." He thrusts his hips into your hand, and your stomach clenches with anticipation. "My problem isn’t with wanting you."

"Then what is?" you ask, your voice trembling with desire.

"I'm trying to protect you," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "From me."

He's right. You know he's right. But in that moment, you don't care. All you want is him.

"I don't need protection," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "I want you."

And with that, he takes you. He takes you hard and fast, his movements relentless, his kisses demanding. You move together, a tangle of limbs and desire, until the world around you fades away.

You cry out his name, your body arching against his. He holds you tight, his breath hot against your ear.

"I've got you, darling," he promises. "Let it out."

"Shit," you gasp, as the pleasure builds to an unbearable crescendo.

He takes you over and over, never stopping, until you are both lost in the throes of passion. All that matters is the two of you, lost in a world of your own.

Finally, he collapses on top of you, his chest heaving, his eyes filled with raw emotion. You look up at him, your heart overflowing with love and desire.

"I’ve never lost control like that," he says, bracing his weight on one arm and brushing your hair back from your face with the other. The move is so gentle, so at odds with what you’ve just experienced, that you can’t help but blink, then smile.

"I know. I've noticed." The smile morphs into a full-out grin. "Not that I’ve ever had something to lose control of before." He laughs and rolls you to his side, keeping you close and cushioning your head with his biceps. You look to your mahogany desk.

"Did I…"

"Ruin your desk?" He lifts a brow. "Yes."

"Oh." You can’t find it in you to be embarrassed, so you brush the backs of your fingers across the stubble along his jaw.

"To be fair, I was messing it up when you walked in. I also might've broken your dagger stand." He grimaces. "I’ll get you a new one."

You blink. “That was…” You didn’t even get the man’s pants entirely off, and your gown is haphazardly hanging from one shoulder.

“Frighteningly perfect.” He cups the side of your face. “We should get you cleaned up and to sleep. We can worry about… your room tomorrow. And one more thing."

You look up at him questioningly. "Yeah?”

“You really should try to be more careful."

"I am!" you exclaim. His eyes narrow. "Mostly.”

"Well, if you weren't so reckless, we wouldn't be having this conversation." He sighs. "If what you said about our agency got out, what would have happened to you?"

Your gaze drifts away from his, and you bite your lip. "I know."

"Good, because now you're going to listen to me." He leans forward until your noses touch. "No more taking chances. No more being careless. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good girl." He grins, a crooked curve of his swollen lips. "But don't worry, we'll figure something out."

"Thank you." You lean against him and rest your cheek against his chest.

"Of course, princess," he whispers back, stroking your hair.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier," you say quietly.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he replies, kissing the top of your head. "We all have our moments."

"I just wish things were different sometimes," you whisper.

"Me too, baby," he responds, wrapping his arms around you tighter. "But we'll make the best of it, yeah?"

"Yeah," you say, nodding. "Thanks."

"Anything for you, princess," he mutters back, dipping his hand back between the both of you, snaking around your body.

“What are you doing?”

No response, only silence. Leon smirks, you feel it on your neck. You’ve missed that smirk, and he makes sure that you tell him.

Guess you never realize how much you miss someone until they’re gone, huh?

---