Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You alright?”

“Yeah, patched up and good as new. Showered, stopped by medical, got all-clear, on my way home now.”

There was a pause on the line. And then:

“Home, huh? How long?”

“An hour, maybe. Want me to grab takeaway?”

Another pause. A long and relieved breath.

“Nah, I’ll cook. You drive safe.”

____

Three and a half months ago.

Thursday, September 28^th, 2006

Early Afternoon

When Leon slowly came to, his vision felt blurred and ragged at the edges, his head throbbing viciously as if he was sick from a hangover despite the fact that he didn’t remember drinking the night before. He was … actually, where was he?

He blinked once, twice, trying to focus and get a grasp on his surroundings. A bed, not too soft, but also not solid like a bunch of planks. A fleece blanket, tucked snugly around him. A slant of sunlight almost over his face. Birds chirping outside, a whiff of fresh air, pleasant and clean. Then something shifted next to him, or rather someone: a large warm body, enveloping him in cozy heat, one arm serving as a pillow for Leon, another holding him in a heavy embrace. The feeling of being safe was totally overwhelming, so Leon snuggled closer to that person without thinking and groaned quietly because of the splitting headache.

Ah, right. He’d had another mission after which he, unsurprisingly, ended up at Krauser’s. As … well, almost every time.

“Morning,” Leon mumbled as he nuzzled the soft fabric covering the other man’s chest and breathed in the familiar scent. Musk and tobacco, and a bit of sweat with just a hint of sweet chocolate. The heartbeat against his forehead was steady and soothing; Leon shifted even closer, thinking that he would definitely like to stay like this, well, forever.

If only.

The clock was ticking.

“More like afternoon,” Krauser rumbled against the top of his head, one large palm now flat between Leon’s shoulder blades. “I turned off the alarm.”

“Mmm…” Leon sighed, pointlessly trying to mourn the time wasted on sleep. “Why?”

“Made me real worried last night.”

At that Leon made a sound of inquiry, then raised his head and blinked again. His body … hurt. And not in the good way. But what—

Oh.

That.

Another flashback, caused by a thunderstorm, mixed with his terrible post-mission state. He remembered thrashing and begging Krauser to stop, but—

It didn’t work. It never worked. Leon himself had made sure of it.

His reality must have fragmented again. That happened often during such nights. Usually, Leon was able to push through, but this time … full blackout.

Well. Damn.

Leon groaned as he slowly turned onto his back, his head off Krauser’s arm and back on the pillow. Krauser sat up and reached out over him towards the nightstand to grab a glass of water and a blister of painkillers, some heavy, non-civilian sort. Damn, Leon needed them badly, his head pounding, his eyes ready to pop, so he gingerly sat up, too, and accepted everything with a nod.

His head exploded with white-hot pain at the movement. He groaned and swayed, and the next moment there was an arm sneaking around his shoulders for support.

“Thanks,” Leon said on a breath. “Head’s killing me.”

Krauser snorted as he tightened his grip. Leon downed the water and tried to snuggle back to the man’s side, but got deliberately pushed away.

“Get up,” Krauser ordered. “I called that lil bakery while you were still out, got some of those croissants you like.”

He stood up and left Leon alone to groggily rub at his eyes, the sockets still throbbing with pain, salt crystals stuck at the corners, disturbing the tender skin and all. Blanket still wrapped tight around his naked body, Leon pulled his knees to his chest, not liking the gloomy mood seeping into Krauser’s voice in the slightest.

“I need a shower—”

He was sweaty after a night full of sex and nightmares, although Leon didn’t remember most of it. His hair was greasy, his whole body covered with phantom remnants of grime and blood. Krauser threw something at him; Leon caught it, wincing, and realized it was a T-shirt a few sizes too big and baggy sweatpants, both obviously Krauser’s, not his.

Did he actually have any spare clothes of his own at this place? Unlikely, because why would he? Perhaps, there was something in his bag which was … somewhere. Most likely still next to the front door where Leon had dropped it last night.

“Shower later,” Krauser told him. “Need you to swallow down something first.”

Leon cackled and gave him a lopsided smirk. Krauser just rolled his eyes.

“Not cum,” he said. “We need to talk.”

Leon forced out another cackle, this time totally fake.

“Aw, such a disappointment, Major,” he whined half-heartedly. “You know how I love your cum.”

Not a disappointment, no. He totally was not in the mood.

Krauser, apparently, also took none of his bluff as he pointed at the clothes in Leon’s hands, announced that he was going to make coffee for both of them, and then left.

The “coffee” meant a triplo for Leon, pitch black and mind-clearing, and a huge mug of some sweet shit for Krauser, generously doctored with milk. The door was left open, so Leon could hear low noises from the kitchen, and then the smell of freshly ground coffee began seeping into the bedroom, filling it with some faint sense of comfort. Leon sniffed the air and gingerly cracked his back before reluctantly pulling the blanket away.

As expected, he was battered and bruised, but there were also fresh fingerprints all over his hips which made Leon’s heart miss a beat. He prodded at one of those marks with a thumb, shivering at the sting of pain, a light smile tugging at his lips. These marks, left by Krauser, were not that rare, and yet not less precious for him.

Leon’s body belonged to the man, after all. Even if he didn’t need anything else.

The coffee smelled heavenly and tempting, so Leon grudgingly climbed out of the bed, got dressed and shuffled outside. Krauser slanted a glance at him when Leon stumbled into the kitchen, then put a tiny cup with his espresso on the table and pointed at the paper bag.

Of course, there were half a dozen chocolate croissants which they both found delicious. Leon helped himself to a plate, grabbed half of the croissants and sat.

“No crumbles.”

“Yes, sir,” Leon sighed and took a small sip.

The silence stretched, warm and comfortable for now, disturbed only by soft clinking and dripping, paper rustling, and Leon chewing, until Krauser finished preparing his mug of syrupy parody of a coffee and seated himself as well. As always, Leon’s eyes got stuck on the mug itself, pint-sized, colored light blue with a print of a fluffy white puppy on its side. There were several dumb jokes in Leon’s head about the mug that had always threatened to spill, but he knew better and had always managed to swallow them down in time.

“Who’s Marvin?” Krauser dropped with an air of nonchalance as he stirred his coffee before adding some more milk.

Straight to the execution, huh? Leon coughed on his coffee, blinked once, twice, then his throat tightened, and for a moment he was there again, kneeling on the cold floor of the RPD building main hall, sobbing uncontrollably, clutching tight at the limp, lifeless body in his arms—

“—on! Leon, you with me?”

The question shook Leon back to his present self, safe and sitting at the table in the sun-lit tiny kitchen. He was hyperventilating, though, and Krauser stood by his side, rubbing his back, Leon’s head tilted against the man’s hard stomach.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “’m’ere.”

Krauser gave him another rub before pulling away.

“That’s what I meant when talking about last night,” he said darkly, sitting down and beginning to stir his still untouched coffee again. He also hadn’t eaten, Leon noticed. But why?

Was he … disgusted with Leon? Did he think…?

“I’m not—” Leon started but had to stop and force down a swallow. “Erm … I’m not cheating. It’s just you…”

He trailed off as he looked up and realized that was apparently not what Krauser had wanted him to say. The man’s brows were raised, his expression completely unreadable.

“Cheating, Kennedy, for real?” he snorted. “Didn’t know you think we’re a thing.”

That blew all air out of Leon’s lungs. Were they? No, no, they weren’t!

They weren’t, right?

No, they weren’t! Krauser wasn’t even able to normally sleep next to him!

“What?” Leon said, stalling for time.

Well, one could dream, though, however pointlessly, right? That one day Krauser might want more than his mouth and his ass.

“What?” Krauser deadpanned. “You come. We fuck. You run away before dawn to, what, save the world again? Didn’t think you care, Golden Boy.”

Leon opened and closed his mouth like a fish thrown out of water. Well … being worded that way, it … what was even wrong with this? Him, coming to blow off some post-mission steam, sure, almost never staying till the morning, for different reasons, yes, mostly because there was no time, or he was too self-conscious and didn’t want to overstay his welcome—

Again, Krauser seemed to loathe the very idea of sleeping by Leon’s side. Some long time ago, when Leon was still naïve and full of hopes, he woke up at night, and Krauser was awake and watching him, his expression unreadable, his gaze raw and terrifying.

Did he see Leon as threat? A nuisance?

Leon didn’t know. Back then he pretended to be asleep, then excused himself straight after Krauser’s morning alarm and had left long before dawn ever since.

So no, they totally weren’t a thing.

Who cared why?

All Krauser had always wanted was sex.

Leon had almost always left in time anyway.

Yet now it seemed that, what, Krauser had been thinking they were a thing? For how long!?

“Fuck,” Leon said dumbly and pulled at his hair. “Fuck, Krauser—look, man, I’m sorry, I haven’t—”

He hadn’t what?

We’re a thing.

Damn.

Were they!?

No, no, they hadn’t even kissed for such a long time, only fucked, until one day Leon gathered some courage and—

“Stow it, Kennedy,” Krauser grumbled, as he finally took the very first sip of his now-cold coffee. “Not talking about that today. So, Marvin’s dead. Who was he?”

Right, Marvin. Leon sighed, then finished what was left of his espresso, and he had already eaten his share of croissants, and Krauser had apparently been waiting for that before bringing up his nightmares, so … the problem was that Leon had literally nothing else to busy himself with. No distraction. No chance to stall for time.

“My first CO,” Leon admitted. “Died in Raccoon City, long ago.”

“The first zombie incident.”

Leon nodded, rotating the cup with his fingertips and looking at its bottom, empty, stained with brown.

This cup was just like him. Empty and stained. And if he squinted enough, coffee remnants looked almost like caked blood.

“I killed him,” Leon said quietly. “After he’d died once and turned. I had to kill him.”

Twice. The second time with the grenade launcher, wasting ammo until Marvin’s very bones crumbled to ash.

The man had deserved his fire burial. Leon couldn’t have left his body there to rot.

“Did he bite you?”

“What?” Leon looked up at suddenly even more serious Krauser. “No, no, I wasn’t bitten at all, I—”

He was. Once.

“Well. Yes.”

Krauser drank some coffee. Leon hooked the handle of his cup and rotated it.

“I was lucky to not get infected,” he said. “You know, being naturally immune, all that shit.”

That was one of the reasons he was chosen for the job. Hadn’t helped him in the long run, though. The Plaga had still almost eaten him alive.

He didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to remember.

“Why do you ask?”

Krauser didn’t respond straight away. Instead, he stood up and went to restart the coffee machine: measured another portion of coffee and water, painstakingly precise with the help of a tiny scale.

Twenty-four grams of coffee. Three ounces of water. A fresh filter to make it clean.

“We need a safeword,” he said without looking at Leon, while the coffee, another triplo according to the measures, was dripping through.

“…what?”

Apparently, this morning—this afternoon Leon was lacking any brainpower at all.

“But why? Wait, Krauser, what happened?”

Did he miss anything? Krauser shrugged as he gave Leon his second cup. His own coffee was still sitting on the table, almost untouched, and Leon, suddenly anxious, barely suppressed the urge to just grab it instead and take a gulp.

He hated that sweet shit, never considered it coffee at all. He was half-Italian, after all, he liked his coffee bitter and pitch black!

And yet, that sweet shit was associated with Krauser. With safety and peace. With the knowledge that his Major would always make things right.

Until he wouldn’t.

Some things were impossible to be made right.

“Bit you last night,” Krauser said, lifting a finger to point at Leon’s neck. “When I had you pinned. Standard procedure, right?”

Leon nodded. It really was nothing new, he loved being manhandled by Krauser, hell, he had always come here exactly for that! Because it was Krauser, the only guy whom he—who was able to overpower him with ease.

“Right. And?”

“And you fought me.” The sweet coffee in Krauser’s mug looked so, so tempting again. “Begged me to stop, called me Marvin, asked me not to die. Then not to kill you.” Krauser barked out a laugh, but his eyes were still deadly serious. “Gonna say, Kennedy, that cut my heart deeper than your knife. Just so you know.”

Leon snorted, and so did Krauser, too, though the wide grin he bestowed on Leon afterwards again never touched the steel blue of his eyes.

“Fuck you,” Leon winced at the memory. “Don’t remind—Nothing is wrong with your heart, in Spain I aimed perfectly to miss.”

“I know,” Krauser said, finally looking away. “I’d taught you well. Anyway, you called for Marvin, thrashed and screeched, then passed out real soon.”

Leon winced again, his imagination too vivid, as he finally gave up and stole Krauser’s mug. As he expected, the coffee was so sweet that his teeth ached, and there was so much milk! Maple syrup, and sugar, and God knew what else.

“Ew!” Leon made a face as he took another mouthful of that almost cold trash. “Too sweet.”

Krauser laughed, this time not faking it.

“Give it back if you don’t like it. Drink your rocket fuel and leave mine alone.”

“Nah,” Leon said with faint enjoyment and clutched tighter at the mug. “It’s mine now. The rocket fuel is for you.”

Now it was Krauser’s time to blink. Then he threw his head back and cackled, his eyes crinkling, the crow-like laugh light and finally, oh, finally genuine. Leon nearly choked on a mouthful of the sweet shit when Krauser reached out and actually took the espresso cup.

“Alright,” he said. Took a sip and mirrored Leon’s previously disgusted face. “Ew. Bitter.”

Damn. Too heartbreaking.

Leon glanced away, still clutching now-totally-his mug close to his chest.

“So what?” he asked. “Okay, I had … well, a moment. Never stopped you before.”

Krauser shifted uncomfortably, straightened his back, and suddenly all the mirth was gone, and the very air between them nearly cracked with looming threat.

“That wasn’t the first time?” Krauser asked on a low growl. “You laid down a rule: ‘Don’t stop.’ I followed it. But last night you were way too deep in the shit. Looked like real negative on the consent. So, was that the first time, or not?”

“Well,” Leon hesitated. “Yes and no?”

Yes, it was full negative, according to what fragments of the night Leon remembered. No, it wasn’t the first time, and not the last time even. He’ll have to hide his emotions better, then…

Krauser’s face darkened, he put the cup down, entwined his fingers on the table and stared at Leon with badly suppressed anger for some reason mixed with hurt.

“And I learn about it only now. Why?”

Well. It wasn’t relevant? Leon tried to say that, but his words only made Krauser even angrier.

Something was wrong, but … what?

Not the first time. Definitely, not the last.

He’d had nightmares since ’98, especially at this time of the year, so close to the date itself, why did it matter now, all of a sudden?

Why did Leon feel like he was in a trap?

“So, Kennedy,” Krauser said, staring at him uncomfortably. “Correct me if I’m wrong. You’ve been having recurring nightmares in my bed, all while being fucked by me, and yet never told me that, thinking it was, what, irrelevant?”

“More like flashbacks,” Leon said quietly, in his head flashing a long line of moments when he wasn’t himself. “But yes.”

Truth be told, he hadn’t really always been in the right state of mind for sex, even less rough. Yes, his body craved some contact, any contact, he was touch starved every time after a mission, being in a desperate need to feel alive. He needed to force himself back into believing not everyone surrounding him was mad, infected or simply a walking dead.

Sex was just the easiest.

And Krauser had always been his best option. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Since the boot camp when after an especially bad nightmare during a field trip Leon for the first time went down on him. Since right before and after Javier. Since after Spain, after Leon found out the lo—the crush of his life was still alive.

Leon couldn’t, just couldn’t kill Krauser back there, in Spain. He aimed the knife just a hair away from the heart, knocked Krauser out real hard, and then dragged his unconscious body through some serious hell.

God bless Luis’s torture chair that managed the third charge. And the fact there was enough space for the trio of them on that jetski.

So, you see, Leon was ear-deep in some serious shit.

Yet still.

“Yes,” Leon repeated. “Far from the first time.”

They had their own lives. Krauser had his own life where Leon didn’t belong. He was just so, so happy that he was allowed into the man’s bed.

Just to fuck his fears away.

Just to feel back alive.

Just because … despite craving it so much, how could he have asked for even more?

So, yes, sex that was, rough sex every time, Leon clinging to Krauser with all he’d got. When he really wanted to fuck. When he wanted nothing more than to curl up in a tiny ball and cry. When he was afraid to close his eyes so as not to see anything but the man having him.

A Tyrant. A monster. A zombie. A madman.

Marvin. Last night he saw Marvin biting him.

What did Krauser think he should have done!?

Didn’t know you think we’re a thing.

Were they?

Were they not?

Marvin’s face flashed before his closed eyes, fingers clawing, teeth chattering. Leon choked on air, feeling suddenly out of his head, falling back, down there, to Raccoon City again. Cold floor tiles and heavy steps, and blood, so much blood…

“Fuck you!” Krauser growled, having huffed in exasperation, and the sound of his voice dragged Leon back with full force. “Kennedy, what do you take me for? A heartless monster? A rapist? Plaga-driven shit again?”

Leon flinched, his imagination serving him flashback pictures again. No, he didn’t. He…

“No. Not that.”

Never that.

A safe haven, that’s what Krauser was. Even—no, especially when Leon needed to be saved from himself.

Krauser worked his jaw. Finished the espresso in one go, his face hard and expressionless as if carved from stone.

“I like it rough, yes,” he said. “Mostly. Thought you do, too. Kennedy, I’m not into rape. Don’t you dare try and soil me with this.”

“I’m not—” Leon began.

Krauser slammed his palm on the table to interrupt him. Hard.

“We do need a safeword for you. I need you to have an out.”

Leon swallowed a lump that had plugged his throat as he looked away.

“We don’t. I’ll take everything you throw at me.”

This time Krauser slammed the table with his fist. The espresso cup got knocked over and rolled to the side, spilling out the last few drops; Krauser grabbed at Leon’s T-shirt and pulled with force, almost ripping the fabric apart.

“I. Do. Not. Rape. Anyone!” he growled, his eyes black with rage and narrowed to slits, his hands visibly trembling. “It’s called rape, Kennedy. I fucked you rough when you weren't in your right mind. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not that. I have my honor.”

Leon grasped at Krauser’s wrist, at the same time scared and overwhelmed with the desire to keep feeling that grip on himself, to make it shift to his neck instead of just his T-shirt.

The T-shirt wasn’t his. It was borrowed. And Leon wanted those hands on himself.

“Never said you don’t.”

Krauser squeezed the fabric tighter and twisted, until it finally started to rip. Yet Leon’s throat was still untouched, his skin not hurt in the slightest despite itching for it.

“Your actions stripped me of it. So, Kennedy, here’s the deal. You give me a safeword. You use it when you need me to stop. Otherwise, we won’t fuck anymore. Ever.”

At that Leon felt as if he got punched straight in the gut, gasping for air despite Krauser’s loosened grip. Because of his words, which hurt as hell.

Won’t fuck anymore.

Ever.

Never again.

He couldn’t stand “never again”.

And what’s more, he was so out of luck that Krauser hadn’t even finished with him.

“Wait, Kennedy,” he said as he pulled Leon closer, made him hunch over the table, the mug in Leon’s hands careening to the side, some sweet coffee spilling wasted in a sticky pool. “Do you always want sex when you come round?”

That was it. Leon had never been able to hold his poker face well, not with Krauser, who knew him inside and out. The answer must have been obvious immediately, because Krauser swore under his breath and shoved Leon away, looking pale and sick.

“Give me one reason, Leon,” he said in a flat voice. “One reason why we should have sex—no, see each other ever again?”

The sound of broken ceramic that Leon heard next was deafening. It took him a long moment to realize that it was the mug with what was left of that oh-too-sweet coffee, which fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers. That light blue mug with that silly puppy on the side. A custom printed one, the puppy used to be Krauser’s … little Jack’s. The mug was now on the floor, shattered to pieces, lying in a pool of sticky, sweet coffee blood.

“You want me to leave?” Leon asked, staring at the broken fragments and not recognizing his own voice.

“Give me one fucking reason to allow you to stay.”

“Allo—” Leon’s vision for a moment went completely black as he coughed out the word, not even being able to finish.

Allow.

Allow.

So, Krauser never wanted him to stay?

Seeing nothing but blurred spots, Leon stood up, clinging to the table for support. His brain was mush, his knees weak and threatening to buckle. The headache, mercifully erased by the painkillers, returned at full speed, crushing his skull like that shattered mug.

Please, please, let me stay!

Please, don’t make me leave!

“None,” Leon croaked. “I can give you none.”

I can’t ask for what you cannot give.

“Then leave.” Krauser’s voice sounded dead.

Leon only nodded and forcefully straightened his back. The door was over there … somewhere. Right? He took a step, hoping he looked alright. Then another. And one more.

Krauser was silent. That large, vague spot of blond, navy-blue and gray at the edge of Leon’s sight that was him did not move at all.

Leon had to leave. Had to smile, and leave, and never look back. Had to keep going despite his world slowly shattering down to pieces of broken clay.

His leave ended tomorrow. Hunnigan had him on a red-eye, wanted him back in the field. He only needed to leave Krauser’s place and text her, ask her to arrange a taxi and a room to stay overnight. Wherever she would place him. Then there would be an airplane, his gear waiting for him onboard, and another mission straight away. Leon would have something to do, to keep his mind occupied, something that would force him to keep going now that he didn’t seem to have his safe haven anymore.

When Leon stumbled to the bedroom, his sight had cleared some. Enough that he saw his clothes on the dresser, neatly folded by Krauser, most likely while he was out, and stacked up in a pile, Leon’s harness and gun lying on top, the muzzle side of the holster carefully facing the wall. As if moving through water, Leon pulled out the gun and looked at it, feeling completely at a loss, not knowing what to do. The urge to just shut everything down was tempting, so tempting that he raised the gun to his head.

All it would take was one safety switch. One trigger pull.

Then … what?

He couldn’t make himself leave.

He was there, in the past, the Tyrant hot on his heels, Claire needing him, Marvin grasping at the last threads of his life.

He was here, in the present, Claire and Sherry alive and well. Jack Krauser alive and well. Fully healed and working as a cop.

Leon’s fucking childhood dream, that got crushed on a rainy September day.

The date was nearing again, being not even a week ahead, looming over Leon and bringing more and more chilly dread with each passing day.

Leon couldn’t leave. Not today.

All he managed to do was to make himself lower the gun.

“Raccoon,” he whispered. Then licked his lips and tried again, a bit louder: “Raccoon.”

One weird choice of a word, which, though, seemed the most logical.

“You said something?”

There had been no sound until Krauser spoke right behind Leon’s back, the man had always been so light on his feet. Leon felt lightheaded, his hand shaking, Krauser’s hot breath raising short hairs on his neck.

Had he seen Leon almost shooting himself?

That he certainly did.

“You wanted my safeword.” Leon made some serious effort to swallow as he closed his eyes, his arm falling, his fingers barely holding the gun. Krauser took it from him, slowly, carefully, as he gave a light squeeze to his bad shoulder, fingertips brushing over the scars. Leon dragged a long breath, closed his eyes and made a tiny step back to lean against Krauser’s hot muscular chest. “It’s Raccoon. And right now, I don’t want any sex.”

Chapter Text

Tuesday, October 3^rd, 2006

Evening

 The air felt crisp and clear, maple and oak leaves mostly turned golden and red, a tall old poplar tree shining bright yellow against the darkening sky. The sun was slowly dipping below the horizon when Leon’s ride stopped in front of Krauser’s place: a small house on the outskirts of Rockville, freshly painted in khaki green and white. Trying not to limp too much, Leon walked around Krauser’s Jeep, which stood forgotten, parked at a careless angle across the driveway. No one answered the door at the first knock, so Leon took a breath, waved an insistent goodbye to his driver, whose help Hunnigan had arranged for him after a small debate, and knocked again.

 If he’s not home, I’ll just wait, Leon thought. It wouldn’t be the first time anyway: sometimes, when Krauser worked overtime, Leon came and just sat on the front steps of his house for hours, waiting till late at night.

 This time, though, Krauser opened the door a few moments after the second knock.

 “Kennedy,” he acknowledged, eyeing Leon up and down, scrutinizing his battered frame: clothes dirty and torn in all the funniest places, most of Leon’s weight shifted to his right leg. His left one was throbbing with dull pain from a deep gash on his thigh and refused to fully cooperate. “Should have known.”

 Krauser himself looked gloomy and exhausted; there were prominent bags under his eyes, highlighted by the reddish light of the sunset, and a fresh cut on his left cheek, shallow and crusted. Perhaps, too much work again … not that Leon was going to ask. He wouldn’t get the answer anyway, would he?

 Oh well, if Krauser let him stay long enough to have a beer together, maybe it would be a good thing to discuss. Leon’s work was mostly classified, so he couldn’t reveal a lot of details (yet who cared anyway?), but Krauser’s routine as a cop … hey, that Leon would happily listen to, even if it lasted all night long.

 Especially if it lasted all night long.

 Who needed sleep anyway?

 “Have time for me?” Leon cautiously asked, trying not to let his hope too obviously seep into his voice.

 Krauser sighed. Rubbed at his forehead. Then stepped aside to clear the way. Leon lingered at the doorstep, drinking the man’s appearance in, as he suddenly realized it might not be the right time. Krauser was still wearing his tactical uniform, rumpled and stained with dirt; his hair, usually neatly combed back, was disheveled, his hands and sleeves looking blackened, the name tape slightly askew. A burn blister right below the right wrist, the sleeve torn at the cuff, revealing another angry-red burn on the forearm … And was it soot smudging the blond strands of his hair?

 Should Leon just apologize and leave…?

 The very thought of that hurt as hell.

 And as it turned out, for Krauser this, too, was not an option at all.

 “What’s the hold-up?” the man finally snapped after a long moment of heavy silence, one arm shooting out to grab at Leon’s jacket and pull him into the dim hallway. The house smelled like coffee, yesterday’s pizza and gun oil. Familiar. Soothing. Felt like ho— “Waiting for a written invitation?”

 Anything to know Leon’s presence was wanted and welcomed.

 This, exactly this he was waiting for: Krauser aggressively dragging him inside as if he was nothing but a cargo box or a toy. They stumbled two steps in, then there was a slam of the door behind Leon’s back, a hurried click of the lock. Next moment Leon found himself pinned against the same door, his bag discarded at their feet, and Krauser’s lips were on his. Crushing and claiming, biting into his mouth, overwhelming Leon’s senses with the taste of his own blood from his split lip, and their mixed saliva, and coffee, that terrible sweet coffee again.

 “Sex or cuddles?” Krauser rasped out after they both pulled away to gulp in some air. “Or both?”

 Leon shook his head. Anything. No. Yes. Sex, of course, he had been half hard since the debrief at the headquarters. Even the detailed written report that was required of him Leon promised Hunnigan he would submit tomorrow, because the only thing his brain could think about was Krauser’s mouth on him.

 He needed Krauser. Bad. There had been so many deaths during this shitty task: civilian casualties, his own men … he had asked, had begged not to be assigned anyone, he had sworn on everything he held dear he could accomplish everything required alone.

 Should have saved the breath: they hadn’t listened.

 And, exactly as Leon had feared—as he had expected: he had failed. One of his teammates had failed. Terribly. Everything had gone straight to shit.

 The fucking Raccoon incident in his head on the never-ending repeat: the same fucking dates, civilians dying on him, his fellow officers and soldiers dying on him, again and again…

 So many fucking deaths, and all Leon knew was that he was about to break.

 No, no, he didn’t want to even think of deaths, didn’t want to think at all! He wanted to hug Krauser tight, to revel in the taste of his skin, in his scent, to cling to him and to make sure that at least he was alive.

 That they both were.

 “Me,” Leon breathed out as he held on to Krauser’s shoulders with all his remaining strength. “You. Your bed. Your dick up my ass. Now. Please, Kr—”

 Krauser groaned loudly at that and cut him off with a kiss.

 Everything was in a blur after that: they stumbled further into the house, Krauser hastily undressing Leon on their way and dropping pieces of his clothes on the floor. They were still blood-stained after the mission, as Leon hadn’t even had the time to shower and change. Or willpower. Or both. He'd just filled in some mandatory papers (or rather, scribbled some passable shit), avoided the medical with well-practiced skill, and painfully endured Hunnigan for a short debriefing talk. During all this, not for a moment could he stop thinking about Krauser and how badly Leon needed to see him. To feel him. To be his.

 He'd always been his.

 Since the first day in the boot camp.

 One look in those icy-blue eyes during the first morning formation, and Leon was gone.

 Brain function accountability: never passed. In Krauser’s presence, his mind had always been nothing but swooning mush.

 What a saccharine-sweet, inappropriate and stupid, unbearably stupid thing to feel towards his Major!

 He wanted to stop feeling it, yet he could not.

 “Fuck me,” Leon begged as he was thrown onto Krauser’s bed, which was an unusual mess of pillows and blankets crumpled into a nest. “Krauser, please!”

 He felt dizzy and sick, his ribs aching after the throw, his cock heavy and throbbing between his legs, overpowering the similar throb in his thigh. There was that desperate need for more, closer, he wanted to claw at Krauser’s skin, to bite and taste the blood, to curl into him and melt through his body, to listen to the man’s heartbeat, forever.

 There was no time for “forever”. Who knew when Leon would have to leave?

 Krauser narrowed his eyes at him, taking in his flushed body, laid bare as if Leon was an offering for sacrifice: his heavily bruised ribs, countless scratches and small cuts, a dirty dressing on his left thigh, blood trickling from underneath again, threatening to drip onto the bedsheets … Something flashed in the man’s gaze at the sight, something dark, and hurt, that looked suspiciously similar to fear.

 “On the one condition,” Krauser said as he put one knee on the bed and traced a vein along the underside of Leon’s cock with a fingertip of his uninjured hand.

 “Whatever you want,” Leon supplied without a thought.

 Krauser snorted, but his eyes turned even more serious and piercing.

 “Now you’re talking. Okay, two conditions. First, remember, you have an out. You promised.”

 What?

 Ah. The safeword. Right. Leon hurried to nod, because yes, yes, whatever, he wasn’t going to use it now anyway, he felt on the brink of falling apart.

 At least this time he’d left his gun at the headquarters. His knife, too. Felt naked without any weapon, yes, but at the same time it was ... safe.

 Less tempting to—no, never mind. He wasn’t going to think of that.

 “Yeah,” Leon breathed out. “Yeah, that I did.”

 Krauser crawled closer, the bed sagging down a little under his weight, his arousal obvious even through his dark tactical pants. He took Leon’s cock in his palm and stroked once, gave it a light squeeze at the tip. His thumb slid over the slit, which was leaking precum already, collected the pearlescent bead, which Krauser then slowly, deliberately licked off.

 “Condition two,” he stated then, looking Leon straight and serious in the eyes, his hand returning to give a few more languid strokes. “You call me Jack.”

 What!? No, that was too much. Leon couldn’t, just could not…!

 “Wh— No way!”

 Krauser’s hand disappeared in no time, leaving him panting and desperate, and alone, so painfully alone.

 “No name, no fucking.”

 “Fuck, Krauser—” Leon propped himself up on an elbow, wincing from the pain in his ribs. “It’s unfair.”

 “It’s Jack or nothing.” His lips a tight line, Krauser kept looking him dead in the eyes.

 “Fuck!” Leon flopped on his back again, pulling at his hair with both hands. “Why do you—for fuck’s sake!”

 His throat tightened when he tried to say the word, spasmed so hard that he couldn’t even whine. Feeling the desperate need for release—any release—Leon tried to reach out for his cock, then for still-clothed Krauser, fingers scrambling and twitching. Just like the hands of those undead…! Just like Marvin’s. Just like Elliot’s, when Elliot was trying to escape, just a second before the shutter cut him in two.

 Fucking October. Everything was at its worst in early October! The dreams, the need, the … the haunting emptiness. Everything!

 The time before he first laid eyes on his Major. The worst time of the year: not yet in his safe haven but just out of hell.

 In one last attempt Leon caught the sleeve of Krauser’s shirt, but his hand got immediately batted away, and Krauser was just about to stand up and leave—and no, no, Leon couldn’t afford him leaving now, he knew he would break, it would kill him, it seriously would.

 His weapons were in his locker at the headquarters. Krauser’s most likely locked away in the man’s safe. But … there were knives in the kitchen.

 No! Not that. Just not that!

 “No!” Leon breathed out, almost inaudibly, swallowing hard in a fruitless attempt to dislodge the heavy lump stuck in his throat. “No, don’t leave me. J-Jack. No—”

 Don’t leave me, Jack! Please, more, please, kiss me, please, lo— no, have me, have me, Jack!

 That was too much. Never had Leon dared to utter this name, only once, that dreadful night in Spain, when Krauser was prostrated in front of him, mutated, wounded, exhausted, almost dying (on him, why had they always died on him!?) and asking Leon to finish the job.

 This was the only time Leon called him Jack.

 Now he felt too exposed and vulnerable, his feelings laid bare under Krauser’s scrutinizing gaze. He felt too desperate, he had to excuse himself and leave, and never come back.

 Never hide in this safe haven again.

 How could he?

 Leon knew he would crawl back anyway.

 Thus, he would have to allow his Major to aim for a kill.

 And the blow followed, as expected:

 “That’s right, Leon,” Krauser murmured as he kneeled back, leaned closer, bent over Leon, and gently, oh so gently brushed his bangs off his face. “That’s it. Say it again and I’ll kiss you.”

 Leon finally swallowed down that lump. Croaked out a wounded, mirthless laugh.

 “Jack.”

 Too much.

 Soft, warm, so unbearably tender lips that touched him were too much. Leon melted into that kiss, wrapped his arms around Krauser’s neck and whined as he opened his mouth to welcome the man’s tongue in. It was also moving tender and slow, exploring and caressing … so unlike him. So much like what Leon had craved for so, so long.

 It felt like Leon’s heart shattered into a billion pieces, because the tenderness, the care was something he couldn’t have. Something too precious. Something too special, meant for someone truly significant, not expendable.

 Not for him.

 “Fuck me,” Leon begged as he writhed his way out of the kiss and turned away. “I need it. No … no pretending. I really need your worst.”

 And he did need Krauser’s worst. Needed it so that he could forget the pain, the screams, the deaths of all those people whose ghosts had been haunting Leon’s nightmares since ’98, and of those poor men who died just last night, whose fault was only being assigned under him.

 As if it was not already enough, now there also was Krauser’s tenderness, unexpected and searing, threatening to destroy him.

 He needed to escape. Needed to stop it, right now.

 Before he broke down and begged Krauser for more.

 “Your worst,” Leon repeated. “Not—this. No. Jack, please, no!”

 Please, don’t kiss me like that anymore.

 “Well,” Krauser scoffed, suddenly looking distant and grim. “Since you asked so nicely.”

 For a moment Leon was sure that Krauser’s hand was shaking when he wrapped his fingers around Leon’s neck. The grip, though, was steady as always, and the pressure was delayed only by a second, not more. Yet still the delay was there, and still Krauser’s lips felt too gentle when he kissed Leon along the jawline, poisoning him with this sweetness. His pulse quickening, blood rushing to drum in his ears, Leon groaned at that, and once again tried to wiggle away.

 “No, not this. Harder.”

 The hand from Leon’s neck disappeared after one last short squeeze. The lips did as well, with another scoff. Next moment Krauser spat on his fingers and roughly pressed them between Leon’s legs.

 “Say my name again,” he demanded as he started rubbing at the tight, closed hole hard enough that it perfectly, painfully, blessedly stung. “Talk to me, Leon. Need to know you’re with me. Not back there. With me.”

 “Jack!” Leon threw his head back to expose his throat, genuinely expecting a bite, the name bitter on his tongue like ash and smelling like blood in that Spanish rain. “I’m fine. Just—more. Skip the prep.”

 Krauser exhaled through his nose, harshly, with force. Then, after spitting again, he pushed a finger in, which made Leon shudder and choke on air at the sting.

 “Okay. What’s your state, ribs cracked?”

 Leon shook his head and spread his legs wider, his eyes squeezed shut because of the burning pain. He was dry and tight down there, and the spit didn’t really help.

 It hurt. It was perfect. It fucking hurt!

 “Nah. Just bruised.”

 “Uh-huh. Good.”

 Next moment the finger disappeared, leaving Leon empty and clenching tight in the pointless chase for the stretch. Strong hands gripped his hips and turned him over, face down, ass up in the air. The sudden movement sent a fresh jolt of pain through Leon’s bruised ribs, and he barely managed to swallow a groan. His body silently screamed at this relocation, it hurt … so right and well. Then there was some rustling of fabric, as Krauser slid closer to Leon’s behind, hovering above him and nudging his knees wider apart. Then he groped at Leon’s ass cheeks, a caress of his fingertips turning into a scratch. His hot, skilled tongue left a wet trail from Leon’s tightened balls up to his tailbone before poking and prodding at the still clenched hole, little by little forcing his way in.

 "Wa—wait!” Leon choked out as he tried to free himself from the iron grip, Krauser hissing when he had to squeeze Leon tighter with his right hand. “Shower—I haven’t—”

 “So what?” Krauser gave him another prod.

 “Hey, I’m grimy! There, too…”

 Krauser snorted and shoved his tongue back in, his saliva trickling down Leon’s perineum.

 “Should’a thought of it earlier, what can I say.”

 “But … Ah!”

 There was that finger again, thick and slick with spit. Krauser thrust it all the way in and crooked, searching for Leon’s prostate. It made Leon scream in the mixture of pleasure and pain, barely managing to press his face deep into the nearest pillow to muffle the embarrassing sound. He wanted to push back for more and crawl away at the same time, his mind urging him to fight, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. Krauser chuckled darkly and pressed at his prostate again. Then his tongue returned, too, wiggling inside alongside the finger, licking, massaging, making Leon loosen the clench of his muscles and make some room. His breathing became labored almost immediately, his neglected cock hanging heavy and hard between his legs.

 “That’s it,” Krauser murmured, pulling away for a moment after Leon’s muffled whine. “Still with me?”

 “Yeah,” Leon coughed out. “More.”

 Less.

 Everything hurt, but the pain was right. It coiled deep in his stomach, spread out in waves towards his chest, his heart pounding, his head floating, and only the body heat, the rough handling felt real. Krauser seemed to enjoy playing with Leon’s ass, peppering the globes with light bites, sometimes stinging him with an occasional kiss, or licking around the fingers—two, there were now two, scissoring him loose, thrusting in deep, hitting his sweet spot hard enough to weave sticky pleasure with bruising pain. Leon cried out loud into the pillow: an angry and hoarse cry, as he tried to grind back, to take some more, just a little more. With another displeased hiss, Krauser pressed his free palm flat on the small of his back, not allowing him to move, and rubbed his inner walls hard.

 “You finishing like this?” he asked, sounding so painfully distant, indifferent, as if he wasn’t aroused at all.

 Leon almost sobbed, because no, no, that still was—

 “—not enough.”

 Krauser hummed at that, heaved a sigh, then hooked Leon’s hole with his fingers and pulled, and at the same time pushed at his hip. Leon yelped as he flopped on his back, the movement stealing his breath because of sharp pain, Krauser looking him dead in the eye, his gaze stormy and indecipherable. Then he dove down and took Leon in his mouth in one long slide, the sensitive cockhead poking at the soft throat that immediately squeezed, milking Leon, draining his very life away. The fingers, still buried deep inside him, rubbed and pressed, thrust mercifully, and then there was a light touch of teeth at the base of his cock. A hint of threat. Not biting, not ripping through the delicate skin. Reminding, though, that Krauser could. Leon came almost instantly with a surprised cry, his hips bucking up, his hole clenching desperately, his cock throbbing as it kept shooting load after load of thick cum deep down Krauser’s welcoming throat.

 Krauser gagged at that, but inhaled sharply through his nose and fingered Leon through his orgasm, milked him dry and half-unconscious before finally releasing him and pulling away. He coughed wetly a few times, then cleared his throat and spat on the floor. Leon cracked open an eye, feeling weak and totally crushed by the aftershocks, his heart still thundering in his ears, tuning out everything but Krauser’s coughs.

 “You…?” he managed.

 Krauser shook his head and wiped his mouth on the back of his good hand, the burnt one held carefully in the air and mostly hidden from Leon’s view.

 “’s okay,” his voice was quiet and hoarse from the obvious strain.

 Leon blinked the dizziness away, then reached out to feel him between his legs. Krauser caught his hand and moved it away … yet for some reason without immediately letting go of it, his thumb brushing once over the skin.

 “Not in the mood,” he clarified in a flat voice.

 …what?

 But he’d just been…

 “What?” Leon said, being at a loss. “Wait, you didn’t—”

 Krauser sneered at him as he released Leon’s hand and got up. He was still fully clothed, Leon suddenly realized, and his uniform pants were dry at the crotch, so he hadn’t come, and he didn’t even look aroused at all…

 “Stay here,” Krauser said coldly. “I need a smoke.”

 With that, he left, having quietly closed the door.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, October 3^rd, 2006

Late Evening

 “You want me to leave.”

 This came out as a statement, not a question. Refusing to stay alone in the room, Leon had followed Krauser to the kitchen and was now seated at the table again, watching the man smoke in silence. The window was open, letting the evening air in; it smelled of grass and rotten leaves, and was filled with sounds of children playing shuttlecock in the street.

 It was still more or less light outside, but the small kitchen was full of dark, writhing shadows, creeping about the corners, breathing against Leon’s neck. His fingers were laced in front of him, clenched so tight that it hurt and the knuckles turned white. He had collected his dirty clothes from all over the floor and put them back on, so now the filthy fabric was scraping at his skin, still sensitive from the exhausting orgasm. It was almost impossible to fight the urge to scratch the injured thigh, hoping that it would lessen the dull throbbing of pain, or at least cut through it and replace it with a sharper one. The dressing that Leon had applied earlier, when he’d gotten that gash, was somehow still holding, though completely soaked with blood and askew.

 So, Leon was fully aware that he was still covered in filth. Blood, quite a lot of which was his own, sweat, dirt and mud, stale vomit and intestines … his own spunk now, too. Stained, and soaked, and filthy, a perfect example of a disastrous failure that he was.

 What had he done to Krauser’s bed…? How could Krauser even let him in?

 Fuck, while Leon was getting dressed, he stepped on that spot where Krauser had spat his cum, and now his foot felt sticky. Never had Krauser spit it out before, let alone on the floor, when he’d deigned to give Leon head. Even when he’d been Leon’s CO, and it would have been really bold to expect him to swallow.

 Yet he’d done it anyway of his own volition. Every time. Until now.

 What had Leon done to him…?

 The only thing calming him down a bit was the fact he had barely eaten since before the assignment. He’d only picked at his ration, not feeling hungry at all, choked down the chalky, tasteless energy bar and some crackers just to keep going. So, at least Krauser had only tasted his musk and unwashed sweat. Nothing … more embarrassing.

 Oh, well. He had drunk water, though, and, obviously, taken a piss. Which meant clearly disgusting taste during the blowjob…

 Keith had eaten the rest of Leon’s ration. Keith, who’d smiled so wide and called him “pretty boss”, having made Leon snap at him. Keith, who’d just an hour later ignored a stupid scratch from zombie teeth without even cleaning it, underestimating the danger.

 He had still been part himself, mumbling panicked apologies through a mouthful of his squadmate’s neck.

 Leon’s bullet had pierced both their skulls at once.

 “I’m sorry,” Leon said hastily in a tight voice, forcefully interrupting his own train of thoughts and feeling sick. “You want me to leave, right? I’ll go.”

 But where?

 It felt like a shitty déjà vu: him, sitting here, in this kitchen, and thinking about texting Hunnigan. The need for a ride, for a place to stay for the night. He could request another assignment straight away, sleep onboard a plane, or just pull an all-nighter. He could leave Krauser’s place and just walk … find a hotel with a night bar. Drink some cheap whiskey until the world got clouded with fog, choke on the stink of smoke … patrons in bars like that always smoked, and Leon hated it.

 Krauser was the only one whose smokes never made Leon want to throw up.

 Right, he totally could use a drink. No need to call anyone.

 His hands itched to do something, to find any kind of distraction. After a moment of doubt Leon gave in: he lowered one hand under the table to press at the bloody wet patch on his pants leg. A sharp stab of pain in his thigh made him suck in a breath through gritted teeth; it was so sharp that his eyes stung with gathering tears. Leon rolled his jaw, held his breath and pressed again, harder, this time also trying to move the wet fabric over the wound to disturb it more.

 His leg began shaking. His fingers came away bloody. Leon looked at the dirtied fingertips and barely managed not to poke at the wet patch again.

 One blonde eyebrow arched skeptically, Krauser cast him a sidelong glance and took a long drag on his cigarette, the smell of it woody and sharp. A familiar smell, which now felt like a poisonous sting in Leon’s chest, as he suddenly remembered sneakily slipping Krauser his share of Lucky Strikes every time they’d appeared in his C-Rats.

 Other brands Leon had used to just toss away.

 Chocolate mix from the same rations, though, he’d usually used to trade Krauser openly for his coffee packs. Leon had never really liked the taste of sweet things anyway and would have killed for a good espresso after nightmarish, almost nonexistent sleep he’d used to have most of those days. Besides, most importantly, such trade meant a great chance to brighten the Major’s mood whenever he’d got up on the wrong side of bed and make the field trips easier for the whole squad or, sometimes, even for their whole platoon.

 To stop thinking about that time, Leon bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood. Krauser flipped the ash of his cigarette into a simple ceramic ashtray and took one more pull. The burn blister on his right hand had popped and peeled back, revealing a small patch of raw pinkish skin, and was now weeping in tiny drops, gleaming in the cold white light coming from the range hood.

 “What makes you think that’s what I want?”

 His voice was still hoarse from the previous abuse, and Leon cringed inside with a wave of shame. He had asked too much. He had finally reached the point where he was not welcomed anymore. Was not wanted. Should have left and never come back.

 Krauser hadn’t even been hard.

 No … at first he had. He’d been hard, and then Leon had killed his mood, and—

 “You didn’t want me,” Leon said.

 “Aye.” Krauser poked the cigarette butt into the ashtray, his profile sharp and dark against the dying evening light. “I didn’t. Not like that.”

 Leon closed his eyes and slowly exhaled through his mouth, ignoring the slight tremble of his lips. The silence stretched, thick and hostile, yet for Leon it lasted but for one fleeting moment.

 One last stolen moment of being here. One last longing look.

 “Look, Krauser,” Leon rubbed his face and made himself look away, both his thigh and his ribs persistently reminding him of their state with dull throbbing and ache. “I’m sorry. I—I failed, so I’ll leave.”

 “Jack.”

 This short word dropped between them like a piece of a building crumbling right under Leon’s feet. A tower, blasted out. A bridge in the NEST, collapsing. Leon blinked, trying to process its meaning, but miserably failing to comprehend.

 “What?”

 “It’s Jack,” Krauser said calmly, twirling a lighter with his fingertips. Same way he’d always done with his knives. “I gave you the terms, remember? The out and the name. You agreed.”

 Leon blinked once more before getting literally crushed with realization. He ... was expected to keep using the name!?

 “Yeah,” he coughed out a sudden, truly hysterical laugh. “Yeah … I did.”

 “Did you follow them?”

 Leon squeezed his eyes shut, deafened by the suffocating silence. Kids still shouting outside, a woman calling her daughter home, a mourning dove cooing softly in the nearest tree, a grandfather clock ticking in the hallway … all this felt muffled, as if Leon’s ears were plugged with a thick layer of cotton. He knew he’d asked for too much. He knew he had failed.

 He shouldn’t have stained Krauser’s … Jack’s name with the sound of his own voice.

 Yet Krauser—no, it’s Jack!—yet Jack still wanted him to say it again.

 About ten minutes earlier, while he was putting on his dirty pants, trying not to rip off the dressing and swearing under his breath, Leon noticed the mug he’d broken last month. Apparently, it had been painstakingly glued back together and placed on the bookshelf next to the bed.

 If only Leon could borrow some of that glue to hold together what was left of his dark, shattered heart.

 “No,” he whispered into the soundless, pitch-black void that was slowly devouring him from within. “No, Jack. I didn’t.”

 All the noises stopped. The silence was absolute. Then, after a long pause there was one, heavy sigh.

 “What did you really need?” Jack asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, and suddenly so, so close, right next to Leon’s ear.

 Damn his featherlight footsteps. How could someone of his size be so effective at stealth?

 Leon choked on a sob, his eyes still closed, his heart suddenly pounding hard. Cold sweat gathered on his temples and trickled along his backbone in large, tickling drops.

 “Your kiss,” he forced out the shameful truth. “I don’t know. Shower. Fresh bandages. You taking me slowly so it wouldn’t have hurt? Don’t ask me, Jack—I don’t know, it didn’t happen, so never mind.”

 He felt Jack standing right behind him, deep within his personal space: hot, steady breathing making Leon’s hair stand. The void grew and grew, threatening to dissolve him, the reality cracking and slowly falling apart.

 He wanted to beg for that rejected kiss.

 But did he deserve it?

 What else could be soothing and safe at the same time?

 “Make me your coffee?” Leon gritted through clenched teeth, grasping at the last shreds of his dignity.

 Jack snorted at that request and hunched lower, melting the void in Leon’s head with his body heat.

 “That sweet trash?”

 “Mhm.”

 Yes. That milky trash coffee, unbearably sweet.

 “You dislike it.”

 The taste of safety. The taste of life.

 “Yes. No. I wa— I need it.”

 The taste of Jack.

 Soft, wet lips touched Leon, and he shuddered with a sudden whine. Tried to recoil, but there was nowhere to go, as Jack’s arms got wrapped around him, so he forced himself to stop. His eyes burned, hot tears gathered in the corners and spilt, and Jack caught one of the wet trails with his thumb.

 “That kiss?” he whispered, still touching, still grounding Leon with his warmth.

 Yes. Yes, this kiss. Just like this: tender and delicate, and so, so soothing, and—

 “I love you,” Leon blurted out before he managed to think.

 Jack froze, his hand darted to Leon’s shoulder, the good one, and squeezed tight. Then he stood up straight and cracked his back. His face, when Leon finally opened his eyes, was stone cold and seemingly detached.

 “Don’t say what you don’t mean,” was all Jack spat when he turned to counter with the coffee machine, his back tense, his shoulders hunched a bit.

 His stomach suddenly spasming as if he was about to throw up, Leon tightened his lips, his mind frantically searching for the right words. Then, having found none, he simply stood up, and hugged Jack from behind, hating the fact that Jack tensed even more and shifted as if he wanted to avoid the touch.

 He’d failed. Leon had failed again, but this failure he couldn’t afford. Somehow, he hurt Jack with these three cursed words deeper than with anything else, shattered him, wounded him … with the truth?

 His eyes darted to that one spot on the floor, now perfectly clean: the mug had fallen down there, shattered, too, spilling its coffee blood. The sweet, sweet coffee that tasted like bleeding heart.

 “I got scared tonight,” Leon managed to admit, his ear pressed to Jack’s back, listening to the man’s heartbeat: a little too fast, betraying the fact he was only feigning calm. “It felt—too good. You know, the kiss.”

 Jack shrugged. Then slowly took a clean mug and started the coffee machine.

 “What would have happened if you’d let me?” he asked. “I needed it.” Then, after some silence, raised his burnt hand: “That, too.”

 Leon gasped in a sudden rush of fear and guilt, that overcame all his aches and throbs of pain. The burn on Jack’s hand was still weeping. Another one, on his forearm, was raw and angry-red. They both had been injured, had needed a shower, meds, and sleep.

 Not cold, distant sex. Not even this talk.

 Or … well … maybe they actually needed the talk.

 Leon squeezed Jack tighter around the waist, the smell of coffee and sweat enveloping him. The bitter-sweet, chocolaty stink of Jack’s cigarettes clung to his skin, mixing with the tinge of smoke, blood and gunpowder. Leon nuzzled Jack’s wide muscular back, covered only with the thinnest layer of his cotton shirt. No bulletproof vest, no harness … nothing but the crumpled, unwashed fabric and skin.

 He wanted to sink his teeth into that back, wanted to taste Jack, to lick him from head to foot. To fix something that he’d broken himself. To patch him up like Jack had patched that broken mug.

 His fingers traced Jack’s abs, then moved lower, to his hipbone, rubbing in slow circles around it through his cargo pants. Jack shifted as he started adding sugar to the mug, one spoonful, two … his eyes closed, Leon counted the soft clinks to five.

 “I’d break,” he admitted sadly after that. “I’d—you were—”

He would have broken. He would still break.

 How long did he still have before being thrown away?

 “I’m so sorry,” Leon whispered, listening to Jack stir the sugar in the mug. “Your name, your softness … It was too much.”

 The smell of coffee was filling the air, taking in everything else, making it insignificant. Jack reached out for the fridge and bent over rather awkwardly to get a carton of milk from its door—a really uncomfortable bend that would have been easier if he’d just stepped away from Leon.

 Yet Jack hadn’t done that. Instead, he moved slowly, cautiously, as if he wanted Leon’s hands to remain on him.

 Something deep inside Leon cracked, making him still his breath in an attempt to hold back tears.

 “How can I leave?” he asked, though, not expecting the answer. “How can I keep pretending that we—we’re not a thing?”

 “Then don’t,” Jack said bluntly as he opened the carton and poured some milk into the mug. “You’re mine. And I have never wanted you to leave.”

 Leon startled at the statement, which sounded so … simple. So possessive and certain, as if Jack, too, had no one else to warm his bed. Leon should have thought better, it seemed. Should have done what, simply taken what had been offered to him?

 “You mean, I shouldn’t have left before the sunrise?”

 Before Jack’s alarm clock, sometimes without any sleep, sometimes after not more than a short nap, every time being ghostly silent and sneaking away.

 Of course, Jack had always been aware of this, only pretending to be asleep. Never had he stopped Leon, though, and never mentioned this.

 Why hadn’t he? Had he really wanted Leon to stay…?

 “No.” Jack turned around without even breaking Leon’s embrace. “Shouldn’t have left at all. One sweet trash, as requested. Take it.”

 He shoved the mug to Leon and, only after Leon took it, pushed him away, pointing him back to the table. Then he longingly looked at the pack of cigarettes, but instead of going for another smoke just folded his arms over his chest. Leon slowly released a breath as he gingerly seated himself, finding himself not in the mood to keep aggravating his wounds anymore. Then he sipped on the hot, sweet liquid, milky and disgusting; it immediately reminded him of the worst part of their rations back in the boot camp days: dairy shake.

 Jack used to be the only person who never seemed to mind that infamous stuff.

 Another sip made Leon smile faintly and change his mind: the taste wasn’t bad at all. Even with the reminder, or maybe because of it, this taste was so incredibly, unmistakably Jack’s that Leon just couldn’t help but to enjoy.

 This was the taste of his time at the boot camp, full of pining after his Major, doing everything Leon could to impress him, and then some more. This was the taste of Jack’s post-Javier recovery, painful and full of despair. This was the taste of Jack’s death in a car crash and then his miraculous returning to life. It was Leon’s safe haven, Leon’s … everything!

 “I fucking love you, Jack,” he said, stressing out the name, and it felt like a load off his mind. Jack sucked in a sharp breath, but stayed silent, and Leon was too weak to dare look at him. “Since … I don’t know? The first glance?”

 “You asking me?” Jack snorted and rolled his shoulders back.

 Something changed in his posture. Something subtle, and Leon had to look up to recognize it: almost all the tension that had been gathered in his body now seemed to have seeped away.

 “No,” Leon said. “Trying to remember. Yeah … that was the very first day. I stood there in the formation and wanted you to be proud of me.”

 Jack leant against the counter, watching him in a predatory way: his head tilted to the side, his eyes narrowed to slits.

 “That’s hardly love,” he said.

 Leon shrugged. Took a long drink.

 “It escalated real soon,” he admitted, the coffee somehow becoming liquid courage for him. “You taught me, looked after me … your presence even kept my nightmares at bay. Used to have them every night, you know? Unless it was training after hours with you.”

 Leon took one more sip, needing more of that courage: sickly sweet, lingering on his tongue, filling up his lungs with fresh air.

 “Then…” he said, trying to form the visions of their past into words, “one day…”

 It was one of their knife fights, late at night—quite far after hours, to be precise, it was almost midnight. It’s just … they had never been able to simply stop, to calm down and decide: it’s enough. Leon was trembling with exhaustion, their training was going to be over because of that, yet it was too soon, always too soon! Jack pinned him to the floor one last time, looking already quite tired himself, his strong demeanor having slipped, for once. He planted himself on Leon’s thighs, his body hot and heavy, his knife at Leon’s throat, his fingers crushing Leon's right wrist in an iron grip. A drop of sweat from his brow fell straight down to Leon’s lips, and Leon licked it off instinctively—and that was it. The sudden, mind-blowing realization.

 He desperately wanted his Major’s lips on his.

 “I wanted to kiss you,” Leon said. “Remember that session at midnight? You were sitting on me, and I thought—I was so afraid I’d get hard. Or that I’d pull you down for a kiss.”

 “Should have done that,” Jack muttered under his breath. “I was fucking starving.”

 He didn’t mention that Leon had gotten hard.

 That Jack had obviously noticed it, being seated right on top of that hard-on, but hadn’t uttered a word.

 That a week later, during their next FTX, they had shared a tent and finally fucked.

 “Well, I did,” Leon chuckled mirthlessly. “About a year later. After Javier.”

 “A year and a half. And I left.”

 “And you left.”

 There was silence after that, thick and heavy. Leon closed his eyes again, sipping carefully on his coffee, wishing the mug had been bottomless. He wanted to kiss Jack again, wanted to pull him back in bed and make up for his previous selfish behavior. Jack’s voice echoing in his head on repeat.

 I never wanted you to leave. Shouldn’t have left at all.

 I was fucking starving.

 For … what? A kiss? Not the rough fuck, sloppy and greedy, all grabbing hands, pulling hair, pounding deep and hard, and making it hurt? For a kiss!?

 Like the one and a half that Jack had given him today!?

 Leon’s brain short-circuited at the thought. He tried to push it away: shook his head and rubbed his face hard. It was too much. This way of thinking was exactly the one that would break him, Leon knew that for sure. He had been avoiding it like the plague for a long time, after all.

 And yet … no, he couldn’t stop thinking.

 “What do you want?” Leon asked when the silence—when the looping scream in his thoughts (Jack has wanted this all along! You have failed him, broken him, poisoned him, Leon S. Kennedy, you stain everything you touch!)—when all this became unbearable. “I’ve taken so much. What can I give?”

 Jack leaned toward him and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. Traced its curve with a fingertip, then touched Leon’s jaw, his neck, lingered at the mole next to his Adam’s apple for a moment. Then slowly moved lower to brush over Leon’s clavicle, where there was a shallow, crusted cut. Jack’s fingers trembled when he touched there; they slid further, to Leon’s nape, to scrape at the scalp. Then, still slowly, Jack bent lower, his eyes searching … Leon stilled his breath and wet his suddenly parched lips.

 Their breath mingling, Leon could practically feel the taste … but then Jack suddenly swallowed with a visible effort and let him go.

 “Take a shower,” he said. “Then I’ll dress your wounds, so you can get some sleep.”

 Leon shook his head, disappointment pooling deep within. That was not the answer. That was an obvious, logical need. That felt like another permission. Another moment of Leon imposing and taking from Jack.

 “Only if you let me dress yours.”

 Jack smiled at him, with just the corners of his mouth, but, what’s more important, with his eyes.

 “Deal,” he said, his burnt hand fleetingly resting on Leon’s shoulder, the one with the old gunshot wound.

 That was … good enough?

 No.

 There should have been something else.

 “What do you want, Jack?”

 Jack’s eye twitched. He slowly stepped away, took Leon’s empty mug and turned away to rinse it at the sink.

 “You,” he said after a long moment of hesitation. “Tomorrow morning. Waking up in my bed.”

Chapter Text

Tuesday, October 24^th, 2006

Night

 The wind was wailing outside, sluicing cold water against the window, hailstones rattling at the sill like a machine gun. Leon shivered, feeling the cold creeping into his body, his feet numb, his fingers stiff and weak. A strong hand squeezed his throat, cutting off air, almost crushing Leon’s windpipe in its iron grip. He was pinned down, face first in the fresh sheets smelling of laundry detergent, a heavy body on top of him, hot like a furnace, but all its heat unable to warm up Leon’s clammy skin. Hot breathing against his nape felt threatening, predatory, teeth scraping right behind Leon’s ear. A tongue licked along the side of his neck, leaving a wet trail, the grip on his throat tightening and unrelenting. His left ass cheek was grabbed and roughly pulled to the side, then there was a slide over his hole, slick and warm, and then a hard cock pushed in, bottoming out in one go.

 It hurt—God, it hurt! He hadn’t been prepared. He’d been too dry…

 Had he? There was a faint memory of thick fingers, taking their time, stretching him, pushing deep—

 The rock-hard cock slid out and immediately slammed back in, spearing Leon through, impaling him—a stifled whine died on Leon’s lips, his throat too constrained to let it out. He squeezed his eyes shut, shivering with cold, feeling dizzy because of the lack of air, white spots creeping into the darkness under his eyelids, the flowery smell of fabric softener filling his lungs when his throat was rele— Thunder rumbled outside, exploded, hands of his fellow officers were slapping the window glass, dead, they all dead—it smelled of smoke and gun oil, and lavender—no, it was the smell of rotten blood, his throat was being crushed, there was no air, no air, the taste of blood salty and metallic on Leon’s tongue.

 It hurt!

 I’ve asked for this.

 They came for him. They were banging at the window, trying to break in.

 Leon was sure that he’d asked for this, to be pinned and choked, stretched and pounded hard. It was all familiar, controlled and safe. The body above him was making soft grunts, each sound vibrating through Leon’s chest, soothing and—scrambling against his spine, insect legs of the Plaga, eating its way through him. The lights from outside flickered with a flash of lightning, thunder rumbled, roared above Leon’s head, heavy hailstones drumming at the roof, the woody smell of tobacco melting into burning wood, and Leon was again trapped in the barn, Chief Mendez clawing his way through the crushing beams, scorching flames blazing high all over the place, devouring it yet never touching his cold, clammy skin. Leon was stuffed full, shivering and sweating, keening into the pillow, the cock deep inside him ploughing mercilessly, hitting his prostate again and again; he was allowed to breathe in and then choked again, a steady, soothing presence of someone watching his pulse. The thrusts were bruising but slow, too slow, Leon tried to arch and meet them, to lift his ass higher, to speed things up, his cock hard and leaking between his legs, lube squelching—his sore, dry hole clenching hard, tender skin abrased raw and torn.

 A blunt nail scraped over a tiny old scar on the right side of Leon’s neck, the very spot where the syringe pierced it two years ago. The weight pinning him down was too much, his shoulders were numb, the left one throbbing with dull pain. His heart hammered against the ribcage, his pulse quickening with terror, becoming erratic, darkness tightening around him, narrowing the sight down to a keyhole, and then—

 Another flash of lightning. A sudden burst of wind. The lock on the old window frame cracked and gave, icy-cold droplets of rain showering over Leon and the man pinning him to the bed.

 —he was back in the RPD, face first on the cold floor, smelling zombie vomit and blood, a heavy body clawing its way into him. A Licker? No … no—the grip—the squeeze, the Tyrant must have finally found him and was going to kill him! Leon thrashed and screamed, distantly hearing only a long, trembling moan, the rain pounding his body hard, yet something shielding him from most of it, a wide hot palm gently brushing the water off him before going back to prop on the floor—on the bed? Yes, it sagged a bit—right next to him. Leon’s left shoulder was now pulsing with sharp, piercing pain, so he twisted and struggled, until he wriggled his arm free, only to reach out and grasp at the other man’s wrist for support … his fingers brushed over a scar, slid higher only to find another—more, so much more of them, the whole thick forearm rough and distorted, rippling with waves and waves of keloid tissue, completely inhuman and cold to the touch, and next moment—

 —it was dark and chilly around Leon, the barn had burned to the ground long ago, Mendez dead, Luis dead, the girl lost, and he had failed, failed, he was failing again, he was being devoured, the heavy weight on top of him, the creature’s skin covered with scratchy scales. Its tail, long and nimble, was wrapped tight around Leon’s neck, a huge appendage cracking him open from behind and tearing him apart. Liquid nitrogen droplets all over his body, burning it with frost, Leon thrashed and screamed his lungs out, his ears registering nothing but tiny whines. He struggled for breath, for freedom, his right arm nerveless and numb, his left one shaking with wild tremors, his bad shoulder screaming in pain as Leon tried to use this arm for support but failed, his fingers still clawing at the creature’s arm, helplessly scratching the weirdly soft scales. The room was crumbling in chipped fragments, a bedpost turning into an empty fire extinguisher, a pillow melting into debris, his backup chopper had been shot, the pilot dead, and this was also his fault, his fault. There was a hiss of air under pressure, the smell of acid filling Leon’s lungs with lavender and musk, piercing them through, freeing the space for the Plaga still scrambling deep within. The hay-like smell of tobacco was making Leon’s eyes sting with unshed tears: he was safe here, because the barn had burned and crumbled all over him, and the grip on his throat had loosened for a second, letting Leon breathe before choking him again, the explosives were set and ready to go off, Sherry screaming in his head, transforming into Ashley raising Leon’s own gun at his face. The trigger clicked, the gun empty, because all the bullets had already pierced his chest. Leon twisted and turned, and managed to claw at the Verdugo’s scaly tail—

 —at the hand. Warm and familiar, a scar between the thumb and the index finger, a wide wrist with a prominent bone, skin covered with soft hair, blond and almost invisible.

 A hiss when Leon’s fingers brushed over a slightly warmer patch of smooth skin … that voice he also knew.

 Jack.

 Not a monster.

 He was with Jack.

 Leon shuddered into reality, as Jack thrust deeper, hitting at his prostate at the perfect angle, his hand on Leon’s throat steady and grounding, applying firm but controlled squeeze. Yet the moment of comfort was fleeting as Leon remembered that Jack was dead, he’d died in Latin America four years ago, skewered by Hilda Hidalgo’s bone. He bled out in Leon’s arms right there on the cold, dirty floor, his shoulder—no, his neck wound being impossible to close. The next thrust didn’t bring Leon pleasure, only pain: something spasmed deep within, chilling dread pooled low in his stomach and then popped like a pierced balloon, and spilled, and washed all over him in a wave of uncontrollable terror. Leon’s vision blurred again, white and colorful spots dancing in front of his eyes, his head a kaleidoscope filled with broken fragments. Jack shouting at the morning formation, Jack lunging at him with a knife, Jack straddling his lap, biting at his throat, Jack pounding him deep, making him choke on a thick leaking cock, Jack, always Jack—

 Help me, Jack!

 Jack, stop. Please, stop hurting me, Jack!

 Leon was in the jungle again, face first in the soft soil, the stink of lavend— rotten leaves clogging his lungs. Cold blood showering over him, mixed with tropical rain, thunder rumbling above, their tent ripped and lost. Jack was dead yet still driving into Leon, his bloody hand clawing at Leon’s neck, his eyes dead, empty, unseeing, he’d bled out long ago and was still bleeding, his skin still burning with fever-heat. They’d lost Manuela, their men were dead, too, all eighteen of them, Jack had sworn to get back and collect their dog-tags, yet there was no more Jack, he was dead, too, and it was Leon’s fault, Leon’s responsibility, the nineteenth set of tags to collect. The dead corpse was fucking him, growling in his ear, aiming for a bite, and Leon got limp, unwilling to deny Jack anything. A chunk of his flesh, his blood, his whole life. Jack died in that mansion, and his ghost killed Leon later in Spain, it was limbo then, now, or maybe he was still Plaga-infected and dreaming in a lab. The smell of rot and gasoline was too much, Leon’s chest hurt, he just wanted to breathe and cry…

 No, stop. Jack, stop, please, Jack…!

 It never worked, never. Leon himself had asked Jack not to listen and not to stop. He could beg all he wanted, it would never stop, Leon was going to die here, his heart skipping a beat and giving up, stuttering into momentary silence. Choking on a breath, he dry-heaved, being at the brink of throwing up—

 His mind scrambled frantically for something that could stop it, stop it right now! It hurt, Leon was not himself, he was not here—where? Was it Spain? Was it the jungle? Was it the zombie-plagued RPD?

 Rockville. Jack’s place. Hailstorm late at night.

 Give me a safeword, Jack’s voice ordered in Leon’s head.

 Something flashed in Leon’s mind, something familiar, something painful. His brain hurried to push it away, but Leon struggled to catch up, clinging to the evading thought with the miserable remnants of his fading willpower, somehow knowing it would help.

 “Ra—” he tried, but his throat was too tight, he gagged around the unformed word, the putrid taste of bile stinging at the root of his tongue. Dead hands were slapping at the window, RPD was caught in a thunderstorm, and Leon was back there again, he was in— “Raccoon…”

 The word came out raspy and not louder than a whisper. It was unlikely that Leon would be heard. Pointless, all was pointless, he was lost, he would die here, his breath coming out in short gasps, his heart pounding, and Jack—

 Jack froze above him. Then, less than a second later, his weight disappeared, and so did his hand that was still wrapped around Leon’s throat. He pulled out, slowly and cautiously, trying to smooth the drag with steady, light pressure at the rim of Leon’s painfully clenched hole. As soon as he was released, Leon curled in tight with a whine, his limbs shaking violently, the room still fractured and bleeding into the creepy mixture of other places from his past.

 “Leon?” Jack shifted, moving further away and giving him more space. “You with me?”

 Leon whined and dry-heaved again, because something was trying to burst out of his chest, probably a scream that he had been unable to wring out for so long. It hurt so much that he wanted to crack his chest open to get at least a sliver of relief, to lessen the pressure threatening to break him from inside. He had no words to answer Jack. Coiled like a spring and shaking, he even had no more air to breathe, his vision slowly darkening and tunneling again, getting ragged at the edges like fabric being torn away piece by piece.

 “Okay,” Jack’s voice dropped, became calm and perfectly even with the next shift of his weight. “You’re safe, Leon. I stopped. You asked, and I stopped, you’re safe.”

 Did he?

 Did Leon ask?

 He did.

 And Jack … stopped.

 “It is October 24^th, 2006,” Jack said in a clear, deliberate manner, his voice washing over Leon as a soothing wave. “You are in my house in Rockville, MD. I am Jack Krauser, a Sergeant with the Rockville police department. You are Leon S. Kennedy, a STRATCOM Agent. We are together. You used the safeword that you gave me. I stopped. You are safe with me.”

 The words, the dry data chunks, listed out in this calm voice, they were seeping slowly through the high-pitched ringing in Leon’s ear, through the drum of blood pounding in his head. The date, the place, his name, Jack’s name, a simple statement playing in Leon’s ears on repeat.

 Jack’s voice.

 Jack’s body heat.

 So close and so far at the same time. Was he still alive? Were they still alive?

 Leon tried to push up, to sit, to look around, but the tremors in his body were too strong, and he felt too weak. Jack shifted again, further from Leon: he stood up, he disappeared, and Leon couldn’t, just couldn’t stand it, he—

 The window creaked, cutting off the rain. Something flopped on the sill, and Leon’s body jerked in a violent flinch. Everything went black for a moment as if he got shot, a whine stuck in his throat as he still couldn’t breathe at all, he was alone, the nightmare wasn’t over yet, Jack wasn’t here, he’d died, they both—

 “I am with you,” Jack said, slowly sitting down next to him again, yet still not touching. “I closed the window. Leon, you are safe.”

 —here. They both were here and alive, and it was just too much for Leon. He opened his mouth and choked as the air rushed into his lungs, and then—

 It just exploded. Something snapped in Leon’s chest, and he finally, finally was able to scream, to let out a trembling, desperate wail, full of terror and relief at the same time. Almost immediately he was out of air again, then something snapped deep inside him once more, the floodgates broke, and Leon burst into heavy, wracking sobs.

 There was something in front of him, something pale in the lack of light, something emitting warmth … Leon couldn’t see what it was, because his vision was still blurred, his eyes full of tears streaming hotly down his cheek, down his nose and into his ear. He made one last leap of faith: his body felt like jelly but he pushed himself through the weakness and grabbed that pale thing—

 —a hand, that was a hand laid out for him, palm up and open. The hand, familiar and strong, a tiny scar between the thumb and the index finger—Jack’s hand.

 “You alive?” Leon gasped, his tongue feeling swollen and numb. “I’m—where—”

 “Rockville, MD. My home. Yes, I’m alive.”

 Jack’s fingers shifted and squeezed Leon’s hand, gave him just the tiniest bit of pressure, and that was…

 Too much?

 No, it was perfect.

 And he needed more.

 Leon released a breath and crawled closer, his forehead bumping into a solid thigh. He dragged his knees even closer to his chest, wrapped around Jack’s sitting form as tight as he could, Jack’s body warmth finally seeping into him.

 “I’ve got you,” Jack assured. “I’m alive. I’m not leaving. You’re safe.”

 “And you stopped,” Leon whispered.

 “Of course, I did.”

 “And you’re alive.”

 “Yes, I am. Leon … can I touch you?”

 Technically, he already was. Leon gave him a tiny nod and tried to brace himself, expecting … what? A crushing embrace? His body tensed at the thought, yet his fears proved wrong as Jack only placed his free hand upon Leon’s shoulder and kept it there, unmoving. A steady, grounding presence, which made Leon’s shivers start fading away.

 “You’re here,” he whispered again. “And you stopped—you really stopped, right?”

 Before Jack was able to respond, Leon barked out a short, hysterical laugh. Yes. Yes, of course Jack did that. Why had Leon been doubting—why had Leon been forcing himself to—

 “You know—” there was another laugh trying to tear its way out, but Leon managed to stop it, his free hand in his hair, pulling hard, nails scraping his own scalp and drawing blood. He was so scared, he couldn’t utter a word anymore, he was just so scared—

 “Shh,” Jack said, even quieter than before. “Breathe with me, Leon. In … and out. On me.”

 Leon took in a breath, held it for a moment and slowly exhaled, following Jack’s lead. Once, twice … his heart settling down little by little, his fingers reluctantly unclenching, his arm weakly falling back to the bed. Jack’s hand still was on his shoulder, sharing its warmth, soaking Leon in it, Jack’s breathing slowly guiding him from the bottom of his terrors back to the surface.

 “’m with you,” Leon finally mumbled.

 “Good. Talk to me?”

 Leon nodded and nuzzled Jack’s naked thigh, brushing against the short hair covering it, inhaling the smell of Jack’s sweat and soap. Pine … it smelled of pine trees, and the lingering scent of his smokes … like a forest camp?

 Tiny packs of Lucky Strikes, carefully slipped into the side pocket of Jack’s tactical vest. Chocolate traded for coffee. Sharing a tent and body heat every night out in the field.

 That smelled like life.

 “You know,” Leon began once again, concentrating on his breathing laboriously. In and out. And once again in. “All those times before … I lied to you. When I said ‘stop’ … I meant it. Every time.”

 Jack sucked in a sharp breath, but kept silence, his thumb slowly rubbing circles into Leon’s skin. Both thumbs, actually, against Leon’s shoulder and hand. The touch was soothing, not hostile or accusing in the slightest, and having realized this, Leon swallowed a sob.

 “I lied to you, Jack,” he repeated weakly. “’m sorry. I … thought I needed to be hurt.”

 Jack made a little noise, an unrecognizable one that sounded like a hastily swallowed, choked sob. But then, as he spoke, his voice was still calm and reassuring, seeping with unexpected warmth.

 “You made me stop now. You did well. Can I touch you?”

 But … he already was!

 “Yes,” Leon whispered.

 “Good. You are shivering. Gonna put a blanket over you, is that okay?”

 It … was. Even being wrapped around Jack, Leon was too cold, all his body limp and exhausted, face sticky with drying tears, nose clogged with snot.

 “Yes.”

 “Good. Gonna remove my hand now to get the blanket. I’m not leaving. It’ll be back.”

 Leon nodded again, and only after that the warmth on his shoulder disappeared, leaving him empty, and cold, and—no, he wasn’t alone, Jack was still here, Jack was shifting, bending over him to reach out, his weight leaning heavily against Leon’s shoulder and back for a moment, the pressure both grounding and suffocating at the same time, and then there was a touch of soft fleece over Leon’s skin. Then Jack’s hand was back, the heel of the palm over the blanket, fingers curled underneath to touch bare skin.

 “You angry with me?” Leon asked.

 Jack hummed. His right thumb was still moving in those soft circles, stroking the back of Leon’s hand over and over again, Leon’s thumb still lying over his scar.

 “No.” It sounded sincere. “I’m … sad. But today you fixed it. You made me stop.”

 Leon made a noise, clung closer, just a bit. Something was scratching in his mind, something about Jack’s arm, the left one … but the hand on his shoulder was only a bit cooler than the other one, and everything felt fine, and Leon just had no energy to move and check what else could be wrong.

 Later.

 Not when he was finally able to talk.

 “I wanted it to stop,” he whispered, trying to nuzzle at Jack’s thigh a little more, the fluffy hair slightly ticklish and soothing, and a bit wet … with Leon’s tears? Or was it Jack’s sweat? Leon wished he could smell it, but his nose was too clogged for that. “I—you—I knew you wouldn’t. I made you. I needed—remembered—”

 “Your safeword.”

 “Yes. Thanks.”

 “Always. Want to reinstall ‘stop’ as ‘stop’?”

 Leon…

 “Yes.”

 …wanted it.

 “Next time I will. Stop means stop.”

Chapter Text

Tuesday, October 24^th, 2006

Late Night

When Leon sluggishly opened his eyes, he was freezing. His head was throbbing with unpleasant, dull pain, his body limp with exhaustion, and he felt terribly thirsty.

The bed he was lying in was empty, as usual, and Leon heaved a sigh as he buried his face deeper in the pillow, trying to decide if he was cold enough to drag himself out of bed and turn up the heat … who the hell had set the AC so low after all? He’d file a complaint in the morning at the reception, just so they know better than to sneak in on him and change the settings.

Wait. No one could sneak on Leon without him waking up.

And he was really freezing, being wrapped only in a fluffy fleece blanket, smelling familiarly of cigarettes and lavender.

And sex. The pillow and the crumpled sheets were reeking of sex.

And he was naked under the blanket … no, more than that: as Leon slowly put his hand under the pillow, he found the space empty. No gun. No knife, nothing. That was even worse than being naked: alone and vulnerable … where was he again…?

Lavender fabric softener. Woody-hay smoke with just a hint of chocolate that was not only lingering on the bedsheets, but also crawling into the room through the open door. And Leon wasn’t vulnerable, either, for there must have been a gun and at least one knife in the top drawer of the nightstand, along with quite a lot of spare ammo, lube, some tissues, and whatever else. As this thought sank into his mind, Leon sat up abruptly and groaned, instantly regretting it. The dull throbbing in his head intensified, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to stop seeing white dots fogging his sight. The smell of cigarettes was mixing with the steady drum of raindrops over the roof, but despite Leon’s dislike of both, his head felt clear enough to recognize where he was even without opening his eyes.

At Jack’s place. After … well, after one of the worst nightmares he’d ever experienced.

Jack wasn’t in the room, but it was dark, and Leon felt too groggy to assume that he’d managed more than an hour of sleep. What day was it again? A weekend? No … had to be a weekday, but it was still way too early for Jack’s morning alarm.

Something was wrong. Jack had never been the one to deny himself sleep without a weighty reason.

With another groan, Leon slid to the edge of the bed and put his feet on the cold floor, curling his toes with displeasure and absentmindedly wishing he’d had a pair of socks. He had to wait for the dizziness to subside first before he gingerly stood up, the blanket wrapped tight around his naked form.

The kitchen was dark, the window was open, its sash all the way up, and Leon shuddered as a gush of wind sluiced what looked like a generous bucketful of rainwater inside. Jack, slumped on the floor right under the windowsill and also naked as the day he was born, hadn’t flinched at this unexpected shower, hadn’t moved at all, only raised his head a little to cast Leon a glance.

An empty one. Distant. As if he was looking far away through Leon.

“Go back to bed,” he said in a flat voice after a moment of awkward silence. “It’s raining.”

Barefoot and now freezing even more as he had to step on the ice-cold tiles of the kitchen floor, Leon shambled to the sink, found a clean glass in the cupboard above, and filled it with tap water. Despite sending fresh chills all over Leon’s body, it tasted delicious, and after downing it in several big gulps, Leon woke up a bit more. At least, he finally noticed the scratchy pull of salt crystals that had collected in the corners of his eyes. The mess between Leon’s legs had disappeared while he was asleep, but there still lingered the thinnest layer of dried sweat all over his body, and his face felt tight and sticky after all the tears he’d spilled. Unable to stand it, Leon opened the tap once more to refill the glass and splash a few handfuls of water over his scruffy skin.

It helped. Not only with the salt crystals, but also with his headache as well. A little. It was still throbbing deep behind his eyes, making his skull ache, but it was at least bearable enough now to be more aware of the surroundings.

All the surroundings. Including the fucking rain outside.

“I was cold,” Leon complained at last, sipping on his water again and eyeing the storm outside with disgust. “Couldn’t sleep. So what that it’s raining?”

Not that there were any zombies in the neighborhood. At least Leon’s state of mind was good enough to remember that.

Jack shrugged. Flipped the ash, straight into the half-full ashtray sitting in front of him on the floor, his aim precise as always. He was sitting hunched over, his elbows propped on his wide-spread knees, the scars covering his left arm dark and prominent in the dim light from the outside. They were almost black against the delicate whiteness of the skin, foreign and alien, and Leon’s stomach churned at the sight.

It had been his fault. He’d been not fast enough back there in the jungle. He’d been not persuasive enough afterward. He’d let Jack go, he’d lost Jack, and if not for that lucky chance in Spain—if not for the BSAA’s help with the cure—

Personal connections were a good thing after all, huh? Save one sibling’s life, reach out for another … ask them for a huge favor six years later. So, even the Raccoon City incident had had its silver lining after all.

Still, this all was Leon’s fault.

Thinking about that, Leon’s headache returned with the full force of a freight train, and he winced, rubbing at his temple with cold fingertips.

The rain was now hitting Jack’s head and bare shoulders so mercilessly that Leon gave a shiver just looking at him. The wind was howling in the trees, making them creak and groan, so similar to all the mindless moaning of the infected Leon had ever heard in his life and had no hope to never hear again. Another day at the office, right? Another day in the field.

The embers glowed in the darkness. Jack held the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds, as he watched Leon without blinking, and Leon could bet that his eyes reflected whatever weak light there was in a cat-like way, flickering with red. Then, after a long, deadly silent pause, Jack exhaled the smoke toward Leon.

Something he’d never done since the moment Leon had told him how much he hated it. It had been years and years of him always releasing the smoke to the side.

A small favor from his Major. Something that didn’t cost him anything but at the same time literally screamed that he cared.

And now…

“You might relapse again,” Jack said emotionlessly. “We can’t afford it, can we?”

Oh.

Leon sipped on the water one more time, trying to gather his thoughts. His brain refused to work this late at night, especially after all that had happened and without the dire necessity to run and fight for his life that usually kept him functioning in the field. Yet something felt utterly rotten and wrong. Something Leon couldn’t truly stick his finger in.

He could taste it, though. Couldn’t word it, but it tasted acrid right on his tongue.

“What’s wrong?” he tried.

“Nothing.”

That was a lie, if Leon had ever heard one. Was it anything that he’d done? Was it Jack’s own nightmare? Everything was alright, Leon had even managed to use the safeword, after all.

Oh, wait.

Damn.

What was it that he’d told Jack again…?

Jack finished what was left of his cigarette and crushed the ember against his own thumb with a sizzle that pierced Leon’s ears and almost made him flinch. Jack seemed not to even notice the burn as he dropped the smothered butt into the ashtray. Still silently, he reached out for the pack and with a sharp tap loosed another cigarette, the previous pack lying empty and crumpled next to Jack’s bare foot on the floor. The lighter flipped in his fingers, making Leon groggily blink, then clicked; Jack inhaled deeply and held his breath.

The embers were glowing like the eyes of the infected, winking and mocking, all but screaming at Leon: failure, failure, you're a failure.

He was.

I lied to you, Jack. I thought I needed to be hurt.

He didn’t.

I have my honor, Kennedy. Your actions stripped me of it.

What had he done?

“Gonna close that window,” Leon said as he put his half-empty glass down on the counter with a low knock. “I’m freezing.”

“I’m smoking,” Jack grumbled in response.

Once again, he blew out the smoke, aiming it straight at Leon’s face, which made him wince. Rolling his jaw, Leon stepped right through the stinky cloud and stopped between Jack’s spread knees, having barely managed not to slip on the wet floor and step into the ashtray. His leg bumped slightly against Jack’s shoulder, its skin cold and damp because of the rain. The moment Leon touched him, Jack let out a short, raspy breath and flinched, trying to move away. Leon had to hold him against the wall with his own knees, at the same time pulling down the window sash with a grating, unpleasant screech.

“You know, these things will kill you,” he said.

The rain could get him first, though: Jack’s skin was so cold to the touch, covered with droplets of water. He needed a towel, and a hot bath; after all, there was only so much a human body could stand. However, Leon’s muscles felt like overstretched rubber bands, and he had to lean against the window sill so as not to slip exhaustedly on the floor.

Maybe, though, the idea of sitting down was not so bad. Leon felt like that pile of ash in the tray: used, discarded, and burnt … no, no, he ought to try to rewire his brain, he’d already hurt Jack enough with this mindset by now.

Jack snorted and shifted to take another pull of his cigarette, but Leon caught his wrist first. Blinked a few times to focus his sight and shoo the dancing white dots away.

“So what?” Jack said dryly, not looking Leon in the eyes. “Living off borrowed time anyway.”

What did he mean? He was all healed and safe, stronger than before, despite the Plaga in his body being dead. Its remnants allowed Jack to keep some of those enhanced reflexes and strength, and he was free to do what he wanted … unlike Leon, who was and would always be on the tight governmental leash. This difference, though, it was not only good, it was truly great! Jack had this quiet life, helped people at work, he was everything that Leon himself had ever wanted to be. So, having lost everything, Leon was truly happy to see Jack having all this in his stead.

His safe haven. The place and the man that were worth fighting for and returning to at all cost.

“No,” Leon assured. “You’re safe here. You have all the time in the world.”

Jack barked out a short, mirthless laugh, but said nothing. Leon slowly lowered himself into a crouch next to him, trying not to disturb his own pounding head too much. There still was that deep, burning pain in his weakened legs, and he felt dizzy again, the kitchen slowly spinning like a merry-go-round … but it was okay, Leon could deal with that.

The blanket, still wrapped around him, slipped open, Leon’s knee touched Jack’s inner thigh, the fluffy hair there also damp and visible even in this lack of light. Slowly, carefully, Leon slid his palm over Jack’s left shoulder, all the way down to the elbow where warm, soft skin got scarred and then turned into keloid tissue that felt more like tree-bark. Cold, almost dead to the touch. No surprise that it had triggered some of Leon’s visions earlier today, despite that being unfair. That was still Jack, his Jack, and the arm changed nothing. Just one more scar, simply more noticeable than all others.

Knowing that Jack could still register the touch on this arm, Leon stroked it with care, feeling it from the elbow down to the wrist. There was a long protuberance under the “skin” along the whole forearm, the side of the bone that had been cut in order to remove the mutated blade. Leon didn’t want to think about it much, he knew it still hurt at bad weather, that it was the reason for Jack to always have those strong painkillers within his reach.

Everything else was alright, wasn’t it? They both had been used to pain. It was alright. It was! It had to be!

“All the time in the world,” he repeated, looking Jack in the eyes … huh, definitely glowing red in the dark, Leon hadn’t just been seeing things. “And you have me.”

Jack shuddered as he lowered his head, his skin so cold and wet because of the rain, his hair disheveled, water dripping off it on the floor. Leon pulled the blanket from his own shoulders and wrapped it around Jack, suppressing the shiver that immediately rolled over his body. Made sure to tuck the blanket around Jack and secure it in place. Then leaned in and brushed against Jack’s temple with his lips.

The cigarette fell from Jack’s fingers, and Leon had to twist around to pick it up and smother it in the ashtray. The chill seeping deeper into him, making his bones ache, and most of all he wanted to just crawl back into bed together with Jack and share the body heat.

It seemed that the bed would have to wait, though. The air in the kitchen was still too heavy and hostile, soaked with strange sadness … stinking of defeat.

Unable to hold himself, Leon put his hand back on Jack’s bad shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze.

“Gonna make you a coffee,” he said.

Jack’s eyes were empty and dark when he turned his head to look Leon in the face. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out, only a long exhale. Then he gave one single, almost unnoticeable nod.

“I’m here,” Leon whispered, still unable to release his grip, to stand up, belatedly realizing that he was doing exactly what Jack had done to him about an hour ago. “Right in front of you. Gonna stand up and make your sweet coffee. One syrup? Two?”

Jack let out a dark chuckle and shook his head. Finger by finger, Leon unclasped his grip and slowly raised himself. His steps were unsteady, his legs wobbly and uncooperative, but he managed it to the counter and breathed for a moment, leaning heavily against its edge. When the kitchen walls stopped careening around him, he let go of the counter and turned on the coffee machine.

The milk was in the fridge, as always, and the syrups were right behind the coffee machine, a full squad of bottles standing at attention in a perfect line: two brands of maple, a hazelnut, a vanilla, and a caramel. A porcelain sugar-bowl was right in front of them, looking like a tiny drill sergeant (or a Major, ready to call the roll), its lid slightly askew, a teaspoon shoved deep into the loose stuff.

“Will give you three,” Leon decided out loud as he filled Jack’s mug with coffee up to two thirds. It was a new mug, blue again, but this one was clear, no pictures on its side at all. “And five sugars. Might have to ask for a transfer to Diabetesville afterwards.”

Jack actually snorted at that, his eyes burning holes in Leon’s back.

Maple, vanilla and hazelnut that was. And five spoonfuls of sugar. (A Major. That sugar bowl was definitely a Major, colored yellow, pale enough to pass as blond if you squint, its lid being deep red, and Leon even set it back askew again, mimicking Jack’s old beret.) And milk all the way up to the edge of the mug. Leon’s teeth ached just looking at what he’d prepared, but this must have been the best treat for Jack he could offer.

Well, there was him as well … he could offer Jack something, say, to suck him off, or ride him, or do something else … but something was telling Leon that offering his body in that way now would be a grave mistake. Which meant, coffee would have to do.

“Here,” he said as he slowly got back to Jack, careful not to look at the window, his eyes glued to the mug only. His hands shaking noticeably, Leon had to pay extra attention to the coffee so as not to spill it all over the floor. “Your ticket to DPD. Don’t worry, I’ll commit some crime there so that you could keep me in jail.”

Jack heaved a sigh, then slowly closed his eyes and accepted the mug.

“Your espresso is crime enough,” he muttered as he raised the mug to his lips and took a small sip, the tension slowly leaving him and making him slump a bit more.

Leon chuckled as he slid down the wall, too, and gingerly eased himself to the floor next to Jack. The tiles were cold and wet, and his poor ass definitely disapproved being seated on them, but Jack was right here, and Leon bumped shoulders with him, and leaned against him with a sigh of content.

He could bear the cold for some time. He ought to.

“It’s triplo. Not a simple espresso.”

“Whatever. Rocket fuel anyway.”

Leon chuckled again and put his head on Jack fleece-covered shoulder, his lower back protesting and slowly getting numb, but the long, trembling breath that Jack let out was totally worth the discomfort.

“Want the fourth syrup to sweeten your pill?”

Jack shook his head, tiny drops of water flipping against Leon’s forehead.

“No.” A sip. A moment of hesitation. “Stay.”

So, Leon stayed, allowing himself to relax and slump against Jack a little. His eyes closed, he listened to Jack’s slow breathing and quiet slurps, then, after some time, drowsily reached out and found Jack’s arm. That was his scarred one again, and at first Leon took his time stroking the warm skin of Jack’s outer hand; then he moved up to the wrist where the skin began rippling and twisting into mutated flesh.

“’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I … was not myself.”

He pressed his thumb against one of the most prominent bumps of that bark-like tissue to hint at what he was talking about. The fact that this arm made him slip deeper into the nightmare. The fact that he got scared of Jack.

“Recognized you at some point,” Leon said blearily, his head feeling heavier and heavier, his thoughts getting all foggy with impending sleep. “But … kept seeing things … thought you were dead.”

Jack sucked in a breath, and his next gulp of coffee was forced and more audible. Leon squeezed Jack’s arm a bit tighter, then sluggishly turned his head and nuzzled against Jack’s stubbled jaw.

“I’m not—” Jack croaked, his voice tailing off.

“I know,” Leon whispered, breathing in Jack’s scent: coffee and smoke, and wet hair, soaked with rain. The smell was so familiar, grounding … soothing. “I know. You led me out. I’ll … you’re with me. Gonna remember.”

He would try. Things had to change. His latest moments of dissociation had been too strong, and Leon wasn’t sure he would manage to endure them further. Things had to be stopped. Leon wanted…

“It hurt too much,” Leon stifled a whine at the memory, so raw that it made him shudder. “Need to stop it. Was too much—I wanna … I need to…”

Words eluded him, and he huffed in exasperation. Then sagged lower against Jack, his head bowing down, almost sliding off Jack’s shoulder, his thumb barely keeping the slow strokes, over and over that keloid bump.

“Wanna stay myself,” he managed after quite a long pause, during which Jack seemed not to breathe at all. “With you.”

After that, Jack finally let out a long breath, then shifted and hunched a bit more, angling his shoulder so that Leon’s head wouldn’t really slip off. Leon cracked open one eye to see that Jack was clutching his mug with both hands, staring into its depths as if the slowly cooling coffee held all the answers in the world.

“I failed you,” Jack said after another long moment of silence in a hollow, flat voice. “Wasn’t the deal—meant to support you, not break you more. Not … like that . I didn’t know it went so far.”

Creeps crawled up Leon’s spine at that defeated tone. Jack should never sound like that! And what was he talking about?

“What deal? You didn’t break me, Jack.”

I did it myself.

Jack’s cheek twitched, and he took another reluctant sip. The coffee seemed to help him, as his shoulders relaxed a tiny bit more. Blinking wearily as he was trying to stay awake, Leon squeezed his arm again, then began slowly stroking it from wrist to elbow and back. His ass and lower back were already numb with cold, and he would bet anything that Jack was freezing even more, having sat here for such a long time. They needed to move. They both needed to warm up.

That hot bath he had thought about before. Taken together. Yes, that would be the best for them both.

“No, I did,” Jack said, his voice thick with regret. “I have done. Many times … That’s even worse than rape.”

Was that eating Jack from within so much? Leon worried his lower lip with his teeth, then shifted and forced himself to rise on his knees with a groan. His body felt stiff and cold, his legs trembling with effort needed to stay upright, his head was still spinning and pounding with pain … and Jack was so pale, and his eyes were really glowing red…

That felt like more than what the remnants of a dead Plaga could give him. As if it was still alive. As if Jack was still trapped, possessed … being eaten alive—no, no, Leon didn’t want to think of that, he couldn’t, it terrified him, the rain outside was still too strong, and the sudden rumble of thunder made Leon jerk, weary sleepiness turning into fear, threatening to cloud his mind—

No—!

No more slipping! He was not on a mission. He was safe, he was in Jack’s home, in Jack’s kitchen.

With Jack.

Nothing mattered but Jack. No thunderstorm, no memories, no Plaga. It was dead, dead, Jack was cured!

He wasn’t.

He is! It’s dead! He’s himself, I did it, I did it, Rebecca healed him, it’s alright, it’s alright—

“That was all me,” Leon hurried to say, clinging to the reality with all the shreds of strength that he still had. He refused to let it slip once again so soon … no, refused to let it slip at all. He needed to find the words … right words. “Jack, listen to me. It was my choice. I made you give me your word. You honored my wish. You’ve been true to your word.”

Could he call it self-rape? Because Jack wasn’t to blame, had never been. It was Leon who had wanted it to hurt and had arranged it that way.

Not anymore.

Stop meant stop.

Jack worked his jaw, looking Leon in the eyes, searching for something. The glow of his irises was disturbing, a cold, slithering doubt worming its way into Leon’s mind, something he consciously decided to push away and forget. At least for now. At least for some time. It was still Jack, and nothing would change this simple fact.

“You led me out,” Leon repeated firmly instead. “You helped me. I’m sorry. It was my fault.”

Everything had always been his fault. Yet maybe some things could still be salvaged and made right.

“Gonna try,” he promised again. “Gonna remember.”

Jack swallowed with an effort and looked away, his hands shaking and seemingly losing strength. Leon had to catch the almost-empty mug so as not to let it fall; he took it from Jack and set aside, then pushed the ashtray away and sluggishly crawled to take its place between Jack’s knees.

“What can I do?” he asked, desperately wanting Jack to say something … anything! Anything to break this pained silence, full of Jack’s palpable guilt. “It’s cold … want a bath?”

If he managed to walk to the bathroom to pour it, of course. Leon suspected that he might not make it but was ready to try.

Jack let out a long exhale through his nose, his lower lip caught between his teeth in reluctance. Then, having opened the blanket, he pulled Leon closer, enveloping him with his arms and legs, and wrapped the blanket around them both.

Leon shifted a little to crawl even closer, the floor slippery wet and unpleasant under his knees. Even tucked in a blanket, Jack was so cold … so unlike his usual furnace-like self. On top of that, he was also shivering, his teeth clattering low, his left hand as cold now as his mutated, “dead” forearm. And Leon didn’t feel warm enough to share his own heat with Jack…

What could he do?

“Kiss me,” Jack asked, so quietly that Leon almost missed the words.

Oh … right!

How could Leon not think about it himself…!?

His lips met Jack’s: wet and sweet, tasting like coffee mixed with smoke. So familiar and right, Leon didn’t want to change anything in that taste. Didn’t want the kiss to end...

He’d known such kisses would break him.

He’d never thought they could mend him back.

His limbs heavy and almost useless, Leon still managed to cradle Jack’s jaw with one hand, stroking Jack’s stubble with his thumb. He usually liked these moments of evening unkemptness, but now … now it only made his heart ache. Seeing Jack so disheveled, it felt so wrong.

All Leon could do now was to be there and let their lips touch, sharing their breath and taste. It was far from enough, but Leon just had no strength for more.

Yet he craved that “more”. He wanted to give Jack more kisses, wanted to tilt Jack’s head back and cover these cold, wet lips with pecks and nips. They were so soft, so tender … so unlike Jack’s harsh exterior.

He’d always been soft deep, deep inside after all.

Had he wanted to be gentle to Leon? For how long?

That was a question for the future Leon, since now it wasn’t the right time for anything more than this kiss. Even if any of them had had enough energy to try. Jack was slowly relaxing into Leon’s touch, releasing wet, trembling noises that made Leon shift, cup Jack’s head with both hands and begin stroking his cheeks and temples with his thumbs, catching tiny drops of what definitely was not the rain.

“I’m here,” he whispered against Jack’s lips, his own headache slowly subsiding, dissolving into dull throbs. “Jack, I’m here, I’m with you, I’m...”

“Yourself?” Jack asked, sounding as if he was in pain. “I hurt you...”

Leon made a noise of denial and kissed him again.

“You didn’t. It was all in my mind.”

Jack had been perfect for him, had prepared him well, had been in control all the time. Now, with his mind mostly clear, Leon was able to recover some fragments of what had really happened earlier this night: the pool of lube squelching in his ass, Jack’s fingers stretching him, making sure he was gaping open and ready—no, no, even more than that: Leon remembered that he’d been needy at first, had begged Jack to fuck him until he couldn’t breathe. Only when the rain started, had everything gone to shit.

It had always been the fucking rain.

Although, that was another thought for the future Leon.

“You took care of me,” he whispered instead. “So good … it was so good. You watched me all the time. I wanted to be yours … have always wanted to be yours, Jack.”

He had.

Always.

Since the first day in the boot camp.

“Still want it.” Jack flinched upon hearing these words, and Leon soothed him with another kiss, same tender and chaste, not more than a soft touch to the lips. “—no, not like that—not today. We’ll have time. We have all the time in the world.”

Did they?

Even if they didn’t, Leon would make sure they would. Whatever it would take.

“Wanna hold you,” Leon whispered, resting his forehead against Jack’s, as his exhaustion overpowered him again. “Like you always do. You catch some sleep, and I—”

Did he have to leave in the morning? No … no, luckily, as far as Leon could remember, there was nothing urgent. Hunnigan didn’t even have paperwork for him. He could—

“Not gonna leave,” he promised. “Will be right here. When you get back.”

It was a weekday, right? Jack had work, but Leon could wait. Would catch some more sleep, then maybe crawl outside to do some shopping … to cook something for Jack—something Italian—pasta would do. Leon still remembered that tiny fragment of his early childhood: his mother cooking and claiming that one special recipe to have been her family heritage. So yes, Leon could catch up on his sleep and then cook pasta for dinner with Jack.

Jack made another pained sound as he buried his face in the crook of Leon’s neck. Squeezed Leon so tight that it hurt, but almost immediately loosened his grip.

“Fuck work,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll call in sick.”

Oh…

Leon couldn’t hold a tiny smile at that, one filled with warmth mixed with slight worry, as he closed his eyes and let his hands tiredly fall, slide down to Jack’s chest to feel his steady heartbeat.

“Okay,” Leon said quietly. “Just… don’t get in trouble for me?”

Jack shook his head in response, his arms tightening again, his breath coming out in short, strained huffs. He was slowly warming up, it seemed, and his hair had dried some, now fluffy and ticklish against Leon’s nose, making him want to sneeze.

“For us,” Jack corrected. “’s alright.”

The tickle was too much, and Leon actually sneezed, having hidden his face on Jack’s fleece-covered shoulder. Then he sniffed and kissed Jack’s hair, then the curved edge of his ear, then his hair again. The blanket was damp and didn’t really help, they both were still shivering, Leon’s knees stiff from sitting on the cold tiled floor…

“So?” he quietly asked, trying to gather some strength. “A bath?”

Jack hummed against his neck as he slowly, reluctantly released Leon from his grip.

“You there with me?”

Leon chuckled and used Jack’s shoulders for support. It was hard to stand, the kitchen spinning around him again, but Jack’s hands on his thighs grounded him, steadied him until he could shake the vertigo off and take the first step.

“Sure,” Leon promised. “We both are freezing. Of course, I’ll be there with you.”