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Take Aim
PART I — “Don’t you feel alive?”
September 28th, 1998
The Silver Dove Bar
Reader
It’s not exactly the nicest bar in town.
It’s not even really in town; it’s tucked just off the highway between your hometown and Racoon City, in a small retail lot consisting of the bar, a medium-shitty motel, a clothing outlet, and a gas station.
So, yeah, it’s not the Ritz. There are better places to go in your hometown, despite the fact it’s relatively small and quiet. There’s a great place on the corner of Main St, where you’ve attended Karaoke Nights with your friends for the last three years. Which is exactly why you’re not there now, or anywhere near it—because you don’t want to see anyone you know.
Not now. Not tonight.
So here you are, sitting at the bar, nursing your third drink of the night when the bar door opens and a cool breeze brushes in across your toes. You shouldn’t have worn open-toed heels—it’s almost October, for God’s sake—but you had naively hoped that putting on a nice pair of shoes would make you feel better. Instead, you’ve just got literal cold feet and aching soles. At least your good pair of jeans are hugging you just right, your tank top tucked in and stacked with necklaces. It’s not all a bust.
Especially not when you look towards the now-closing door and see a guy walk in, all blonde hair flopping over his forehead and blue eyes so bright you can see them across the dimly lit bar. Leather jacket, jeans, boots, and a look on his face that you immediately recognise—because it undoubtedly matches your own.
The look of someone who’s here to drink and forget.
He slips what looks like a motel room keycard into his wallet, then pulls out his ID as he approaches the bar and orders.
“Uh, beer, please. With lime?” He slides into one of the barstools a few seats down from yours. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, pretending to be focused on swirling the straw of your cocktail around in its glass, but actually focusing on the curve of his biceps beneath his jacket.
The bartender produces a bottle of beer with a lime wedge shoved in the top. As the adorably cute guy starts absently nursing his drink, you finish your own, and gesture to the bartender for another. Which successfully gains the attention of the guy in question; he gives you a passing glance at first, as if merely looking to see who just raised their arm in his peripheral vision. But then, he does the most obvious double-take you’ve ever fucking seen; his eyes go wide when he looks back at you, checking you out from head to toe and back again, and suddenly, you’re glad you wore the nice shoes and painted your toenails.
He blushes when he realises he basically just gawked at you. If you were a more confident woman, or even just having a better day, perhaps you’d chuckle, slide into the seat next to him and say something flirty and suave. Playfully call him out about the way any social filter he may have has just failed him but you’re actually glad for it.
Instead, you just smile a little, feeling brave enough to let your eyes linger just a little too long for it to be considered purely friendly. But with that chance to look at him—well. He’s just getting cuter, to be honest, and it could be a problem. He looks around your age—must be twenty-one at least, although a fake ID isn’t out of the question—and there’s something about him, a kind, soft sort of warmth in his eyes. The way he’s obviously a little awkward is also endearing. You can relate to that. Hence why you’re sitting here desperately trying to think of a way to start a conversation, and coming up with nothing.
God, you didn’t even come here to hook up with someone, but who can blame a girl?
“Thanks,” you say to the bartender when he hands you another strawberry-flavoured cocktail. You can feel the handsome stranger’s eyes on you, can see his knee bouncing up and down in your periphery.
Before you can think any harder, he speaks first. “Drinking alone, or waiting for someone?”
You look at him, trying not to show how surprised you are. Shy, you smile, and lift your drink up as if that’s an answer. “Drink number three. If I’m meeting someone, I think I’ve been stood up.”
“Who would possibly stand you up?”
“It’s happened before,” you reply with a little laugh.
“You serious?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Those guys must’ve been out of their minds.”
You tilt your head a little. “You think?”
“Uh—yeah. I’d—I mean. I’d never stand you up. Not that I’m implying we’d…”
You bite your lip to unsuccessfully hold back your amused smile. Turning to face him a little, you meet his lovely blue eyes again, and ask, “What about you?”
“Have I been stood up?” He raises his eyebrows, points to himself. “Not tonight, but plenty of times.”
“Now who would possibly stand you up?” you echo him, grinning teasingly.
He laughs, and—God. God. “Okay, now you’re just stealing my lines.”
“It was a line, huh?”
For a second he hesitates, swallowing like he’s nervous, and you try really hard to resist watching the movement in his throat. “If…that’s okay, yeah.”
Jesus Christ. He’s like some adorable, earnest ray of sunshine who also simultaneously has an air of sadness about him. That was the first thing you noticed when he walked in (well, aside from the leather jacket doing bits for your attraction to him): that he had the same look in his eyes as you do. Maybe he has his reasons for coming here, too, reasons that he doesn’t really want to talk about.
But despite that, he’s still genuine, and kinda dorky. He’s actually making you really fucking nervous, in a way that you haven’t been around a guy in a while. Not because he scares you, but because he makes warmth bloom in your belly and some kind of anticipation start to fizz under your skin.
“It’s okay,” you tell him. Then, in a moment of sheer courage, you pat the seat next to you. “Want a drinking buddy?”
He slides off his own stool so fast that he loses his balance and spills his beer. His cheeks go pink in an instant and you cover your mouth to hide your laugh when he glances at you as if checking to see if you saw that. Which you obviously did.
“That beer already going to your head?” you tease, trying to ignore the stretch of his jeans over his thighs as he slides in beside you. Now he’s closer, you can see his face better. Clean shaven, young like you, all smooth skin and square jaw and a cleft in his chin.
“Guess I’m a lightweight.” He smirks a little, getting more comfortable in his seat. Then, he holds out his hand. “I’m Leon, by the way.”
Unable to hold back your grin, you reach out to shake his hand, and offer him your name in return. He says it back to you, looks at you and your smile like he’s never seen a woman a day in his life and he fucking likes it. You fucking like it. The warm, firm grip of his hand, callouses on his fingers and palms. The way his hand lingers in yours just a little too long, his fingertips brushing against your wrist before he slowly pulls away. And not once does he break eye contact.
You take a sip of your drink once he lets go, desperate for something to distract you from how hard it is to look away from him. “So,” you say, “what brings you here tonight, Leon?”
He huffs out a laugh. Tilts his head a little like he was going to shake it but then thought better of it. Rubs his hand up and down his thigh. “Lotta things,” he says eventually, avoiding your eyes for the first time. “Got a new job starting tomorrow.”
“And you’re out drinking the night before?” You raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah, guess I am.”
“Hm. You that nervous about it, or what?”
“No, it’s…it’s good. I’m excited.”
“So we’re celebrating it, then?” You raise your glass, hoping that the invitation will bring out his smile again.
It does. He grins lopsidedly, showing his teeth, lifts his beer bottle to clink against yours. “What about you?” he asks before taking a sip.
“Oh, you don’t wanna know my sad reasons for drinking alone,” you reply wryly.
“…I’m sorry.”
You frown. “What? For what?”
“That you’re sad,” he answers, like it should be obvious. “That sucks. I—is there anything I can do?”
You can keep looking at me with those gorgeous baby blues and maybe let me feel your biceps a little bit—“Yeah. You can stay here and have drinks with me.”
“Sounds good to me, gorgeous.” He turns back to take another sip of his beer, but then freezes, as if realising what he just said. You freeze too, your heart jumping into your throat, but it’s impossible to ignore the way it starts beating faster too. The heat that spreads across your face, warmth in your belly. “Uh—Shit, sorry…didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” you assure him, and just so he knows you mean it, you reach out and gently rest your hand on his thigh. “I think you’re pretty gorgeous too.”
He looks like his brain has just short-circuited. His mouth falls open and closed, beer still held halfway to his mouth. “I—you do?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I, uh…wow, that’s…thank you. You—I think you’re beautiful.”
Your smile spreads wider. Maybe it’s the effects of the alcohol finally making you a little more confident, but you lean in closer to him, daring a quick glance down to his lovely, kissable lips. “Thanks, handsome.”
He swallows hard. This time, you don’t resist watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down. God, you kinda want to catch it with your mouth. Is that an unhinged thought?
Two hours later, you’re both several drinks deeper, and you know quite a bit more about Leon Kennedy. (His last name, for starters, which you saw when he had to show his ID to the bartender who swapped shifts with the old one.)
He and his girlfriend of five months broke up two days ago, and though he’s upset about it, he says it was the right thing.
“It was kinda mutual,” he’d said, though the twist of his mouth belied that that maybe wasn’t the case. But you couldn’t work out whether it leaned more towards him being the dumper or the dumpee, and he didn’t want to elaborate, so you didn’t ask.
Nor did you ask when he said his parents aren’t in the picture.
He knows more about you, too, although similar to him, you’re keeping most of it pretty close to your chest. He knows you needed to go somewhere to drink where you wouldn’t run into people you know, but he doesn’t know why. Knows you’re from the town just down the highway, that you’ve never once been to Racoon City despite it being just thirty miles away.
“I can’t believe you’ve never been there,” he says, laughing just a little more than a sober person probably would.
You’re leaned in close to him now, your chairs as close as they’ll go, thighs pressed together all the way from hip to knee. He’s so warm, so firm, and you’d be a dirty liar if you tried to claim that you haven’t brushed your hand over his thigh several times tonight. But it’s okay, because he keeps wrapping his foot around your ankle, or his pinky finger around yours where you’re holding your drinks.
“I hope I don’t offend you when I say it’s not exactly Las Vegas,” you say, leaning so close a piece of hair is falling from your ponytail.
“That is offensive, actually,” he grins, shaking his head.
“You’re not even from there!”
“No, but I’m gonna start working there soon, you could at least be nice about it.”
“Okay, fine, I’m sure your fresh start in Racoon City is going to be great, Leon. Totally life changing, I’m sure.”
“I know you’re kidding, but it actually will be. It’s a fresh start for me.” Then, his smile fading a little, he looks down at his nearly empty whiskey glass, goes quiet for a moment. “It has to be,” he says, so small that you’re sure you weren’t meant to hear it.
“What’s this mystery job that has you so drawn to Racoon City, anyway?” you ask, offering him a tilt of your lips, nudging his arm encouragingly.
“I’m, uh. I’m gonna be a cop.”
Your eyebrows shoot up on your forehead. You look down at your drink, then at his, then at the way he’s kinda swaying in his seat from being a bit beyond tipsy. “You’re going to be a cop and the night before your first day, you’re here!?”
He shrugs a shoulder, diffident. “I don’t always make the smartest decisions.”
You snort at that. Because, yeah. You too. “Tell me about it,” you say wryly, tapping your glass against his before taking the final sip. The alcohol doesn’t really burn when you swallow it anymore. “Well, Leon, I’m sure you’ll be a great cop.”
“You think?” His voice perks up a little, and when he turns his eyes back to you, they look…hopeful. A little glazed over, sure, but hopeful all the same. Like he really cares what you think. Or really needs to hear the reassurance.
Either way, you smile and say, “Yeah, I do. You’re kind. There should be more kind cops.”
“Thanks.” He’s blushing again, turning a slightly darker shade of pink than the existing alcohol-induced flush covering his beautiful face.
You lean closer. His eyes are so pretty. He’s so pretty. He’s run his hands through his hair so many times tonight that it’s started to fall with gaps between the locks, ready for his fingers to come back. And you kind of can’t stop thinking about your fingers being the ones to do it. Maybe getting a good handful of it, pull his head back just a little while you admire his neck, open your mouth over it…
Yeah, okay, you’re drunk. But it’s not like you weren’t having these thoughts before you were drunk.
And now you’re just staring right into his eyes, and he’s staring back, and your faces are so close you can taste the whiskey on his breath, his lips slightly parted. The corners of his mouth tilt up into a sweet, shy smile, his eyes softening as you move in.
Slowly, he lifts his hand towards your face, giving you plenty of time to back away if you want to. You don’t want to, of course. In fact, when he brushes back the lock of hair and tucks it behind your ear, you lean into his hand before he can move away and take hold of his wrist and anchor him there.
His smile widens. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice low and husky.
You smile, too. You can only just hear him over the din of the bar around you, busier than ever now that it’s 11pm. You’re surrounded by people on all sides, and though it still feels like just the two of you in your own little world, you can’t help but be aware of the sheer amount of eyes that could be watching.
The motel card you saw him putting into his wallet comes to mind.
“You can,” you answer with a nod, “but I think I’d rather you kiss me somewhere there’s less of an audience.”
“…Oh?”
“You wanna make use of that motel room, Leon?”
His mouth drops open, and at first, he just stammers. Falters like he can’t believe you even know about that. Then, shaking his head, blinking rapidly like he’s trying to line up his thoughts: “I—yeah. Yeah…?”
You nod slowly, letting your teeth sink into your bottom lip. He watches the motion, pupils blown wide as they stare at your mouth. He fumbles around for his wallet without looking away. Gets out some change, throws it on the counter, then less than gracefully slides off the barstool and offers you his hand.
With a grin, you take it, and he’s leading you out of the bar and into the parking lot before you even have chance to look back.
In the motel room, room 208, he lets you in first, then closes the door behind you. He turns to face you, then stops, eyes going wide again like he’s seeing you for the first time. His gaze is so intense, so earnest, that it makes you feel a little shy, despite the alcohol in your system.
You pull up your shoulders a little, smile softly at him. “So…”
“So…” he echoes, tentatively stepping closer. He runs his hands over his hair and it leaves it sticking up in all directions, all cute boyish blonde.
“You still want to kiss me?” You go a little breathless as he gets closer.
“Yeah. I really—really do. And…and I want to…” His eyes flick to the bed, then immediately find you again, his face going a little embarrassed as if he hadn’t meant to imply that he wants to fuck you—even though he clearly did.
You’re the one to close the last of the distance between you, stopping when your toes are touching. Looking into his eyes, you reach up a mercifully not-trembling hand and place it on the side of his neck, your pinky finger curving over the collar of his leather jacket. God, he’s warm. He’s so warm. You can feel his pulse under your fingertips. It’s racing, faster still than the way he’s breathing quickly, shakily.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” you whisper, your lips barely two inches apart now. You’re too close to look into his eyes, so you just stare down at his lips.
He slides his hand around your waist, across the top of your jeans. “You’re just…you’re really somethin’,” he says quietly. “How can I not get nervous when I got a beautiful girl like you in my room?”
“Aw, Leon…” You grin teasingly, sliding your hand back into his hair. You can hear him holding back his moan at the sensation, and yeah, that’s hot. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“No other girls,” he murmurs, staring down at your lips.
“Pretty sure there was one not too long ago.”
“Not anymore.” He lifts his other hand then, and slides it across your neck, cradles your jaw in his palm. “Only you right now, sweetheart.”
You try not to melt into him, into his words and his touch and his warmth, but God, he’s so goddamn cute and hot and lovely, and his thumb is smoothing over the hollow of your cheek, his other hand pressed into the small of your back, and you want him everywhere.
It’s unclear who dives in first. All you know is that you take a sharp breath, and suddenly you’re kissing, his lips sliding between yours with a fevered urgency that makes you breathless in an instant. His body pushes up against yours, your other hand grabbing the right lapel of his jacket to keep him there.
He tastes like whiskey and beer, and you probably taste like booze too, but it’s nice, like a reminder of the evening you’ve shared together. What could’ve been a night of sad, morose drinking alone has somehow ended up here, with Leon Kennedy’s tongue brushing your lip and his hand at the back of your neck and the backs of your knees hitting the edge of a motel bed—
Before you fall back onto the mattress, you tug at his jacket, beyond desperate to feel more of his warmth. He manages to shrug out of it without detaching his lips from yours and you appreciate that so goddamn much because Lord is he a good kisser. He pushes and pulls and sucks and uses just the right amount of tongue, gently brushing it up against yours, licking your mouth with care and reverence.
Your hands find his biceps as soon as they’re free from his jacket, only his t-shirt remaining. And, yeah. His arms are just as fucking perfect as you thought they’d be. Hard with muscle, skin soft and arm hair lovely against your palms. You squeeze and squeeze and rub up and down, and he must like it because he’s panting now, nose pushed into your cheek as he devours your lips like they’re the first meal he’s had in years.
You slide your hands under his t-shirt sleeves, and for a second he pulls back, parting your lips with a wet smack.
“You wanna lie back?” he asks huskily.
Near-frantic, you nod, and lie back on the bed, shuffling up to the top so your head rests on the pillows. Leon kicks off his boots, then takes hold of your ankle and meets your eyes, raising an eyebrow in question. You nod your approval, so he gets to work taking off your shoes, his touch gentle and reverent across your skin. Then he’s crawling up the bed, crawling up you, settling with his elbows on either side of your head. Pieces of his hair fall down into his face and you reach up to brush them away.
He tilts his head, kisses the inside of your wrist. “You’re so beautiful, you know that?”
“So are you,” you reply, only having a second to smile before he’s diving in for another kiss. You accept it eagerly, wrapping both hands around the back of his neck and then lifting your knees to press them into his hips. At the feeling of you around him, he groans, and god, if it doesn’t go straight between your legs.
One of his hands slowly makes its way from your waist to your ribs, then settles on the outside of your breast, waiting for a protest. Of course, you don’t have one, so he puts his hand all the way over it and squeezes.
You moan softly into his mouth, a sound which he clearly appreciates, because he squeezes harder, pushes his tongue into your mouth. Before he can keep touching you, though, you decide that you really, really want to feel it directly on your skin, so you pull away just enough that you can reach down and start to pull off your top.
He helps out, and you realise belatedly that you haven’t worn a sexy bra. In fact, it’s the most unsexy type of bra you could have chosen.
“Sorry, not exactly a sexy bra,” you say wryly as he tosses your shirt across the room. “Wasn’t expecting this. You.”
He shakes his head, but you’re not sure what exactly it means. “I mean, I’d rather you didn’t have a bra on at all, to be honest.”
“Fine by me.” You shrug, then pull off your bra too—a pull-on bra, no clasp to contend with, albeit at the sacrifice of sexiness—and when your top half is fully naked, Leon just…stares, for a minute. His mouth open, panting, on his knees, straddling you. He goes so quiet and still that you start to feel a little self conscious.
But before you can act on it, he’s moving again. “Fuck,” he mutters, eyes fixed on your tits as he dives down towards them.
Then—that lovely, warm, wet mouth is wrapping around your left nipple, and oh, okay, self-consciousness out the window.
“Fuck, Leon,” you gasp, anchoring your hand on the back of his neck. “That feels good.”
Giving your other boob attention with his hand, he presses his hips down into yours, and you feel it. His hardness. Straining against his jeans.
Soon his mouth is back on yours, and although you miss it around your nipples, it’s nice here too. But he’s still got his shirt on, and that just won’t do. You tug at it, and he takes the hint, leaning away from you for just long enough to hastily rip it off and throw it carelessly onto the floor. Then he’s back again, tongue in your mouth, one hand caressing your face and the other running down your naked torso.
You take your opportunity to run your hands up his chest. Warm, hard, little bits of softness around his hips. His pecs are perfect, well-defined and just squishy enough for you to get a hold of them, strong enough that you can feel them flexing where he’s holding himself up above you.
You’re so distracted by feeling him up that you almost don’t notice him tugging at your waistband, wrapping fingers around the button on your jeans.
“Can I…?”
“Only if you do, too,” you reply, grinning.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, I like that. That’s hot.”
He laughs a little as he pulls down your zipper, then helps you wiggle out of your jeans and underwear all in one go. Then, fulfilling his promise, he takes off his own jeans and boxers at the same time, leaving his cock to spring free the moment it can. And—okay.
Yeah.
Yeah.
“Jesus,” you curse under your breath, struggling to tear your eyes away from his rather inviting erection.
His blush reaches his chest now, his face going shy as he kneels back on the bed and slowly crawls closer again. He looks you all over, really making the most of his first chance to take all of you in. His teeth sink into his bottom lip when his eyes find your pussy, already wet and pulsing for him before he’s even touched you.
There’s a bead of moisture at the tip of his cock that you are suddenly desperate to spread across his length.
Before you can try, though, he’s hovering above you again, and his gaze is so intense that it takes all your attention. Pieces of his hair dangle down in your face. You brush them away, then cup his face between your hands, blushing at the eye contact.
“You are so fucking sexy,” he whispers. One of his hands runs down your body, caressing every curve and every line, fingers catching on your nipples and then brushing across your belly button. As he gets closer to your cunt, your breath catches, and you can’t help but cant your hips up into his.
“Leon…” you whine, downright desperate when his hand stops just inches above your clit.
“Can I?”
“Please.”
If you were able to form a coherent thought right now, and you were to try and find a single word to describe the way he touches your pussy, the word you’d choose would be eager.
Eager to feel you, to make you arch your back off the bed, eager to touch you, to please you, to fill you. He pays due attention to your clit, making sure it knows how much he appreciates it, giving light little taps and circles that make a tight knot of desperation start to form in your belly.
Then, he sinks one finger into your wet heat, and the noise he makes completely outdoes the noise you make.
“Fuck,” he whimpers, breath trembling as his fingertip strokes your walls. The way he melts into you, starts rutting against your hip, you’d think he’s never done this before. He looks down at you like you’re a goddess, something beyond comprehension. “Fuck, oh my God, you’re so…so hot and wet, holy…”
Your mouth hanging open a little, you smile, and reach up to fondly touch his face. “Feels good,” you say breathlessly. “Two fingers, please?”
“I—yeah. Yeah, of course.” Carefully, he pulls his one finger out, only to come back a second later with his middle finger accompanying it. And—yeah. The stretch is lovely, you can really feel it now, the stroke of his fingers inside you. He’s moving slowly, and his eyes gradually work their way down your body until they’re watching himself finger you, his chest rising and falling with his deep, heavy breaths.
He crooks up his fingers so they press against that spot inside you, and you moan softly, tipping your head back as your eyes fall closed.
“Fuck—right there,” you whisper. He moans in response, like hearing you say that feels as good for him as his fingers do for you. After a moment, you feel him shift on top of you, and then his lips are pressing against your sternum. Soft, warm kisses, close-mouthed and reverent. He peppers them all over your chest, your ribs, your neck, your jaw, then finally reuniting with your lips.
He breathes into your mouth, and you swear he whimpers a little when you clench around his fingers. He speeds up, fingers going in and out faster and harder, and you grip tight to his biceps to anchor yourself down, because God, it feels so good you could float away.
“Mm,” you murmur against his mouth, “Leon?”
He pulls away, lips all wet and swollen as he looks down at you with a soft frown. “You okay?” he asks, slowing down his fingers.
“Please fuck me,” you whisper instead of answering, cupping his face with your hands. His pretty, earnest face. “Please.”
“Are you sure?”
“So sure. I’m ready, baby.”
Melting again, he falls back into your mouth, letting out a breathy whine. “I have condoms, let me just…” Reluctantly, he pulls away from you. You don’t hold back your disappointed whimper when his fingers leave you. “Sorry,” he says sincerely, almost tripping over himself to find his jeans on the floor. He pulls out his wallet, digs around just for a second before pulling out a foil packet.
When he turns back to you, he finds you lying with your legs spread, your cheeks flushed, and your fingers rubbing your clit.
He gapes. Freezes at the sight of you, stammers like he’s trying desperately to say something but it just won’t come out.
You smile knowingly, using your other hand to palm at your breast. “See somethin’ you like, handsome?”
“I—holy—oh my God.” His eyes roam over you rapidly like he wants to look at every single inch of you all at once. “You’re—you’re so…fuck.”
You reach out your hands towards him. “C’mere,” you request, grinning when he immediately springs into motion and climbs back onto the bed. He fumbles with the condom wrapper, struggling to open it because he can’t stop looking at you. And you’d offer to help, to do it for him—after all, your lingering wetness on his fingers is part of his struggle—but he’s just so goddamn cute that you can’t help but indulge in watching him like this. So earnest, so eager, clearly extremely into you, just as much as you are into him. And it’s just…nice. To be wanted. To be wanted so keenly.
Tonight was going to be a shitty night of drinking alone, feeling sorry for yourself. That’s all you had expected. And then, when Leon walked in, you hopes that maybe you’d get a fun and completely meaningless hookup out of the night. And, okay, you’re not so naive that you think this won’t be meaningless come morning, but honestly, right now? You just feel good. More than you would with just some random guy.
Because Leon is so goddamn adorable, and so fucking sexy, and the way he’s looking at you feels not just steamy and passionate but also intimate. You don’t think anyone’s ever really looked at you like this. Ever fumbled with a condom wrapper because they’re so desperate to be inside you that it makes them delirious.
“Sorry,” he says with an awkward little laugh, finally getting the wrapper open. “Sorry, shit, I’m not doing a great job, huh?”
Your smile softening into something fond, you take the condom from him. Without breaking your eye contact, you reach down, and take a hold of his dick in one hand.
His eyes go wide, a gasp pulling into his mouth. “F—fuck—” His hips buck into your grip. “Ohmygod—”
“I think you’re doing better than you think,” you say quietly, watching as he all but falls apart just from the gentlest of touches, his cock sitting in your palm as you rub up and down.
“I—yeah? I am?” His eyebrows draw together like he genuinely wants to know.
Your heart does a small, painful little lurch in your chest. “You’re cute,” you tell him. Then, with your other hand, you carefully slide the condom onto his dick. At the sensation, he presses his lips together, stifling a high-pitched sound that tries its best to escape. “Please fuck me, Leon.”
Frantic, he nods, and leans back over you with a hand on the pillow beside your head. He stares down into your eyes, takes himself in his hand, and carefully brushes his cock against your entrance.
“Mm…” you murmur, already very aware of his girth, your mouth watering at the thought of feeling it stretch you open.
“I’m gonna put it in, okay?” To which you nod, and watch as his teeth bite into his bottom lip when he slowly, carefully pushes inside you.
It’s just as good as you had imagined. Better, even, because he’s moaning as he sinks inside—a soft, breathy sound that he doesn’t bother trying to hold back, and God, you’re grateful for that.
“Oh my god,” he whimpers, pressing his body down into yours as he goes all the way to the hilt. It’s such a gorgeous stretch, his cock thick and just long enough to brush against your cervix, which takes you to whole new realms of pleasure, makes you wrap your legs around his waist on instinct to keep him in that deep. “Fuck, fuck—you’re so tight.” A shudder rips through his entire body. He puts his face in your neck, panting hot against your skin.
“Feels so good,” you moan, all breathy and thin because holy shit, he hasn’t even started to move yet and you already feel so fucking—
“Can I—?”
“Fuck me,” you say before he can finish his question.
And, boy, does he.
Slow at first, drawing out almost all the way before languidly pushing back in, as if every inch is sacred and he’s savouring the feeling as much as he can. You feel the heat of his cock against your walls, revel in the stretch, the friction, the way his head bumps against your g-spot as it goes past.
It goes past. All the way inside. So deep, so fucking deep…
“God, Leon, that feels amazing,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, so good, baby. You’re so deep, feels really good.”
He starts picking up speed, thrusting in and out, fucking you in earnest. Every time he pushes in, he goes all the way to the hilt, and it’s not lost on you that he’s probably doing that because you told him how much you like it.
You’re clawing at his back by the time he’s really going fast, and he’s moaning and whimpering into your neck, his hair brushing against the side of your face. His hands are pressed into the pillow on each side of your head, and you turn so that you can kiss the inside of his wrist, wanting to anchor your mouth to him as he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts, and it feels so fucking good.
“Oh my God, baby, feels so good…you’re so wet, so tight…so f—fucking tight, holy…”
Gently, you pull his face out from your neck, and don’t miss the look of absolute astonishment in his eyes before you dive in to kiss him, open mouthed and filthy. With hands on either side of his face, you swallow each of his desperate, precious sounds, and make some sounds of your own when he slides his tongue against yours.
He has to pull away after a minute because he’s panting so hard, fucking you so fast, movements growing frantic and irregular as he chases the pleasure sparking through both of your bodies.
“I’m—baby, I can’t—it’s too good—” he pants, then whines, pressing his forehead into yours. His breath is hot on your face. You love the taste of it. Love the feel of him, all around and inside you. “Fuck, sweetheart, I can’t, it’s too good, ’m gonna come, ’m sorry, gonna come…”
“Come for me, baby,” you whisper into his ear, and enjoy every goddamn moment of it as his hips slam into yours and he comes undone inside you. You grasp onto the back of his head, let him bury his face in your neck again, his voice coming out broken and strained as his release takes over his entire body. You feel it in his back, in his arms, in his breath. You wish you could feel it inside you for real, let him fill you up, then watch it dripping out…
His hips slow as his orgasm subsides, but he’s still heaving for breath, his back rising and falling rapidly beneath your hands. He’s pressing kisses to your neck, your collar bone, your jaw, then your mouth.
“Fuck,” he says, and it comes out like a sob, all cracked and desperate.
When he pulls back to look at you, his lips are swollen and shining with spit, parted to reveal his tongue. His pupils are blown wide and he’s looking at you with so much reverence and adoration that it makes you feel kinda vulnerable. More so than just being naked with him does.
His right hand lifts and strokes down your face, his fingertips hot and damp with sweat. Then, he’s running them down your body, past your ribs and over your navel and then sliding between your folds.
“I gotta take the condom off,” he says ruefully, “but then I’m gonna…”
You nod, knowing what he means, your pussy fluttering at the implication.
He’s off the bed and into the motel bathroom as fast as lightning, and before you know it he’s back, crawling up the bed until he settles down between your legs. You spread them to make room, and feeling the cold air hit your wetness is kinda lovely, reminding you of just how fucking horny you are for this man.
When you look down at him, he’s staring at your cunt with such intensity that it takes you by surprise. He’s got his hands on your thighs, rubbing them idly, and his tongue keeps darting out to wet his bottom lip. But he doesn’t move to touch you yet. Doesn’t even really move at all.
With a raised eyebrow, you say, “Leon, I’m gonna ask you something.”
He doesn’t look up at you when he replies: “Okay.”
“Have you had sex before?”
“Have I—what? Yeah, of course I have.” Then, finally looking up, his eyes go wide and you see panic settle in. “Why? Was it not good for you? I’m sorry, let me make it up to you—”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” you reassure him, laughing softly. You reach down to ruffle his hair and he leans into the touch like a cat. “It was great, Leon. I only ask ’cause you’re staring at my pussy like tonight is the first time you’ve ever seen one.”
“…Oh.” As if on cue, he goes right back to staring at your centre, licking his lips again. “No, I just…it’s been a long time since I’ve done this with someone who…with someone I…”
You quirk an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just break up with someone?”
“It was never like this,” he says, quiet and dazed, so much that you’re not sure he even meant to say it out loud.
He did, though, and every fibre of you heard it and let it sink in. It settles into a lump in your throat, feeling just a little too much like emotion for what is supposed to be a casual hookup; or, at least, what you assumed would just be a casual hookup. You don’t know each other, not really—in fact, you’ve both been pretty guarded in how much you tell each other tonight—but somehow you understand what he means when he says it’s been a long time since he’s done it with someone who…
Even though he didn’t finish the sentence, you get it.
Boy, do you get it.
“Leon,” you say gently, tugging on his hair to get him to meet your gaze again. He does, his eyebrows raised earnestly, looking like a goddamn puppy with those sweet, wide eyes that are so eager to please you. “Will you please finger me?”
“I—yeah. Sorry, yes, of course. Gonna make you feel good, I promise.”
“I know you will.” You’re just settling back against the pillows again when he says—
“Actually—can I taste you?”
And your brain malfunctions a little.
“It’s okay if you don’t want me to…”
“No! No, I mean—yes, Leon, I want that. Please.”
He smiles like that’s the best news he’s heard in ages. And then, he gets to fucking work.
Pressing his hands under your thighs, he pushes them up off the bed, bending your knees towards your chest. You feel his hot breath for just a second before his lips close around your clit. He breathes in so deep, like he’s finally found water after a year without it, and sucks.
Your head tips back against the pillow, eyes closing as you take in the pleasure and moan, breathy and wanton. His responding moan sends vibrations through your clit and into your very core, and God, it’s perfect. He’s perfect. He’s lovely. He’s so fucking good at this—
His tongue licks into your folds and around your clit, so delectable and feeling so fucking good it’s actually unreal.
“Fuck, yeah, Leon, that’s so good, oh my God…”
“Mmmm…” is his muffled response, and honestly, truly, he sounds just as lost in pleasure as he had when he came inside you.
After giving your clit plenty of attention, his tongue slowly finds its way down to your entrance, where it gently prods and probes for a minute to get you ready. Though, nothing could have prepared you for how it feels for him to shove it all the way inside you, as deep as it will go. The thick muscle stretches you immediately and you cry out, grasping hold of his hair with one hand and the sheets with the other.
“Fuck! Fuck, Leon…” It feels even better when you clench around him, your cunt pushing out slightly which lets him get even deeper. A deep, unexpected warmth pools inside you and before you know it that warmth is on the outside, springing out of you like a hot fountain and squirting all over Leon’s face.
Maybe you’d panic for a second, worried that he’s not okay with you squirting into his mouth, if he didn’t immediately react like metal to a magnet; he wraps his elbows around your legs, pushes himself as close in to your cunt as he can possibly get as if he wants to lap up every last drop.
“Yes, baby, oh my God,” he pulls away just enough to say that, looking up at you with your juices dripping down his face. He looks absolutely lost to it, eyes glazed over but still adoring, still beautiful. “That’s so hot. I can’t—it feels that good?”
Desperate, you nod. “Please don’t stop.”
He shakes his head. “Clench like that again, sweetie, felt so good, want you to squirt again…”
“Hnnngg…” is the only sound you can make as his tongue dives back inside you. Immediately you clench around it, and the pleasure dials up to a hundred, warmth building in your core again. Frantic, you reach down and press two fingers against your clit, starting to rub in time with his tongue’s thrusts in and out of you.
You’re squirting again in no time, and it’s Leon’s moans that have you tumbling faster towards the edge, your fingers rubbing faster and faster as you clench harder and harder around him.
“Fuck—Leon, ’m gonna come!”
He grips your thigh so tightly as you start to unravel, your high building and building and building. You reciprocate by grabbing a fistful of his hair and tugging as the wave hits and you drop, pleasure overtaking your entire body, igniting like sparks behind your closed eyelids.
His tongue takes you through it, as does his voice, all muffled and incoherent, only detectable as pleasured, desperate whines that mix with yours and fill the room. As your orgasm slows, you take your fingers off your clit, and he keeps mouthing at you just gently for a minute as you come down from the high he delivered so beautifully.
Eventually, he pulls away from you, only to look up and meet your eyes. His face is soaked, literally dripping wet, and honestly, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man look so happy in your entire life.
“Jesus Christ,” you curse, sitting up on your elbows so you can better look at him. You’re grinning too; it’s impossible not to when Leon Kennedy is between your legs and he’s smiling and his eyes are so earnest and sweet.
“You’re amazing. Oh my God. You’re—you’re amazing.” He says your name as he crawls back up your body, follows it up with a kiss. Despite the taste of yourself on his lips, the kiss has none of the filth or heat that your kisses had before. This one is soft, lingering, almost chaste in its reverence.
Playing with his hair between your fingers, you smile as he nuzzles his nose against yours. So what if it’s getting kinda romantic instead of just sexy? So what if there’s a feeling blooming in your chest that won’t stop screaming at you that you want to see him again after this? Maybe, for now, you can just enjoy this. After all, you’re both drunk, and though your head feels clear enough to know that there is something here that goes beyond just alcohol-induced horniness, the two of you probably won’t remember any of this romantic stuff when the sun comes up.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he dots kisses all over your jaw, from one side to the other. “So beautiful, baby. So fuckin’ pretty.”
“You’re slurring your words,” you point out with a smirk. “How do I know you’re not just too drunk to tell I’m ugly?”
He pulls back sharply. Suddenly, he’s frowning, so deep that it creates creases in his brow. He looks horrified by what you just said—something that was meant to be a joke, but… “From the second I walked into the bar I wanted to never stop looking at you,” he says, extremely seriously. Like he’s taking a fucking oath, or something. “And I hadn’t even had a drop of the stuff at that point.”
You smile, touched by his sincerity. It weaves its way through the blooming feeling in your chest, the one you know is only going to hurt come tomorrow when you have to part ways, but the one you’re letting yourself revel in for the moment.
“You’re pretty handsome yourself,” you tell him.
“Thought you were already three drinks deep when I came in?” he points out, raising his eyebrows. “Maybe you only think I’m handsome ’cause of that?”
You shake your head. It kinda makes the room spin. “Never. You’re beautiful, Leon Kennedy, and don’t you forget it.”
And, God, he blushes. Averts his eyes, goes all bashful. It’s so fucking cute and you actually can’t fucking cope with this level of adorable. This man who has just fucked you better than anyone ever has, who has an incredibly expert tongue, is also the cutest, most earnest soul ever with the most puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen.
Scratching at his scalp, you can’t help but smile at him and lean in to press a kiss to his nose. “See?” you say. “Very handsome. Especially when you’re blushing.”
It’s two a.m., you’ve both raided the mini bar of the motel room, and are currently sitting naked on the bed with a stack of playing cards in between you. Neither of you have any idea what you’re playing. You’re too drunk to care.
You’ve just finished a mini bottle of shitty, pre-mixed piña colada when you look up at Leon and find a stream of moonlight coming in through the curtains, bathing him in soft white. He looks angelic. All bare chest, abs, biceps, hair flopping down into his eyes.
“You know,” you say, aware you’re slurring and not caring, “I heard there’s a lotta weird shit going on in Racoon City right now. Why do you wanna go there of all places?”
He throws a card down onto the pile. “Well, I wanna help people.”
“You can help people anywhere.” You toss a card down on top of it, not even checking to see what card it is. “You helped me tonight.”
“I did?”
“Gave me one hell of an orgasm.”
He laughs. It’s gorgeous. “That’s not the kinda help I mean.”
“No, that would be inappropriate.”
“It would. ’Sides, no one in Racoon City would be as pretty as you.”
You push his shoulder playfully, and he over-dramatically rolls over and falls onto his back as if your shove had caused him great damage. Laughing at his performance, you put down your cards and climb over the useless pile of them so that you can climb on top of him instead. Straddling him where he lies with his head at the foot of the bed, you lean down with your hands on the mattress, grinning when you see him smiling up at you.
“Well, hi there,” he murmurs, hands finding your hips.
One of your hands runs down his face, clumsy and a little too rough, but you hope still kind of romantic. Wistful, you sigh. “I bet even your driver’s license photo is pretty,” you muse.
“I bet yours is prettier.”
Wrinkling your nose, you shake your head. “My driver’s license photo sucks. Looks like a mugshot. But it works on my fake ID, so I can’t be too mad about it.”
“Wait—your fake ID?”
“Oh…yeah. I’m twenty. Shh…” You press your finger to his lips, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell anyone! Don’t tell the bartender or he’ll make me give all my drinks back!”
He’s frowning now, like he’s having a serious moral conflict in his mind. “You’re only twenty?”
With a dramatic pout, you sit back against his thighs, and hold your wrists together as if preparing for handcuffs. “Are you going to arrest me, Officer Kennedy?”
Leon’s eyes darken. The look of conflict on his face makes way for something else, something wanting and undeniably horny. Without a word, he sits up, wraps his arms around you and expertly lifts you so that you’re lying down on the bed and he’s on top again. “Well,” he says, low and breathy, “I might have to.”
“Oh nooo…please, Officer Kennedy, I just wanted a little drink! You can’t blame a girl, right?”
He takes your proffered wrists, wraps his fingers around them like handcuffs. Then, slowly, making sure he holds your eyes the entire time, he lifts your hands above your head and presses them into the pillows. “I’m not arresting you for underage drinking.”
“Oh? Then whatever is it for, Officer Kennedy?”
“The fact that now, every time someone calls me that…” His lips trail down your neck, hot and open. “I’m going to think of you. Here. Like this.”
“Ohh…and that’s inappropriate.”
“Yeah. It is.”
The second time he fucks you, he tears off the condom right before he comes onto your chest, and when you pull him in for a kiss, he only indulges you for a second before his mouth is back on your pussy, drawing pleasure from deep within you like it’s what he was made for.
With the moon sinking away behind cloud, the only light left in the room is the dim glow of the bedside lamp. You’re in Leon’s arms, tucked against his chest, his fingers running in idle circles along your bare back. Last time you looked at the clock, it said 3.27a.m., but that was at least a half hour ago. Since then, you’ve just been talking, all hushed voices and topics that veer off sideways and back again in your still-drunken haze.
“You’re gonna be tired for your first day,” you murmur, slipping your fingers through Leon’s and watching how they fit together.
“I’ll power through,” he replies, and you feel his voice in his chest. “They told me not to come in at all, so maybe I’ll get away with being a little late.”
“They told you not to come? Why?”
“Like you said, things are weird in Racoon City.”
“So why are you going in anyway? You don’t think there’s a good reason they told you to stay away?”
He shrugs a shoulder, like it’s no big deal. “It was just some random person, it wasn’t that official. They’re just trying to be polite, y’know? They don’t wanna send me in at the deep end with a chaotic station on my first day. But I don’t mind. I wanna go and see what I can help with. If things are bad, I can be of service.”
“You had a chance to take a day off and you decide to go to work anyway,” you muse, shaking your head in disapproval, fighting back the urge to tell him how cute he is. “You’re a weird one, Kennedy.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, so I’ve heard.”
Things settle into comfortable quiet for a moment. You run your fingers through the hairs on his chest, he rubs your back with his palm. You can feel his breath in your hair, hear his heart under your ear. And, God, it’s all been very hot and sexy and passionate, but it’s also just been…really fucking nice. Comfortable, like you’ve known each other for ages, like you really get each other.
You take a breath to speak, and hesitate for a second before saying: “I don’t wanna kill the mood, but I just wanted to thank you. Tonight was gonna be…shitty for me. You’ve made it a lot better.”
“Yeah. It was gonna be shitty for me, too.”
“And now?”
Leon blows air through his lips, shakes his head like he can’t find the words. “Very not shit. You’ve really turned it around.”
You can’t help but grin. “Glad to be of service.” You salute playfully.
He huffs a laugh. “You’re still drunk.”
“And you’re not?”
“Mm, starting to come down a bit, to be honest. Got a headache startin’.”
“Drink some water.”
“I have.”
“Drink more.”
He shakes his head, and you look up just in time to see him close his eyes, shuffling his head a little on the pillow to get more comfortable. “No,” he says eventually, reaching across to grab the covers. He drapes them across both of you, kisses your forehead, then says, “Don’t wanna move.”
Softly, you smile, and tuck your face into his neck. “Me, neither.”
“So don’t. Let’s just…sleep.”
A sigh leaves your chest. “Okay, Leon.”
“G’night, gorgeous.”
“Night, handsome.” You reach up to ruffle his hair, and he catches your hand before it can move away, clumsily kisses at your fingertips.
You fall asleep with warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the lingering alcohol in your bloodstream.
Oh, God, it’s too bright.
It’s too fucking bright and your head is pounding and you swear to God, the light coming through the motel room curtains is actually drilling a hole into your head.
With a palm on your forehead, you squint, looking around the room as best you can. “Leon…?”
The bathroom door bursts open, and out comes Leon, dressed only in a dark pair of jeans and nothing else, his belt hanging loose in the loops. His hair is a mess, a toothbrush dangles from his mouth. He’s hopping, trying to put on a sock. “I’m late,” he manages around the toothpaste. “I’m so late!”
Frowning, you look across to the nightstand, where a digital clock says 16:45.
That can’t be right.
Last time you looked at the clock, it was 4a.m. You and Leon had just settled down to go to sleep. There’s no way you slept for twelve hours, right? There’s no way Leon has totally missed almost all of his first day on the job…right?
Right?
Leon’s back in the bathroom. You can hear him spit into the sink. You don’t know where he got the toothbrush from, and you’re honestly too afraid to ask.
With a muffled groan, you push yourself up in bed, leaning back against the headboard. Taking in your surroundings, you try to get used to the light and the way it’s attacking your skull. Your brain. Your entire nervous system.
The floor is covered in your clothes and empty bottles of booze. Even just looking at them makes you feel a little nauseous, and you have to close your eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. Your mouth tastes horrific, and the room is spinning, and Leon is at the foot of the bed struggling against his leather jacket.
“I’m so sorry,” he says as he dives for his boots on the floor.
“What for?”
“For just—leaving like this. I don’t—I wouldn’t normally—but I’m so late and I’m in such deep shit that I just—fuck!” He struggles with his bootlaces, propping his foot up on the end of the bed. Once he’s managed to tie it, his foot is back on the floor, and he looks up at you finally, running a hand through his hair. Those lovely blue eyes have dark circles hanging beneath them, but they’re still pretty. He’s still pretty. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to ditch you like this.”
“You’re still going in?” you ask through a yawn that somehow burns through your entire body.
“I figure showing my face even for a second is better than not showing at all.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re insane.”
He laughs, a little breathless. “Yeah.” Then, he’s patting his pockets, looking for something. His eyes cast about the room, and you watch as he finally finds what he’s looking for: his wallet and his cellphone. Somehow, your underwear is hanging from the little antenna on his phone. It falls off when he picks it up and stuffs it in his pocket. (The phone, not the underwear.)
“Look, I don’t—I don’t usually—do stuff like this…”
“What, go to work?”
“No, I mean—hooking up with strangers.”
You lean back on your hands. “Is that what we are?”
“Well, not anymore. Which is kinda my point. I—well.” He clears his throat, his fingers finding his hair again. “Look, I’m not really in any place to date right now, and I definitely got some shit to work out. But…” As if frustrated with himself, he sighs, and his eyes are back to darting around the room. You wait patiently as he searches, eventually coming back with a napkin and a pen that used to be attached to a chain. He scrawls a long number onto the napkin, then hands it to you. “My number,” he tells you as you take it. “There’s no pressure. If you want this to just be a one night thing, I get it. But…just in case…”
You find yourself smiling, something inside you going a little soft and gooey. “Thanks,” you say quietly, tucking the napkin into your palm. “I’ll call you.”
His face lights up. “Yeah?” You nod. He beams. “Okay. Yeah. Great. I—shit. I gotta go. I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay,” you assure him, climbing up onto your knees. You shuffle towards him, then stop right in front of him, reaching out towards his face. There’s a spot of toothpaste right on his chin, and you wipe it away with your thumb, then hold up the evidence for him to see. “Toothpaste,” you explain. “Can’t have you showing up to your first day looking a mess, now, can we?”
His smile softens. He glances down at your lips, once, twice, as if asking permission.
You give it by leaning in and kissing him. Just a peck, completely chaste. But it’s enough.
“Thank you,” you say, ruffling his hair. “For last night.”
“You too. Really.” He fumbles for his wallet, then gets out a twenty dollar bill and lays it on the bed. “For breakfast,” he explains.
“Thanks. You didn’t have to.”
“If I didn’t have to go, I’d stay and eat with you. But—”
“Yeah, you’re late as hell. Make sure you grab something to eat though, yeah?”
“I will.”
“Okay. Good. Good luck on your first day, Officer Kennedy.”
His cheeks flush pink. “What’d I tell you about calling me that?”
You grin, and you swear his eyes light up at the sight. Instead of answering him, you take the money in your hand, tuck it in beside his number. Then you lean back in bed again, and give him a salute. “I’ll see you around, Leon.”
For a second, he just stands there, staring at you. Then, after a deep breath, “See you around, gorgeous.”
Twenty-four hours later
Every time you press Call, it goes straight to that horrific, ominous beep. Over, and over, and over again.
You try sending a text. In response, all you get is:
This number is no longer in use.
Maybe in a different reality, you’d believe that Leon gave you a fake number. Even though that would make no sense, given the fact he gave you it willingly, without you even asking, maybe you would believe that. Maybe it could be the truth.
And maybe that would be better than what you know the truth is here, now, in this reality. The one where Raccoon City has just been blown off the map, and you’re pretty sure that Leon’s phone is dead because he is, too.
With the news playing relentlessly on your TV, its blue light the only thing illuminating the room with your curtains drawn, you sit on your living room floor, and you cry.
His name doesn’t appear in the survivors list. It doesn’t appear in the confirmed deceased list, either. But every news anchor and every newspaper is careful to remind their audiences that the lists are always being updated as searches continue, and it’s likely that the names covered—survivors or otherwise—are only 25% of the people who were there when the missile hit, or even before that, when the outbreak started claiming lives in the first place.
Days go by. On your neck, the hickey Leon left fades and fades. You keep calling his cellphone. You just sit and listen to the Beep, beep, beep. It starts to sound like Leon’s name.
He’s gone, isn’t he? He’s gone, and he…God, he had plans. Like you, he had his whole life ahead of him. Maybe you were naive for thinking that you could be part of that life, but whether or not you would be, he still deserved to make the life he wanted. To have his dream job. To find happiness. The kind of happiness you saw on him in glimpses that night.
That night, which is all you’ll ever have of him, and you can’t help but feel like he’s slipped through the world’s fingers, and everything will always be just a little bit darker because of it. People won’t know why the sun suddenly doesn’t shine as bright, but you will: Leon Kennedy is gone.
Leon
“Mister Kennedy. Mister Kennedy, are you with me?”
Yeah.
Somehow, yeah, he’s alive.
He survived.
A living goddam nightmare, and he survived. There are paramedics all around him, a little girl attached to his arm that he won’t let go of no matter what, and there are federal agents surrounding this emergency medical tent; he’s not about to leave here anytime soon.
Whatever happens next, Leon is pretty sure it isn’t going to be pretty, nor is life going to be anything like it was before—or anything like he had planned.