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Grace is settling into her new apartment, her new life. That’s how her therapist had put it —You feel unsettled. You feel like there's was a life before Elpis, and after Elpis. You're feeling panicked because life after Elpis is new. It sounded so simple when they put it like that, like it could be any kind trauma, like maybe she was just in a plane crash, or a car pile up, or got mugged, or something. A therapist on the DSO’s retainer is probably used to hearing all kinds of A-B-C-Virus crap, so maybe it’s just another day for them.
It's a thought that sometimes comforts Grace; if it’s just like any old trauma then there's a light, there's a chance she could get better. Other times it just makes her feel lonely, like she's the only person in the world who can understand.
Well, maybe not the only person.
“Your new place okay?” Leon asks. His voice is slightly muffled over the phone, there's some clinks and clangs that suggest he's multi-tasking.
“Yeah, it's okay,” Grace looks it over. It's nicer than her old apartment, modern fixtures, a kitchen island, a balcony with enough room for some plant pots and a chair set. Maybe she would've been happy about that a few months ago, but it's been bolted shut with a heavy cabinet from her last place in front of it since she moved in. Probably a fire escape risk, but the big glass pane is a stalking risk and—
“Leave some room for air, Grace,” Leon hums, and Grace feels herself fluster. “What's wrong with it?”
“Nothing! Nothing— It's just…”
Leon has been so nice to her, this whole time. Trusted her even though someone in his position has no reason to trust anyone, stared down the barrel of forever trapped inside the cure to T-virus—hope, dwindled. She doesn't want to bum him out — The apartment is fine, I just think someone's watching me all the time and I take my gun spot to spot like it's my phone and I haven't stopped being scared. I’m so scared.
“It's the- the shower.”
Well. At least its true.
“The shower,” Leon says. He sounds amused. Grace is going to melt into the stupidly, not-creaky the laminate floor and never see another light of day.
“Y-Yeah. It’s not working. The water is really…really weak.”
He’s silent for a moment. Grace even checks she didn't hang up on him with her cheek.
“Alright. We can fix that.”
“What?”
“I’ll be forty-five minutes. Gotta get my tools.”
“Leon—”
He hung up. He hung up on her. Grace looks at her phone in disbelief. Leon’s coming over. Leon’s coming over, and Grace still has takeaway boxes scattered on her coffee table and coffee grinds over the counter and there’s a pile of dishes and shit, Leon is coming over! She’s on her feet immediately, he can not walk into the place in this state!
He lets himself in at the intercom outside, but still knocks the door to the apartment. Grace hears it when she’s up to her arms in dish soap bubbles and water, and she scrambles about the kitchen for a tea towel.
“Coming!” she calls, near slipping on a patch of soap on the floor. At the door, she steels herself, a deep breath and a hand through her hair.
Leon is there, on the other side, a sizeable toolbox hanging from one hand and a bag from the hardware store in the other. He must've stopped there on his way over. “Hey, you,” he says. “Got a call about a broken shower?”
“Leon,” Grace can't believe he’s actually here. She knew he said he was coming and she knows she’s spent the last hour in panic because of her apartment but he’s here. It's setting in. “You- You didn't have to..”
“You kidding? Plumbing is my favorite hobby. I always clear my schedule for plumbing,” he’s teasing her, Grace realizes too late. There’s a mirth in his eyes reserved for making Grace feel on fire, all she can manage is stepping to the side, watching his boots gently thud over her welcome mat. “Nice socks. This a shoes-off home?”
Her socks have a hole in the big toe, and they’re covered in a creature from a video game she plays way too much when she’s stressed. She’s still in her pajamas, she realizes. Oh Grace, could you at least be a hot mess?
“I— Whatever you want—Like. Whatever you like.”
“Well, show me yours, show you mine,” he says, ducking to the floor, unlacing his boots and kicking them off. His socks are blue and plain, there's a sports logo on the heel and Grace knows they're probably from a real nice pack, not like her grocery store ones.
Leon Kennedy is shoeless in her apartment. Grace has had a dream like this before but it really, really would not help to remember that right now.
“Um…The shower is in the bathroom. In the back. I can take you there.”
“Lead the way, ma’am,” Leon doesn't smile, not quite but the slightest up-turn of his lips is gentle, so gentle, it's better than a smile ever could be.
She can do this. She’s got this. It’s just Leon, they've been to hell and back together— He’s just being a nice friend, offering to do this for her. Grace knows how to be friends with someone, especially Leon, who is nearly 30 years her senior and very, very married.
She can do this.
She can not do this.
“Can you pass me that wrench?” Leon points at his tool box though his eyes are fixed on the shower, one hand holding…something together. Grace stopped paying attention when Leon took off his coat and revealed the t-shirt he had underneath, biceps bursting out the seams and so tight around the chest that it's almost baggy around the trunk. He’s in jeans, jeans, and they fit him around the hips so well that Grace has no choice but to get an eye-full of belly when he reaches up to inspect the shower head.
Grace passes the wrench. Her mouth is so full of saliva she's terrified talking will make her drool. Handsome, married, handsome and married. There's all sorts of banging and clanging that she doesn't give a thought to. Incapable of it.
“Installation looks fine…some of the nuts are leaking but that shouldn't effect the pressure too much, just needs a tighten.” Leon cranks the wrench open and lays it over a joint, his biceps flexing way too nicely. “Did you check there isn't a stop-cock when you moved in?”
“A what?” Grace says absently.
“A stop-cock. Follow the pipes out of here, there should be a joint with a lever on it, eventually. It needs to be horizontal.”
Grace hates to pull away from such a sight, but she, admittedly, loves doing what he says too much. She’s wandering out of the bathroom, pressing her palm into her cheeks as if it’d do anything to cool her down; absently doing what Leon has asked of her. It takes her until the kitchen to find it, a tiny little bolt with a black lever on it, tucked under the sink and out of sight. The one leading to the faucet runs the same direction as the pipe but the one for the bathroom is slightly askew. It must act like a dam, only letting leaks of water through.
“I-I found it!” she yells triumphantly, setting it straight.
“Hey wait- Shit!” Leon curses. The pipes creak and flush, and it takes her a second. And hearing the rush of water hit the porcelain cubicle.
Oh, Grace…
She’s skidding to the wooden door frame in record time, probably faster than she’d ran in the care center, but it's too late. Leon’s holding the shower-head in one hand, the same way he holds the hatchet, and the wrench in the other. If Grace had a view of Leon’s muscles before, she has the whole damn show now — his clothes are stuck to his skin and his hair is completely drenched with water, rivets running down his face and disappearing into his shirt collar.
“Shower’s working,” he says, one eye squeezed shut in defense of the drips.
Grace gives Leon a crash course in begging for forgiveness, even though he’s adamant it's alright, he’s had worse sprayed over him, he needed to take a shower today anyway, washing his clothes too just saves time. Grace is nonetheless mortified, her face in a very codependent relationship with both her palms for the ten minutes it takes Leon to shed his shirt. In her bathroom. (Married, handsome, married handsome— married.)
She has to give him something to wear home but the only thing she has that’s big enough is a hoodie she’d stolen from an ex- boyfriend, so tattered it’s really only good enough to sleep in. Watching Leon tug a Paramore hoodie over his head is a level of casual that Grace finds horrendously intimate - at least she knew he had muscles, finding out he has capacity to look soft and cuddly in comfortable clothing is another bag of worms all together.
And as if this day wasn't humiliating enough:
“You need a hand putting those up?” Leon nods to the unopened flat pack boxes, leaning against the wall in Emily’s room.
“Oh, no— I can do that.”
“…How long have they been there?” He asks, unconvinced.
Grace can see where this is going. Blood rushes to her ears. “…Maybe two weeks.”
The look he gives her isn't pitying, or compassionate, or gentle, but…knowing. He manages to make her feel so exposed, like he could pluck the thoughts out of her head.
Leon looks handsome, bathed in the apartment’s white light his eyes seem too bright, twinkling like a boy-band heart-throb. His hair is dark and sandy in comparison, streaks of gray catching the light, the same way his short stubble does. So heart-stopping, so sure of himself —Grace notes that he looks more comfortable in the apartment than even she does, more settled.
“They given you an ETA for Emily to move in with you?”
“W-We don't know yet...There's lots of paperwork,” Grace feels like her whole life has become meetings—about Emily, about Gideon, Zeno, her job, Elpis.
“I bet,” Leon says, making a face. He’s pulling the hoodie sleeves to sit up on his forearms, oh god. “I never did like paperwork. But it’ll be worth it, right?”
We’re gonna be okay, yeah? He had said to her, like it was a fact, not a wish. Grace had never met someone so calm in the face of terror, real terror, staring down the barrel of a gun and terminal illness and monsters and still comforting her. Does he even know that he’s more calming than a prescription for Xanax and reruns of a bad TV show she watched to death as a teenager, or does he move through life blissfully unawares of the effect he has on others? On Grace?
“Yeah, it’ll be worth it,” Grace nods, because she clings to that image of Leon in the church whenever she’s scared. Relief in human form. “We’ll be okay once we’re together.”
There’s that twinkle in his eyes again. Grace could weather anything with what that look does to her.
“I can come over another day to put ‘em up” he nods to the boxes. Grace goes to protest but Leon stops her with a hand. His ring catches the sunshine. “It’ll be quicker with a screw gun, and it’ll look good for the social worker visit. They’ll want to check the place out before she comes home.”
“R-right, yeah,” it’s a good point. Grace will never find the motivation to do it on her own, and who else does she know in DC? Leon’s doing her a favor, it’s absolutely impossible to refuse. “Okay. M-maybe…Next week?…”
“Friday evening,” Leon says, bending to pull his boots on. Grace is floored by the suggestion— Don't you have any plans? Aren’t you gonna rest? Wont your wife want you home?
“Okay,” she says lamely. “Friday. I guess I’ll see you Friday.”
“You got my number if you need anything,” He says simply, as if Grace can just text him. Before closing the door, he tugs at the hoodie and winks. “And don't worry, I’ll bring this back clean.”
He does bring it back clean. He folded it up and put it in a reusable carrier bag, and when Leon leaves at 11pm on Friday evening — he’s been meticulously, skillfully, putting together Emily’s room all night — Grace pulls the hoodie to her nose and tries to drown in his scent.
It doesn't smell like him exactly — it misses the inoffensive but spicy aftershave he wears and the clean freshness of his deodorant — though it’s the same washer detergent he uses and it smells faintly like a candle and damn it, he was so obviously married from the moment Grace lay eyes on him in the care center.
Everything about him is just too good to be true. His cologne smells like an expensive Christmas gift, his shampoo is luxurious but not excessive, and there’s no way he’s picking out pants capable of doing that to his ass. Grace can see the fingerprints of a wifely touch on every piece of Leon. It feels nothing short of pathetic to pull the hoodie on immediately, put the sleeve to her face and take it in again, commit that scent to memory and back in the blanket of safety it swaddles her in. Grace is crushing on a married man; acting every bit the love-sick teenage girl she feels like.
Three weeks have passed since the shower incident, two since she last saw him, and Grace is doing…okay. It’s not like the anxiety is going anywhere anytime soon —that would take a miracle— but she’s starting to get some relief, here and there.
Leon had clocked the cabinet in front of the balcony, gave her the most heated fire-safety sermon of her life, and an anecdote of a friend who had to flee her apartment building through the fire escape during the Raccoon City, whilst being chased by a BOW, before he’d returned to the furniture and pushed it somewhere more sensible, all without breaking a sweat.
She was helpless to that man; though the clear, glass panes, the view to the higher buildings opposite, made dread pile up in her belly like bodies through a processing plant, he had asked it of her. Grace tried to be brave, at least until Leon had left. It took her a few hours to break, wedging a blanket into the rubber seal to cover up the view before she’d gone to bed. Then she woke up the next afternoon to a delivery driver, an unexpected package containing a roll of window-tint. He manages to know her so well. Grace doesn't much mind Leon’s clear view of her.
She has a busy couple of weeks, starting to get busy as her induction at work comes to an end and she begins to take on real cases—back to the system that had landed her in Elpis. Emily’s social worker has asked to meet with Grace on Thursday, and the FBI in DC want to hold a multi-agency meeting with the DSO and BSAA to tighten up the procedures for B.O.W encounters. Despite Grace’s insistence that she’s just an analyst, field missions are rare for her, the director had overruled her. Her experience were relevant for learning, he’d said; Grace isn't certain how she can learn anything from memories that still make it hard to breathe.
We’re gonna be okay, yeah?
Yeah, she’ll be okay. It’ll just be a few hours and then it’ll be over. She’ll order Sushi when she gets out and it’ll arrive by the time she gets back to the apartment. Grace can spend the evening getting everything in order for the meeting on Thursday.
It’s booked in for after lunch at the FBI office. Grace hasn’t returned to a cubicle full-time yet, so she’s not as familiar with the building and it’s staff, aside from her supervisor, who seems to be pulled in every direction all of the time. It takes 10 minutes to find a parking spot in a lot way too small for the amount of staff, and by the time she’s got outlook up on her phone to check what meeting room she’s in, she’s already 10 minutes late and sprinting into the building. She fumbles for her badge and apologizes to the security guard for nearly knocking them both flat on their ass, buzzing into the building and bee-lining for the elevator, which is out of order, so stairs it is. How ridiculous this all is, showing up to an important meeting sweaty, red-faced and late— so unprofessional, what on earth are her colleagues going to think? Everyone’s going to stare at her when she walks in and she’s going to have to give a better excuse than the one she has and she’s going to lose her job, and her ability to take care of Emily with it, and she’s sprint-walking down gray, corporate halls to the room at the end.
“I’m so sorry I’m late!” she should look up, make some eye-contact like a real adult, but it feels like putting the wrong ends of magnets together. “T-there was, my car…”
The room were half-empty anyway, just her supervisor there so far. Meetings never really start on time and there’s some time for Grace to get a coffee, if she wants one. She takes the excuse and goes to the restroom instead, to freshen up, throw water on her face and hold her hands under the tap. Just an hour or two. Come on, Grace.
The meeting goes about as well as she’d expected. There’s not much she can recall about it — the terror, perhaps, or maybe the hand that seized her neck and wrung every last breath out of her, or maybe just the thought to run, run out of there, run for her life and keep running.
Yes, that was it— Grace had ran out. Left. What was the excuse she gave again, if she had given one at all? It doesn't matter, she just needs to go, teetering the line between walking and sprinting in her black, slip-on shoes.
“Grace?”
For a moment, Grace wonders if she’s finally lost it, keeping her eyes on the floor, ignoring that voice. Something catches her, though, around the arm, yanking her backwards and trying to drag her away. Grace wretches her arm free, hand snapping immediately onto her holster. Her fingers move but the attacker is quicker, covering her wrist and yanking it away from her gun.
“Stop, get off me!”
“Whoa- it’s just me,” says Leon, materialized in front of her.
His eyes, blue steel, looking into them is like a glass of ice water.
Grace can hear herself gasping for air, as if she’s been holding her breath for an hour. She watches her hand tremble in Leon’s grip. Her legs feel like cardboard, like they might fold beneath her. She’s looking up at Leon, under his piercing gaze, and he’s all she can see.”
“Leon,” she’s not talking right, it sounds like something’s up with her voice. Grace hiccups, finds her mouth bone dry, and has to take a moment to wet. “You, you…” You’re not gonna hurt me. You're just Leon. Grace’s eyes drop to where he’s holding her wrist gently, his fingers enclosed around her entirely; Grace can feel callouses on his hands where his gun would sit, a cool, silver watch peaking out of his cuffs, holding a white shirt together with matching links. She can feel the thick metal of his wedding band. Her fingers shake, Leon lets her go easily when they reach for the sleeve of his blazer.
“You’re…wearing a suit.”
“Yeah,” he says, gently.
“And a tie?”
“It was between this and footie pajamas.”
Grace blinks. Blood is pumping around her body so quickly it's all she can do for a few moments, anchored onto Leon, his nice, black suit. It's just them in the hallway, oh thank god it's just them in the hallway —The last thing Grace wants is to look crazy.
“W-what are you doing here?” She releases him, like a hot potato.
“I tried to get to your meeting with the BSAA, but I got a little held-up,” he throws his thumb towards a wall, north of the building, where the main entrance and parking lot are. “Parking here is impossible.”
Grace laughs, more a huff with her racing heart, but it makes her smile nonetheless. Leon is here. “Yeah, you have no idea.”
Leon is beaming at her, in his own way, a playfulness lifting his face. He looks perfect, plucked out of a daydream—he always does.
“Didn’t mean to spook you. I should have guessed you’d be on high alert —The BSAA reps are trained to suck all the life out of any room they're in and insist on keeping you trapped there as long as possible. Real war room tactics. Thought you’d might like some back up.”
"It's fine,” Grace says, because it is. It’s just Leon. Leon’s fine. “But, uh…I don't exactly have a very high opinion of DSO’s staff right now, either. They’re…tardy.”
“Oh, ho—Well, we can't have that, can we?” Leon smirks. “You got a coffee place around here? It’s on me — call it a PR campaign.”
He looks cool, even though everything about him means he should look scruffy. Leon just wears everything so well, like it's the easiest thing in the world, even when he's throwing Grace a life jacket again.
“Sure…I could be swayed.”
There's a Starbucks in the building— it's pretty bad coffee, the barista is bored half the time and asleep behind the facade the other. Nonetheless, when Leon orders a flat-white with an extra shot it shows up on the table with a perfect heart drawn in the milk, and Grace can't even be mad about it. She gets it—Leon has that effect on people.
Leon asks about her, about Emily, and about the meeting. Grace feels like she hasn't shut up by the time she’s finished her coffee, and Leon pays for another to take away without her even asking.
“Where are you parked?” he asks.
“Right over there, in the corner.”
“Let me walk you,” he says, and Grace can tell it's not a question . She’s grateful, and he’s casual enough that she can squint and pretend it's about wanting to spend as much time with her as possible, and not her being a paranoid mess about being stalked again. Or kidnapped. Or kidnapped, then murdered.
“So, you really thinking of sticking it out here?”
“Um, what do you mean?” Grace asks.
Leon nods to the building behind them, shoving a hand in his pants pocket. “This place. The FBI. They got you in a lot of heat.”
“Oh, yeah…But, you know…They didn't know. I-I’m sure if they did then they wouldn't have—”
“Sent you to scope out the hotel you lost your mom in?” He gives her a look, Grace doesn't quite know what to make of it.
When she’d told her therapist about that, they hadn't liked it either — It’s highly unethical to endure exposure-response conditions for a paycheck, especially when the trauma is related to loss, which Grace translated to something along the lines of ‘what the absolute fuck’—But Grace wasn't quite sure how to explain it fairly; the faith her boss had in her did, or how she felt she’d owed it to mom, how close it made her feel to be there again Clearly, Leon disapproves— Raccoon City’s favorite hypocrite, she thinks meanly.
“It wasn't like that. I could have said no.”
Leon cradles his coffee with his other hand. Grace can find some amusement in the silliness of it all— Grace has seen Leon covered in rotten zombie guts and here he is, standing in a suit, like he’s cosplaying a business man. Grace wonders if that implies she was cosplaying a DSO agent during Elpis, but the joke doesn't quite fit right. That wasn't a game she played.
Grace doesn't feel like a technical analyst any more.
“There’s work at the DSO. Not field work—operations, coordinating.”
“Like your friend, Sherry,” Grace says carefully; She has no idea who Sherry is to Leon.
“Yeah, like Sherry,” Leon nods. “Or not, there’s always other roles.”
“A-are you trying to steal me from the FBI?”
Leon laughs, looks down on the floor and manages to block it with his floppy hair—I did that, I made him smile. They stop in front of her car — How Leon knows this one is hers is beyond her, but she isn't surprised. He knows so much about her.
“Sounds kinda bad when you put it like that,” he shrugs. “I’m only saying you should’ve been better protected, no matter how you wanna explain it away. Besides, you’re overqualified to work with these amateurs.”
Leon wants her to work with him. Grace is going to puke up butterflies— she chuffs up a laugh instead, and Leon returns it.
“Just think about it, yeah?”
We’re gonna be okay.
“Okay,” she nods, thumb brushing the wall of her cup. The coffee is warm still, a pleasant pressure against her palm. She’s okay, she’s right here with Leon.
“Good,”. Leon looks to her car - A white Prius she’s had for a few years now, Grace has been hoping its big enough for her and Emily— And whistles. “Uh-oh, Looks like you got a flat.”
Grace follows Leon’s gaze. He’s right, her back tire is completely empty, melted into the floor.
“You gotta be kidding me…”
Leon casually gives it a nudge with the tip of his shoe — expensive black leather — and the rubber makes a hiss.“Like a pancake," He says dryly. “You hit a curb on the way here?”
Grace tries to breathe but she’s already panicking. She shoves her eyes into her palms and presses the tears back into her skull. It’s like someone's scribbled on her brain. “Why did this have to happen today? I-I’m supposed to visit Emily tomorrow!” All she wants right now is to go home— Why her? Why?
“Hey, Relax — You must have a spare, right?” Leon’s hand is on her shoulder, burning a hole through her jacket and into her skin. There’s every urge to grab it and press it into her face, make him hold her whilst she melts down to nothing. Grace hiccups on her next breath.
“I-I don't have the tools to change it...”
“I got that covered. My car’s just there, we can use my kit,” he squeezes her shoulder, squeezes the worry out of her. That’s just Leon, isn't it? Always with a way out, always saving her. “Bet you didn't know I’m a pit-crew tech in my spare time — You’ll be driving away from here in just two minutes, ma’am.”
He’s still touching her; Grace doesn't want this to end, she wants the world to stop right now and keep them here forever.
“…I think you talk too much for a two-minute lap time, Leon,” she tries to smile.
“Ouch— You really know where to shoot a guy, Grace.”
Leon took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves to change her tire, which definitely took Grace’s mind off her bad day and threw it straight into the gutter, along with her dignity and her conscience. He did the whole thing without checking for instructions on his phone once, arguably one of the most impressive things Grace has ever seen — aside from his forearms and his thick fingers, black with grease.
“You need new break pads, they’re rusty” He’d said once he was finished, testing the spin of her tire. His forearms are thick with veins and he’s slightly flushed with sweat. “That’s an accident waiting to happen.”
“Okay…Guess I’ll need to find a mechanic around here,” she says, mostly note-to-self.
“These city shops are cowboys, they’ll try rip you off if you're not careful,” Leon decompresses the jack, returning the car to ground. “Book in somewhere for tomorrow afternoon, I can't make the morning.”
“Oh, you don't have to come with—”
“Cowboys, Grace. Cowboys.”
The shop is greasy, cluttered, and there’s rags discarded with black streaks on them at about every corner. It would be such a difficult place to frisk for evidence, what with all the sparks flying and loose bolts everywhere, but Grace gives it a good nose from the waiting area anyway, just for something to do — there's no one else here and Grace’s phone gets no bars, so scrolling Reddit is off the table, just good, old-fashioned fun.
Leon's been wedged against the waiting room door frame for the last 30 minutes, letting some employee talk his ear off about some classic car he’s just bought to fix up. Grace enjoys the low, dulcet tones of Leon’s voice just fine—even if she has a layman’s knowledge on vehicles and isn't all that interested in learning more—so she’s only half eaves-dropping. Leon offhandedly mentioned a motorbike and that was that, Mr. Classic Car is now Mr. My-Wife-Wont-Let-Me-Get-One!
Grace’s ear is peeled. She wonders what Leon’s wife thinks about his bike, his fancy Porsche, his dangerous job. Is she in the industry too?
She hears Leon huff, about as close to a laugh as he’ll give a stranger. “Yeah, it’s a hard sell—”
“Excuse me, sir,” a third voice interjects. “Your daughter’s car is finished. I got the bill right here.”
“Thanks,” Leon says, a crinkle of paper. “Can I take a look at the wheel?”
His voice fades away, along with the new one, and Grace’s face is so red she’s worried it might melt off.
Three weeks later, Grace finally gets a date. The adoption papers were accepted by social services, their supervised visits had gone better than Grace could have hoped for, and the social worker had brought Emily around to visit the apartment, after they’d given it a solo visit herself. Making sure it’s fit for purpose.
Grace understands the strict procedures and protocols, working at the FBI was a lot of red-tape and working within capacity, but she can't help reflect on her own childhood, throughout this whole process. What happens to the kids that don’t have eyes on them? Would mom's parenting style have passed these undefined assessments? What about Spencer - was he vetted before they handed Grace over to him?
Obviously not, she chides herself. She’s just…frustrated. The process has already taken so long.
She gets parental leave, to help Emily settle in. Grace fills out the relevant form on the FBI’s HR app and sends it off whilst she drinks her lunch. Parental leave for Grace Ashcroft. She’ll be Emily’s legal guardian and parent, soon. Emily will be her dependent and Grace will have full responsibility of her, with some support from social services, at least for a few years.
At first, she’s happy. There’s a light at the end of all this. The burning desire deep within her to finally be together again, all of them, so they can be okay, has been tossed a bucket of kindling and Grace feels like she’s vibrating out of her skin. She texts Leon— he’s the first person she thinks about sharing the news with— and he replies before she even has to start worrying about being left on read, and doesn't that just fan the flames.
Grace, a parent. She never really thought far enough ahead to think about having children, other than the existential dread of being the sole remaining Ashcroft. It’s hard to think of raising children when you rent a one-bed and find men your age…interesting. The idea of being pregnant is another thing all together — Grace cannot imagine that for herself right now. No, thank you. She’s had an implant since she was old enough to curse mother nature for her cycle.
Even still, it just seems right that Grace take her in. Maybe she didn't plan for it as long as other people might but neither did her mom, who did a pretty good job of loving Grace anyway.
Social services must think they’re a good fit. Emily's got some particular care needs —which the social worker made a big point of looping back to— and Grace is committed to helping her with whatever she needs. There will be help if she needs it, right? The social worker will work with them until they're ready to fly solo. It’ll be okay.
Grace’s leave gets approved within the next hour and she looks at the confirmation email for a good long while. She’s really doing this, isn't she? Taking care of another human being, probably for the rest of her life— that is, if Emily still wants her in her life when she’s 18. That’ll be 10 years from right now. Her life is going to be so different.
Hey, we’re going to be okay, yeah?
Yes. It's just change. Change is scary. Her therapist always says that discomfort raises tolerance for change. Grace works through to 5pm and tries not to think of it any further. When her laptop thunks shut, she’s left sitting on their small dining table, staring out of the tinted windows.
She hadn't thought about them since Leon sent her the wrapping; how safe are they really? Grace has touched technology she would never be able to imagine up for a sci-fi novel, has seen human bodies do things nature has never wanted for them, what the hell is a thin window-wrap to the right person with ill intentions?
Grace hasn't got a balcony. She’s got a big, blaring sign that says stalk me! stuck to her apartment, and she’s going to bring a child into here? Hasn’t she done enough to poor Emily?
She’s up and drawing the curtains shut immediately, shutting out the warm, setting sun beams with it. It’s not enough, she knows it’s not enough - there's scopes for guns that work off of body-heat and sensors that can read vocal chord vibrations from the glass. They’re sitting ducks up here, Emily isn't safe with her — who knows how many people know about Elpis?
Grace sweeps the place top to bottom for bugs, every room, more than once. She finds nothing which cannot be right, the feeling of eyes running all over her body is making Grace’s skin itch and crawl. It isn't safe in here, Grace knows it in her gut — It just isn't safe.
She can't let Emily down, or get her into any more harm than she already has. Elpis gave Emily another chance at life and Grace cannot be the reason it gets ruined again. she can't take any more. She can't breathe.
Her back against the wall, she slides to the kitchen floor, knees giving out. Grace clutches her chest, clawing sharp pains that spark along her ribs, and rasps for air. She can't breathe, she can't breathe.
Her phone is in her other hand. Grace’s fingers are trembling across the screen, an unruly piece of pray. She’s never going to really escape, is she?
“Grace,” Leon says, his voice slightly muffled. “What's up?”
Grace sips two, desperate breaths, hears herself whimper into the phone. “L-Leon.”
“Grace, breathe,” he’s serious, Grace has disrupted his peace and quiet and put him into work-mode. Maybe he’s with his wife, trying to enjoy time together, and some neurotic little girl has decided he’s her teddy bear now. “What’s wrong?”
“I—” Please help me, I’m so fucking scared right now, I can't stop the bleeding. “I can't do this, Leon. I can't.”
There’s a sigh, almost imperceptible by the microphone, but Grace takes it right to the heart. She imagines him rubbing his face with his hand and shaking his head; He must be so tired of saving her, all these little things she should be able to do but can't.
“Hey,” he surprises her, gentle, kind; nothing she deserves. Tears shake down her cheeks. “You’re gonna be okay, yeah?”
She nods. Always does, even when those words are just imagined.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” keys jingle, Leon’s moving around wherever he is — probably at home with his wife. Pangs of guilt make Grace feel like she’s going to vomit. “Stay on the line, don't hang up. Got you in my ear.”
Oh, you don’t have to, it’s just me being me! Grace knows what she should say, and can't. She needs him, she might die if he doesn't get here, then she’ll let Emily down, and let Leon down, and she’ll just be the girl that couldn't hack it.
Leon gets into his car, the door slammed, then starts the engine. Grace can hear it hum to life, little chimes and beeps that scream luxury. She can follow every little sound that bleeds through, thick fingers wrapped around the wheel, Leon looking over his shoulder to reverse out of wherever he’s parked, leaned back in the driver’s seat with one hand on the hand break. She just has to get through his drive, then he’ll be here.
“Grace?” he says, after a few moments. She’d gone quiet.
“I’m here,” she whispers, through the hand squeezing her throat dry.
“Tough kid,” Grace breath hitches, it doesn't sound like something she was supposed to hear, which makes her heart skip a beat. “20 minutes, count ‘em. I’m gonna be right there, the whole time.”
The engine purrs, the blinker makes distant clicks when Leon hits it down, Grace imagines how he would have to feed the steering wheel to take the exits. Is he switching lanes or taking turns? Grace wants to soak in the details, wants to crawl inside the pocket of Leon’s jacket and spend all her time watching him, following him, beside him.
Leon lets himself in at the intercom outside but knocks the door to her apartment. Grace clutches her phone as she drags herself upright, his gentle breaths glued to her ear, the open space between the wall and the door is too suffocating to make on her own. All that’s stood between her and Leon is the twist of a door handle, and isn’t that a terrifying comfort? Her sweaty fingers slip on the metal when she undoes the lock.
And there Leon is, waiting for her.
“Hey, you,” he says.
Grace crashes into his chest. He’s wearing a soft, cotton shirt that she’s soaking tears into, her hands find the lapels of his jacket and Grace grasps at him, claws at him, tries to crawl inside of his rib-cage and make a home there, the only safe place in the world. She wants to stop drowning.
“I got you, you’re alright,” He holds her back, winding a strong arm around her shoulders. Grace wasn’t sure if he would, so conservative with his touch, respectful, always a hover over her shoulder, always something she could pull away from. Grace doesn’t want to pull away. She can’t.
“I don’t know what to do,” Grace whimpers, the words tumble out. “I-I can’t do this— Emily… it’s not safe—”
“Slow it down, Grace,” Leon takes both her arms, strokes his thumb down the length of her triceps, a gentle motion. “Slow, alright?…”
Okay. Okay, yeah. She can slow down, Leon’s got a hold of her, he’s in charge. He’s giving her permission. Leon lets get catch her breath, holds her the whole time. Grace is leaving snotty, teary stains on Leon’s t-shirt as she hiccups herself down to a soft sniffle.
The air, the space between them, is easy. Quiet, but easy. Leon’s heart is a sturdy, thrumming beat, the only thing she cares to hear. He’s calm, his breath comes and goes like a gentle tide, her cheek rising and falling with his chest. Eventually, Leon pats her shoulder gently.
“Get your shoes on, let’s get outta here.”
Grace is in her pajamas— She looks gingerly at her ratty t-shirt and superhero pants, not even wearing a bra. “I’m not dressed…“
“We ain’t going anywhere fancy,” he shrugs and looks idly at the stains she left on him. Grace…would rather leave other marks on him, but doesn't really hate that one…Is that weird?…That’s probably weird. “Just a drive. Come on.”
The trek to his car feels like a march to the loony bin, what with her cuffed PJ’ pants and vans combo. Leon opens the door for her, like she’s a little kid, and gestures her in. There’s cool, black leather seats, the huge interior, and the sleek modern dashboard that lights up when it hums to life; Leon belongs in a car like this— He chose this, not his wife. Grace just knows it. The seats are heating up; It starts to feel more like a sleepover.
Leon looks at Grace’s seatbelt as he clicks his own in, taking the car out of park.
“Where are we going?” Grace asks, settling in her seat. She feels like it’s swamping her, there's so much space.
“I want a burger, and I think you could use an ice cream.”
Grace laughs, it bubbles out of her with a wet sniffle. “You’re gonna eat a burger at…10pm?”
“I’m having a cheat night,” Leon says.
He tells her that she can plug-in her phone and play some music but Grace doesn't have the heart to tell him that neither her phone, nor the car, will have an audio-jack on it, so she declines. The engine hums softly instead, the tires sound smooth, expensive, rolling on the roads seamlessly. Leon is a great driver, clearly in his element. Grace shamelessly watches him —there's no point pretending she’s not— drinking in the way Leon’s cheeks catch the white street lights.
He’s beautiful. Grace’s head feels so clear with him, like all the tabs have been closed. She’ll find time to hate herself for this after, soaking in how special he makes her feel is more appealing.
“You didn't have to come over,” she says, softly. Grace watches Leon’s grip fidget on the wheel, his hands are subtly expressive.
“I’m not just going to leave you upset,” He replies after a moment, as if it’s obvious.
“I-I wasn't upset, I was…” Grace isn't quite sure what to call it. She was back there. “..Ever since Elpis it’s just…It’s been…” Indescribable. She wrinkles her nose and looks out the window, frustrated.
“…Like you’ve changed,” Leon finishes. “Like you died and now you’re someone new.”
“Yeah,” she breathes. “I-it’s like it never happened, like I blinked and it’s just…over for everyone else, but not for me,” She’s tearing up again, throat clamping up. “God, I feel crazy…”
That’s it, isn’t it? All it took was one week for Grace’s world to turn upside down, again, and she’s so different now but the world is still spinning exactly the same, everyone else has walked on ahead without her, expecting her to just catch up again.
Leon is silent; his fingers pulse on the wheel. Grace wonders what she said wrong though he stops that thought dead when he speaks.
“It’s gonna suck. It’ll be a lot of…pain, for awhile…But it’ll get easier. You’ll make room for it,” He says thickly, thumb bouncing against hard leather.
They slow down at a red light, breaks gentle. Leon hits the blinker and it ticks like a metronome.
“Do you still think about Raccoon City?” she dares.
“Every single day.” Leon looks at her, through her, gets her.
The light changes. They pull off and turn into the drive-through.
“Alright, what do you want? Remember, it’s cheat night.”
Leon pays. Grace kind of knew he would but it’s still giddy to think about. He hands over a fifty and tells them to keep the change, then passes Grace the goods as they're handed to him. It’s so weirdly domestic— The last time she had drive through with someone must have been with mom, all those years ago. Leon parks them in a quiet area of the lot, keeping the heating going.
Grace sips on her cola, wedged in the drinks container with their ice cream. She wonders if Leon is really going to be able to put away this whole thing, maybe she should try pace it. God, this is so silly— Grace has seen Leon shoot out an eyeball, now they're eating McDonald's.
“I haven’t had a burger in years” Grace says.
“Happy to help,” Leon answers, picking the bags open. He passes hers over then digs in to his fries.
They chat. It’s easy. Grace’s eyes feel a little swollen from the crying and she’s probably going to be sniffling until she goes to bed, but she feels a lot better. It’s embarrassing to think she could’ve just avoided spiraling if she had just eaten, but the other reality is even more humiliating to imagine.
“It won't be so bad once Emily’s with you,” Leon says, after a spoon of vanilla ice cream. “You’ll regret it if you don't try.”
He makes everything so easy. Leon always knows what to do, he knows exactly what to say, how she wants to hear it and what she needs. He’s attentive. He’s caring.
“Do you have kids?” Grace asks— because she knows it’s a possibility.
Leon has another spoonful—Grace thinks it’s so he can buy some time.
“No,” he says eventually.
“Did you ever talk about it? With your wife?”
He is buying time. Leon’s next bite doesn't make it to his mouth, faltering. This is why he shouldn't have spoiled her so much, or made her feel so special; Grace is starting to get brave. Leon returns the spoon to the pot.
“…No” Grace has touched a nerve. It’s a sick thrill, watching Leon struggle, even just a little. “Hard to imagine her like that.”
Hello, elephant, welcome to the room. I’m Grace, and I am head over heels for your husband.
“You have a ring,” Grace nods to it. “But you don't talk about her, and you're…you're with me a lot. Doing a lot for me.”
“Grace.”
“Have you told her about me?…”
“She’s a little hard to reach,” Leon says, firmly. Grace shuts her mouth. She knows she’s done it when Leon doesn't swallow his sigh. “She comes and goes. It’s been…a long time since I last saw her.”
Oh. Oh, Leon. “So, you’re…"
“A weird, lonely, old man?” He looks at her with a shrug. “Yeah, guilty.”
Okay, she regrets hitting the nerve now. Grace flushes under his chilly stare.
“…You’re not lonely,”she says, raising her ice cream, shaking it lightly. “It’s cheat night…”
He smiles at her—A Leon smile, all smirk and a hint of teeth. Grace’s throat swarms with butterflies.
“You're terrible at flirting, kid.” he says, shaking his head.
The air is thick when Leon drops her home. They’re silent, aside from a sip of coffee or Grace’s spoon against cardboard. Blood races around her body, heating up her belly, pooling between her legs. Grace’s hands are shaking, but it's not just fear.
At a stop-light, Leon offers his hand out to her, palms calloused but bare. She had saved him once too, when they'd thought it was his end—They were going to go down together. There’s no proof of black splotches anywhere on his hands, no scars or texture, just callouses from his gun that Grace maps with her fingers. She presses their palms together, comparing their different size. Leon uses their intertwined fingers to shift into drive, then again when they park, and Grace is getting giddy from how silly it is.
She finds his band, rolls it around his ring finger. It’s thick, expensive, maybe white-gold. What a waste, she thinks. Leon catches her, takes his eyes off the road to look at what she’s doing. Grace thinks she’s going to get a scolding, or maybe she’s given him second thoughts, but he isn’t looking at the ring— he’s looking at her.
He parks on the corner, a forgotten little street a block away from her building. His Porsche is too nice to be here but he doesn’t seem to care, coming around to meet her at her door. There’s not a soul here besides them, everyone is tucked away in their homes above them, leaving Grace and Leon in their own little world.
Leon offers his hand. Grace takes it, uses it to pull herself into his chest and onto her tippy-toes. This close, she can pick out how his cologne is baked into the collar of his coat, how cool the leather feels against her bare palm. Grace kisses him hard, and soft, and tastes the cheap coffee on his lips. Leon doesn’t leave her helpless, he cradles her head in the palms of his hands and presses her into the door of the car. Grace had no idea being breathless could feel so good— Leon breaks the seal their wet lips make and Grace whines.
“Let me walk you there,” he says into the space between them.
“Okay,” Grace replies.
Leon’s just got back from Gibraltar. There’s an informant sequestered there for witness protection whilst they consult on a case, so the DSO sends an operative over there every few months to check on their security. Business class flights stopped being a novelty the first time he’d had to take airbus for work — and that was when he still had plenty of miles left in him— he’s getting too old for flights. His back is getting too old.
He’s been face-down on his mattress for all of 15 minutes before his phone starts buzzing. It isn't a work phone, and it’s by-passed the do-not-disturb mode on his personal, so there's only really one person it could be.
“Grace?”
“Hi Leon!”
“Emily,” he corrects, one knuckle going to rub his still-closed eye. “What’s up?”
“The light in my room is broken and Grace can't reach it. She’s even standing on a chair!”
“Emily, do you have my phone?” Leon hears a voice call. It does not plaster a smile to his face, nope.
“Well, we can't have that, can we?” he yawns, throwing his feet onto the floor.
“Do you have a ladder?” Emily asks.
“I do.”
“I think you're gonna need it. Grace said it’s high up.”
“I’m sure she did,” Leon stretches. He has nothing else to do today anyway, and an reason to see Grace would be…welcome. “Can you keep her out of trouble for me? No more standing on chairs?”
Emily hums.
"Oh, there you are!” says Grace in the distance. “Are you calling someone?”
“Yeah, I can do that— Bye, Leon!"
The call hangs up. Leon huffs.
He’s going to start looking desperate if he keeps running to help her.