Chapter Text
~**Now, Hospital**~
„Hey, Leon!”
Leon tried his very best to ignore the faint wheezing of Grace Ashcroft in the background and also to keep an eye on whatever in Hades is happening right in front of him in the dark. He also contemplated using his hatchet when the fucker will do decide to show its ugly face, but it has yet to make a move.
Good. Leon likes to take things slow.
“Hi, Alaire.” He stared into the ever-moving void ahead of him. Grace was having a mild panic attack by his right. “Nice to hear your voice.”
Something was definitely growling. Grace whined out a “Who are you talking to?” that he easily pretended not to hear. He can’t be charming to every woman all at once while feeling for his hatchet in his belt, preparing for a boss fight.
“Am I calling you at a bad time?” Alaire’s voice was appropriately hesitant. Cute, Leon noted. “I probably am.”
Leon slowly shifted his weight onto his left, gathering strength for a kick if the need arises for that. He hoped against all odds he could shoot a round into that thing before that, but choosers are losers, or whatever.
"No, not at all. As good a time as any."
Flash of a movement; a pair of eyes at twelve o’clock. Maybe eight pairs, who counts. Grates started to slip into place before completely closing on doors and windows. Grace fighting valiantly against the mental breakdown. A growl once again, guttural, wet.
“Was that… a growl?” Alaire’s puzzlement truly could have been the cutest if he wasn’t pursued by darkness incarnate.
Leon still couldn’t stop himself. “Well, let’s just say I miss you,” he breathed into the comm, narrowing his eyes. Oh, yeah, that’s definitely more than one pair of eyes ahead. Fuck.
The doors have almost closed. Leon flipped his revolver in his hand – bad habit? Show-off tendencies? He wished Alaire had seen that – before offering it to Grace, the brave survivor of the beforementioned, slightly underestimated (by Leon) panic attack.
“Take this,” he said. Sure. Whatever’s waiting for him at the end of the corridor is definitely in for a surprise. Revolver or no revolver, Leon’s ready. He’s been ready for thirty goddamn years!
“Take what?” Alaire asked, beyond confused, while Grace, with terrified eyes of a kicked dog, stared up at him.
“The compliment, Alaire,” Leon answered easily, while he nodded at the mouthed question of: “You’re sure?” by Ashcroft. He gestured around, to the still bleeding body of another monstrosity and the slowly closing doors. “You might need it.”
Grace quickly grabbed for the Requiem, her face, her mouth pressing and twisting into lines of determination. It was kind of impressive in these circumstances.
On the other line of the call, Alaire made a choked sound of surprise muddled with barely concealed longing. That made Leon chuckle under his nose.
“Oh, the compliment of missing me? I might need it for what, Leon? Until I see you again?”
Leon switched on his flashlight; the brightness cut a straight line ahead. He might have caught a glimpse of a leg, or something else. Hopefully not a paw of some unholy abomination.
The grates finally thudded into place; the hallway fell into an uneasy darkness. Leon hoped to God that Grace got it together on the other side and moved somewhere. Safe? Hardly. Safer? Hopefully.
Requiem could at least pack a few punches if all else fails.
“You definitely haven’t seen the last of me, darling,” he breathed, and smiled when he caught an unmistakeable gasp. This shit used to be hard for him? Or does Alaire fold too easily for him? He likes a challenge, sure, but it was nice for once to not having to try too hard. “So get ready when I emerge from this godforsaken place and march into yours.”
He silently whipped out his pistol, took a tentative step forward. The promise of a fight warming his blood, he rolled his shoulder and imagined, if only for a split second, Alaire’s adorable blush devouring her freckles.
Yeah, for that, it was worth surviving. At least for a good night; the rest might figure itself out.
He’s getting old maybe, but not for that.
He finally spotted something. He didn’t think too much about what he saw.
“You might wanna end the call, sweetheart. It’s gonna be loud.”
“What’s going to be loud?”
Leon quickly aimed and shot. Judging by the noise, it definitely hit something awful in whatever in the nine hells was lurking in there. It shrieked like a cheerleader with a sore throat.
“I might’ve killed something. Talk later.”
He hung up the call. With unnecessary dramatics that no one could appreciate, he wiped his not even slightly sweaty brow, and then, with the elegance of a cat ready to fuck the interior décor up, leapt into the fight.
~**A few weeks earlier**~
Alaire hated team building.
It was such an unnecessary waste of time, especially to her; why does a lawyer need to be incorporated into DSO on a buddy-level? Her only job is to cover the legal side of their shenanigans, nothing more. It’s not like she was about to be sent into battle with them as a comrade of some sorts. Nobody even needed to see her face to be able to trust her paperwork. She was an excellent paper-pusher. She did her job well – that’s why she was chosen. It was unprecedented to be chosen before the ripe old age of forty, at least in this team; she was celebrating her thirty when that call came in a few months ago.
“It’s an honour!” Lola whispered into her ear before they could push the conference room doors open. “They won’t eat you there. You just chat for an hour, mingle with the scary agents, give French kisses to your bosses or whatever you have to do to remain in their good graces; and then we leave and order pizza at your place.”
Lola almost vomited from anxiety less than an hour ago, so she was hardly convincing about this plan. Alas, she was also Alaire’s secretary through death and fire, and whatever she said held gravitas, of course. And she was also dishearteningly right.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to dig myself under the pots of those hibiscuses over there!” Alaire motioned towards the columns by the sides of the room supporting the ceiling. There was a row of lovely flowers there; perfect spots for a spontaneous cringe induced death.
“You can do that,” Lola plastered her fake smile onto her face like a badge of honour and bravely stepped inside. Her eyes scanned the growing crowd and immediately were filled with terror, “after we are done flirting around for our professional advancement.”
“I know. We talked about this.”
The room was almost too bright, almost blinding; too many lamps, too much exposure. It highlighted even more the dark silhouettes of the agents and important people clad in black suits and dresses against the whites of the walls. The conference hall stretched ahead like an impatient basketball player, tall and long and reaching into every far corner of the building. Even though the space was wide, the chandeliers left a suffocating impression, towering over the long lines of tables set for the dinner.
“At least we get a chance to see this Leon dude in the flesh!” whispered Lola into the deafening silence building between them. The room was loud, of course; the agents, let loose from formalities, didn’t have to talk in the hushed tones used during their missions, and they certainly wanted to make sure this triumphant opportunity is properly exploited. “I feel like a celebrity. Look at those muscles! Jesus, I’m going to weep.”
Well, Alaire had to agree. Lean, toned figures made up half of the crowd; the other half consisted of the bureaucrats that helped those muscle-daddies and mommies stay alive on and beyond their adventures.
Alaire knew they were meeting the big guns of DSO. That’s what made her stomach lurch; having the opportunity to meet Leon Kennedy? Varen Lars? Alexander Mosey, their soon-to-be boss, the brilliance behind the hardest of criminal law cases before he was recruited for the President’s schemes? Those classified agents with secrets so great that even those working there had no idea why exactly is the President in awe of them?
Alaire had the childish urge to hold Lola’s hand, and for a moment she believed she felt the same exact urge possessing her friend. But Lola soldiered through the panic and walked up to the first person she saw to introduce themselves.
That person turned out to be the goddamn president, and Alaire wanted to peel the skin off of her face when she almost curtsied in disbelief. She didn’t think He would be there. Nobody told them! What a mess! She should have known. Lola didn’t seem to be phased, though; maybe she paid more attention to the guestlist attached to their invitations.
“Ah, so you are our new resident legal agent, huh?” The President had a warm smile and a youthful excitement; like Alaire was a celebrity, and He was bestowed the highest honours of meeting her.
Alaire’s lips grew numb. “Legal agent?” she mumbled dizzily.
“He likes to think everyone is a little toy soldier under his clumsy thumb, eh, Mr President?” A man approached their group, dark haired, easy-mannered, his brown eyes shining. He resembled an over-eager puppy who adores you, but, if you approached him in a funny mood, would bite your ankle unceremoniously. “Varen Lars to the lawyer ladies’ rescue! Berty might bore you to death with state secrets…” he winked, “after which we would have to quietly dispose of you like we did with the previous legal team.”
Alaire though she blinked a series of blinks that were maybe the early signs of a good old-fashioned fainting.
Was he kidding? Is that really Varen Lars before them, joking with the President like two misbehaving kids on a playground? How is he so tall and… strong…? What the hell!
Lola also seemed stunned by the intervention, and while she scrambled for words, the President just laughed.
“Varen, is this your way of greeting our new workforce? The heart of our team, the swords of Justicia? Mosey will be very displeased with us, greeting his new members of the legal team like this.”
Varen eyed Alaire with an unmistakeable glint in his eye; then turned to Lola with the exact same expression. It was confusingly charming, maybe a bit too overwhelmingly so. “Oh, they are tough as nails, look at them! They are not scared, not even a little bit!”
Alaire cleared her throat. This is not any worse than those idiots she has to fight on a regular basis in the courtroom. Just slightly better situated, manner of speaking. “According to the latest information received, Mr Peter Jacky, my predecessor died of natural causes.” She ignored the amused smiles of the men. “Heart attack.”
“Yes, indeed a heart attack, poor Jackie.” Another man stepped in, dressed in a suit and regal might, like a king. “Glad to finally meet you in person, Miss Sinclair. Alexander Mosey, at your service. And please,” he shook her hand firmly in his, “do not be intimidated by these rascals. They mean well.”
Calling the President a rascal in front of a new employee seemed like a bold move, but the scene also played out like there wasn’t much thought behind the name callings. It felt like Alaire was intruding in a friend meetup.
She talked for a while about the changes in legislation, about cases she was part of. She listened to anecdotes of the most ridiculous defence speeches she ever heard, and after a while, she was brave enough to let herself laugh at them.
Then she felt her social battery beep at her in an urgent tone, so she excused herself for a moment. Lola nodded; they will change places soon, so the secretary too could have a few moments to recharge.
She manoeuvred herself swiftly through the crowd, deftly dodging the demands for social calls and introductions. She made it to the first line of defence – the table with the alcohol –, and she sighed to herself quietly, hesitating in picking a glass for herself.
Which one will kick her in the least to speak coherently through the rest of the evening? Isn’t there an orange juice variation somewhere?!
Her heart picked up pace. She hated this part of her work so much!
“If you wanna politely muse over something less likely to make you spin on your head, I’d drink this here.”
She looked up.
There was a man leaning against the column on his right. He nonchalantly sipped from his glass of choice, something dark – probably wine. He had a ridiculously perfectly tousled hair, under which a kind – even if a bit bored – pair of blue eyes sparkled, crowned by very alluring lines of crow feet. He had a bit of a stubble, which accentuated the sharp lines of his cheekbones, and he had an easy smile that clearly wasn’t borne out of joy of this gathering, but rather some other thing he must have found very amusing.
She felt herself blush as she hesitantly extended a hand; first, for the drink he was gesturing to, then towards him in realisation.
“I don’t think we’ve met, sir,” she explained awkwardly, as her hand hung between them, “I’m Alaire Sinclair, the…”
“Ah, the new lawyer, I see,” he said while accepting her handshake. His calloused fingers were gentle, just like his pleasant features; how strange, she thought, this man exuded confident danger, all the while retaining the kindest demeanour she’d encountered so far this evening. His genuine smile wasn’t forced, although it wasn’t wide, either. A small little offering of trust. “Leon Kennedy. I’m the one they send out to flaunt the contents of the armory around to look intimidating. Nice to meet you, Miss Sinclair.”
Greying hair framed his handsome face, but his aura made him appear youthful, or even young. He had a strange energy thrumming under his skin, behind his eyes, in the quirk of his lips; he had the presence of a man who’d seen too much, maybe enough, but who wasn’t corroded by those harrowing experiences. Even if most of him was covered in expensive clothes, there wasn’t a single doubt in her that he was probably marred by scars under them.
So, this is Leon Kennedy. The one they whispered about. The one with the secret operations. The one whose legal safety will also be trusted into her hands.
“Oh, please,” she mumbled, all professionalism lost to the wind, “just call me Alaire for this evening. We will have plenty of time for formalities, when you undoubtedly end up in a paperwork-pickle.”
“I’m diplomatic immunity in the flesh, Alaire,” he smirked, bowing his head a little in acknowledgement, “but I guess you’ll be the one sorting my problems out in that front. My problems, as in Leon’s problems; at least for this night. The Kennedy part of me is the real troublemaker, let’s leave him behind for a while.”
She supressed a shiver – the good kind. He had the eyes of a troublemaker, for sure. “I’m afraid your immunity is not the solution to every question, Leon. I might have to smooth out a few rough edges after one or two successful mission of yours. Damages to the harmed parties, alleviating charges…”
The wine in his hand sparkled under the lights. Alaire was mesmerized by the red reflected in his blue… Or even grey? Hard to decide in these lights, but if she leaned a little closer…
“Terribly exciting,” he murmured lowly, kindness-laced irony grumbling in his voice, “We might have to switch careers if you don’t stop listing all the good stuff.”
“I’m a pretty jealous person. I don’t like to share,” she said before she could stop herself. That drew a chuckle out of her conversation partner. “You can keep your guns; and I get to keep my paragraphs about the legal hurdles of gun use.”
He drew a long sip from his wine. She watched the line of his throat exposed under the unbuttoned shirt. Only two buttons down, but she was granted a partially obscured view of his collarbone.
It was a good view.
“Deal,” he said after swallowing. “Sounds a bit dry. I also wouldn’t impress so much in a skirt, sitting at a desk; I leave the toughest part of the job to you.”
She forgot how to breathe
It certainly wasn’t… was it? Was he…?
She didn’t even notice the way her hand was extended awkwardly towards that glass of wine he showed her earlier. He, however, caught that; with an elegant, silent motion, he pushed himself off of the pillar he was leaning against, and then got the glass into his hands. His fingers curled delicately against the stem.
“I didn’t mean it in an offensive way,” he gently raised the glass. She took it in a trance. “What you do is equally important, and I’m so grateful you’ll be the one sorting these out; I wouldn’t be able to. Well, you won’t be grateful to me and my legal disasters, though, that’s for sure.”
She wanted to say something foolish, something along the lines of “if you use that tone, I’ll be grateful for anything that comes out of your mouth”, but she knew where the borders of professionality lied. They were just about to overstep that, if they hadn’t already.
She dismissed her bubbling fear. He is an agent on shore leave, not another lawyer at work. He may or may not have been taught to understand those borders when let loose in a casual setting.
“I, ahh, I need to, uh…” she gestured to Mr. Mosey’s form somewhere in the chaos of people. “It was a pleasure seeing you.” Alaire died inside a little when Leon winked at her. “I, uh, I mean a pleasure to hear you… just leave pleasure, it was an… honour…”
She is a professional. She has a diploma and ten years of experience! She had to momentarily close her eyes to collect herself; and when she opened them up, she was met with a teasing pair of raised eyebrows.
“The pleasure was mine, Alaire,” Leon announced all-too-politely, in stark contrast to the mischief in his eyes. “See you when I’m inevitably thrown into prison in a foreign country!”
She was painfully aware that she should say something, or assure him that she will do everything in her power to save him, but then he smiled again, that little, smug smile that was just not fair, so she decided to leave dignity behind and slowly back away, as if the man was a barely tamed lion ready to bite.
Lola almost immediately jumped on her when she got back into the party, slight fury etched into the line of her eyebrows. “What took you so long?! I’m close to a heart attack, I’m tired, I didn’t have that nice-smelling bubbly champagne I’m eyeing for at least thirty consecutive minutes at that table… Wait, why are you so red? What happened?”
Alaire forcefully turned her back to the man leaning against the pillar by the tables and convinced herself he wasn’t watching. He probably wasn’t. She was just a paper-pusher! This man probably has an ass-kicking sidepiece somewhere in the Bahamas. He seemed the type for that.
Actually, as she risked a glance back towards him, he just stood there motionless, with a kind of empty expression on his face that showed boredom and… reserved calm, not easily outbalanced.
Maybe he was the exact opposite. The kind of guy who must have had maximum two nice conversations in his entire life, and the one who, after a long workday, goes back to an empty apartment with aching bones and aggressively forced-down sorrow clawing at his throat.
The kind who likes to make others feel better around him, even if he’s silently falling apart. The one who immediately noticed her discomfort and wasn’t blindly turning away from it.
Lola followed her line of sight and squealed. “Oh, my God. Hold on. Hold the fuck up. Is that…? The guy with the sad anime haircut? The chosen one of the USA?”
“Leon Kennedy,” she sighed from the bottom of her heart. “A pretty face with a pretty soul.”
Lola turned to her, almost hissing with want. “Who cares about his soul when he has a face like that! Oh, my good Lord in Heaven Jesus Christ who didn’t grant me enough strength for a sight like this; did he talk to you?”
Alaire gulped down something resembling a whine. “He had the voice of an angel…”
Lola leaned in, and whispered: “Okay, that’s my time to shine. Go back to Mosey, French kiss him for brownie points, and after I shagged your agent, we can leave and order that bloody Hawaiian pizza we’ve been wildly fantasizing about the whole evening.”
Alaire exhaled again. “How long is this going to take you, bestie?”
Lola professionally checked her wristwatch, biting her lip. “An hour.”
“An hour?!”
“You left me for half an hour to, I guess, whimper sweet nothings into Leon Kennedy's ears about the legislation procedures of the 1850’s, and you didn’t even touch his pistol, so shut up,” she whispered with the innocent glare of a judge sentencing someone to twenty-five years in prison. "I can take my sweet time now without you making me feel guilty."
“You can’t shag him, he’s a client.”
“Your client, bestie,” she winked. And then, for good measure, she squeezed Alaire’s arm. “You know I’m just kidding, right? But it’s a good dream.”
Alaire distractedly chugged down a mouthful of her wine, decidedly not drooling while looking at his general direction. “Yeah, a good dream indeed.”