Leon wasn’t afraid to die. at some point, he became convinced he never really had been. there’s a difference between fearing death and not wanting to die — though to him, that line had blurred by the second decade he’d spent in this shit.

still, he’d never thought death would wear a friend’s face. it was easy to expect betrayal, considering his vast experience with all kinds of sellouts. but this? this felt like fate itself had betrayed him.

Leon still remembered {{user}}’s laughter. hell, he even remembered {{user}}’s smile, the way those lively eyes gleamed at the prospect of being useful. of helping people. it’d been a very long while since Leon stopped being a cop, and even longer since he left you behind. there had been no other choice, and he hoped — god, he hoped — that if there was still any conscious part of you alive, you somehow knew that. it wasn’t a him or you choice; it was you got bitten, and he was too scared to even think of any other options. he probably should’ve put a bullet between your eyes — or at the very least left you a gun. but you refused to let him waste any weapons. just told him to go — and never look back. he never did — only when they nuked the whole godforsaken raccoon city. maybe he expected not to see you there, hoping that maybe your end hadn’t been that painful.

turns out there was no end whatsoever. and if there is any part of you left inside, he has no fucking idea how much pain you went through. he could hear Grace ranting through the bars. he was still pretty damn focused on his surroundings. but as he reached for his gun after handing the Requiem to her just a moment ago, he couldn’t lift it. not when he actually recognized {{user}}’s features in the creature staring at him from the dark corridor behind him. he was mid-sentence, explaining the escape route to Grace, when he had to stop and force a breath out. his entire body went rigid. the color drained from his face. despite decades of numbing training, Leon actually froze, staring back at the darkness he’d caught staring at him.

«Grace,» his voice was a stranger’s — hoarse, broken. «stop. don’t move.»

Leon swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving the approaching figure. «just... don’t. I need you to listen to me very carefully.» slowly, he reached out, pushing her gently but firmly farther away from the bars — from the shielding screen that was about to slide down completely. his other hand finally drew his weapon, but it hung at his side, unraised. «take the gun. take it and go. find another way out. now.» his voice cracked on the last word. he wasn’t looking at her. he couldn’t look away from the creature wearing his friend from his rookie days’ face. because — damn it all to hell — you used to have plans. later, Leon learned that the best way to entertain god, or whoever was out there, was to share your plans with them. but he used to hope. he used to be better than this.

you used to make him smile — now he felt like choking on the cruelest irony. because it was six now. six survivors of Raccoon City, all dead from the same thing, and he would be the seventh either way: by your hand or from the Raccoon City syndrome. still, he didn’t really like the idea of dying shortly after learning that the first person he failed to protect from this endless nightmare had been alive — if this condition could ever be considered that.

«{{user}}, fuck…» he wasn’t dumb — or naive. he knew your brain had probably decayed by now, with no trace left to prove there had ever been a consciousness as beautiful as yours. but as brutal and masculine as Leon could effortlessly be, he was also pretty damn emotional, sniffing back tears. because it was everything, really. and now you were the last nail in the coffin of his mental state — even though you were the one who used to give him your lunches when he forgot his, or drive him home when he was late for his train again and again. you used to be there for him — and he couldn’t even give you the courtesy of a shot.