Bingqiu roleswap where disciple Shen Yuan knows he's gay, and figures out that he has a big huge crush on his handsome Shizun, but also concludes nearly at once that he's not going to be drawing Luo Binghe's eye any time soon. Firstly, Luo Binghe is notoriously straight. Secondly, even if he weren't, he wouldn't go for his scrawny untalented nerd of a disciple! Shen Yuan's not bad looking, not before or after transmigrating, but he's neither a beautiful nor a hot manly man, and he assumes if Luo Binghe were into dudes he'd be into the same kinds of twunks that Shen Yuan likes. Guys on his own level, etc etc.
Plus Luo Binghe hated the original disciple Shen, and only started to warm up to the transmigrated version after Shen Yuan got injured in front of him trying to stop the other disciples on the peak from killing a small animal. For some reason, Luo Binghe brought Shen Yuan medicine. He got even nicer after Shen Yuan distracted the skinner demon by trying to convince it to take his skin instead of Luo Binghe's, and then again when Shen Yuan successfully fought off a demon invader -- though initially when Luo Binghe volunteered him for that job, he thought it was an assassination attempt. His heart was in his throat when Luo Binghe nearly took a poisoned blow for him, but luckily he reacted more quickly and got hit by the thorns instead. His heavenly demon blood took care of the poison, and he managed to convince everyone that he narrowly avoided getting cut at all.
Shen Yuan's careful not to read anything into it when Luo Binghe finds out about his, erm, uncomfortable dormitory situation and moves him into the side room, or when he completely messes up trying to make dinner and Luo Binghe takes over cooking and bans him from the kitchen (he swears he's not actually that bad at cooking, he just never had to use a kitchen without a microwave or an electric hot plate before...)
After all, it's not like Luo Binghe is cooking for him, he's just making food he likes and letting Shen Yuan eat it too! Because he's nice! He's way nicer than the book gave him credit for being, see, clearly Shen Yuan was correct in signing up for his defense squad, "top ten worst villains of all time" his ass that poll was nonsense...
Unfortunately, though, the plot's still gotta plot. Shen Yuan is heartbroken when the Immortal Alliance Conference rolls around and his shizun stabs him and throws him down into the Endless Abyss. Heartbroken, but not surprised. After all, it was always going to go this way, wasn't it?
But at least, now that it's done, he has some agency in how he reacts to it. He's changed the story enough that he doesn't need to go get revenge. Maybe Luo Binghe's still the villain of his story, maybe that was inevitable, but some heroes let the villains get away. Don't they? It's all part of that noble, breaking the cycle of abuse type stuff. He can be that kind of hero. He can let it go. As long as he avoids Luo Binghe altogether, it should be fine, right? It's not like he's obligated to turn people into human sticks. He asked the system, he's definitely not!
Technically he's not even required to conquer the demon realms. He just has to get out of the Abyss and the be sufficiently cool and/or tragic. Conquest is just one means of doing that, and not even Shen Yuan's preferred, since he doesn't exactly want to rule over anybody. Going around the demon realms beating up some jackasses and rescuing some damsels in distress and becoming sworn brothers with Shang Qinghua, one of the current demon kings, is suitable. He definitely doesn't want to marry any of the damsels he encounters (thank fuck the system lets him off the hook for that!)
But eventually he has to go back to the human world. Not only is it mandated by the system, but he also misses living there. The demonic realms are in many ways better than expected, plus a lot of the monsters are really cool, but he misses the weather and plants and the people he's more accustomed to being around.
He misses Qing Jing Peak, if he's being honest with himself. Shizun's cooking and the bamboo forest and the crisp mountain breezes, the comforts of home.
Not that he can actually go back there in specific. Of course not. If he did that, Luo Binghe would try to kill him, or else the system would try and make him kill Luo Binghe. Bad ideas all around. No, he can't go back to Qing Jing Peak, but he can go find someplace nicer than the demon realms at least. He just has to keep a low profile, which shouldn't be hard since the original goods did that even while actively scheming to kill his former master!
Except.
Everywhere he goes, suddenly Luo Binghe is also there?!
Good thing Shen Yuan thought to take a page out of the book of Luo Binghe's actual love interest, Liu Mingyan, and start wearing a veil. He just didn't want any randos who might have seen him at the Immortal Alliance Conference or on any of the other missions his shizun sent him on to recognize him. But one minute he's investigating a strange case in Jinlan City, and the next the streets are full of Huan Hua cultivators (Shen Yuan has no intention of joining them, that's the path the original took to getting revenge! He doesn't want revenge!), and then Luo Binghe and Sect Leader MBJ and Peak Lord SHL show up, and SY is ducking down alleys and hiding behind columns, just trying to stay out of the way until the lockdown on Jinlan lifts and he can leave.
Except...
Luo Binghe really isn't acting like himself?
He looks like he hasn't been eating or sleeping well. There are dark circles around his eyes, and something almost melancholy in his countenance. And he's dressed entirely in white, none of the usual Qing Jing greens and blues anywhere to be seen. Of even greater concern, he's being reckless. Shen Yuan can't stop himself from rushing out when he sees his former shizun get infected by a sower demon.
Luckily, it's been some years since the last time they saw one another. Shen Yuan's gained a few inches in height, so he's almost at eye-level with his old master now, and though he's still more slender than bulky he's picked up some totally new styles from training the demon realms. He doesn't move the same way he used to. With that, plus the veil, it's enough for him to quickly swallow back his words as he grabs Luo Binghe and quickly administers a cure for the sower infection.
Well, he has one of course. He wouldn't need it himself, heavenly demon blood and all, but his time running around playing hero in the demon realms meant he rescued a lot of humans from such fates. Which is hard to do if you don't have a cure to their afflictions, but between him and Shang Qinghua, sourcing such things was almost easy.
Luo Binghe looks at him like he's just seen a ghost. The other Cang Qiong sect members are alarmed by SY suddenly accosting one of their own and of course find him suspicious, so he runs away right after, and then he has to lose Sha Hualing's pursuit in the city.
But what else could he do? He manages to evade the system's attempts to railroad him into meeting Gongyi Xiao, avoids the rest of the Cang Qiong crowd, and drops some of the cure through the current Qian Cao peak lord's window to get the incident sorted out. Then he flees and puts a good amount of distance between himself, Jinlan City, and every righteous sect he can think of.
The only problem is that after this point, Luo Binghe is everywhere.
Any time Shen Yuan stays in one place for longer than a few days, Qing Jing disciples start turning up. Any time he takes a job hunting some cool-sounding monster or pursuing some interesting tome of knowledge, the better to satisfy the system, it seems like Luo Binghe has selected and gone after the exact same target! Which is especially annoying because back when SY was a disciple, Luo Binghe was always assigning him to do this stuff. Since when does his chronic homebody master have an interesting in six-tailed scorpion lemurs or ancient spiritual kilns?
What's weirder, though, are the rumors.
It seems like any time SY stops at some well-populated place and asks for the latest gossip, he has to hear about how the Qing Jing peak lord lost his beloved disciple during the Immortal Alliance Conference, and mourned like a widow, and now wanders the earth in search of solace for his grief. Seeking something, possibly even the ghost of his dear disciple.
What nonsense! Luo Binghe threw SY into the Abyss himself. He had to do it, it was the plot! And also his obligation as a righteous cultivator, confronted with a "dangerous" half-demon. Does it sting? Yes it stings! That's why SY wouldn't just forget it! Despite logically knowing it's pointless, is there some part of him that wishes his master would have chosen differently? That thinks he should have known that no matter what kind of power Shen Yuan had, he would never use it to hurt people recklessly, or harm innocents, or especially not harm... well. It's pointless, his blood condemned him, and if there is some part of Luo Binghe which regrets what happened, it's doubtless just that he unwittingly harbored a monster for so long.
Which is fine and Shen Yuan would leave it at that, if the guy would just let him!
But no. Instead he has to deal with Luo Binghe turning up and asking him questions, trying to get him to talk (SY has no hope of disguising his voice, if he says anything he's not even sure it won't crack as he comes perilously close to tears instead, so he just stays silent), and then asking for his name, asking if he's mute, asking about his background, his sect, his kin. Is his a righteous cultivator? Where did he get that sword? (NOT Xin Mo, thanks, he used that thing once and then tossed it back into the Abyss before the portal finished closing behind him -- he knows a poisoned chalice when he sees one, although knowing the plot twist about that sword from the novel sure helped.) Where did he learn those forms? Is he... does he have a safe place to go home to? Someone to tend his injuries? Make sure he eats his meals?
SY, of course, stays silent. But it's difficult. Not only because Luo Binghe asks, but because he still looks... bad. Sunken, sorrowful, desperate almost. Shen Yuan can't figure out if he knows or not. Maybe he's unsure, maybe he's looking for SY to give him a sign, so that he can figure him out and then flip a switch and try to finish the job he started.
That can't happen. If they fight, SY will win, and he doesn't want to hurt Luo Binghe.
But even if Luo Binghe's not a heavenly demon, he is a highly accomplished cultivator, and it seems he's got his own breaking points to reach. Eventually he corners SY and gets a hand on his veil, and for a moment SY is sure he's going to rip it off, see his face, and confront him all "I knew it was you, you twisted evil demon, you won't escape justice a second time" and he feels a deep, icy terror close around his lungs--
Luo Binghe lets go of the veil before he can lift it.
But then something even worse happens. Because Shen Yuan's handsome, peerless, noble master breaks down. He falls to his knees, begging forgiveness, sobbing, clutching at his head like he's being driven to madness.
It all spills out of him, then. How he pushed his own dearest disciple into the Abyss, which obviously SY already knew, but also how he was apparently qi-deviating the whole time, and his senses could not differentiate between one kind of demonic "threat" and another. How he realized what he'd done only after he regained his senses hours later, and rushed back to the place where the tear to the Abyss had opened, but could not find a way in after the one he lost. How he had betrayed and thrown away the only person who cared about him, and couldn't even explain that he hadn't intended to. How he would accept anything, any punishment, hatred, penance, or revenge, if only he could see his disciple's face once more.
SY is stunned.
Apparently, Luo Binghe hadn't rejected him for his demon blood?
Not only that, but beforehand, he seemed to have valued Shen Yuan a lot more than Shen Yuan would have credited.
Is it a trick? Is he lying? SY would have guessed so, would have assumed that Luo Binghe's plan was to lull him into complacency only to turn on him once he finally had confirmation. But somehow, he just... doesn't think this is an insincere display. His old master is too cool for this stuff! He has too much dignity to just throw it away on a scheme! There are other ways to get what he wants.
Even if it is a lie, Shen Yuan is tired of running. He's the hero. He won't actually lose, and if it comes to it, it's still in his hands to decide if he wants to spare Luo Binghe or not (he does, of course he does, even if this whole spiel is an act). Plus he's got a backup plant body in one of Shang Qinghua's greenhouses if all goes to shit.
He takes the veil off himself.
Luo Binghe, teary-eyed, stares at him as if his face is the most beautiful he's ever seen.
Shen Yuan nearly puts the veil back on. His cheeks heat up. Dear Shizun, aren't you an immortal master? A noble peak lord? Isn't it your calling to vanquish demons? Get up off the dirty ground right this minute! Where did your dignity go? Shen Yuan did not spend all those nights doing the laundry to watch his teacher dirty his knees for no good reason!
There's a quaver in Luo Binghe's voice as he points out that Shen Yuan was terrible at doing laundry. Luo Binghe had to redo it the day after, all the time.
Shen Yuan chides at him that he should have made one of the other disciples do it then.
Luo Binghe just laughs, and stays on the ground, until finally Shen Yuan has to physically pull him up. Muttering about how he's being ridiculous, what's he crying for, why's he been moping so much, doesn't he know that handsome face should never look so bereft? Then he realizes what he's saying and shuts his mouth, but Luo Binghe just looks happy for the first time in years. Since the Abyss. How is it possible that SY, who actually had to slog through that awful place, can still smile more than Luo Binghe, who didn't?
They're standing so close. Holding on to one another. Almost as if... as if the scene's tone is... well...
Oh what the hell!
Shen Yuan closes the last little bit of distance between them, and kisses Luo Binghe.
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RIPE FOR THE PICKING (I)
pairing: ID!leon kennedy x gn!reader
summary: Faking a marriage is easy—so you thought. But your life-or-death mission leaves the door wide open for feelings to fester. Feelings that you really do not have time for.
words: 7.2k
warnings: strong mentions of domestic violence, shady business practices, predatory Umbrella execs, kidnapping, canon-typical violence, partners to fake spouses to friends to lovers (soon)
notes: this has been a long time in the making, based on a smut week request that got a lot bigger than i ever could’ve imagined. i know nothing about government agencies but this is resident evil so who cares right (pls dont yell at me)!!
>> PART TWO
It feels wrong. Being with him like this.
Your ring finger’s been branded by the weight of cold metal—a gift from your supervisors for a long-term mission abroad. Just you and him, two rabbits trapped within a woodland wolf camp: the inner circle of Umbrella’s most elite. Hundreds of apex predators with their keen noses and hair-trigger reflexes and you cannot fuck this up. One wrong move means an unveiling means swift death.
Leon isn’t your husband. The marriage papers are forged, and the engraving inside of both rings (forever yours) means as much as his hollow affections. Barely even friends before this. Just two people with opposing skill sets and long-term bioterrorism expertise—a match made in USSTRATCOM heaven.
“Trouble in paradise?” asks the woman to your right. Elegant in her older age, bejeweled from hair to feet—she favors emeralds and silk fabrics, supplemented by her husband’s high-paying salary. A family you seek to infiltrate. One of many.
She’s made it very easy. Umbrella’s welcome party, apparently. Kind enough to invite you over for wine while Leon sets plans in motion back at home base.
“What makes you say that, ma’am?”
She scoffs, finishes the last of her drink, closes her book, removes her glasses. Leans over the armrest of a thick-cushioned chair to where you sit beside her. “You’ve fiddled with your ring this entire conversation, which means something’s on your mind. Most likely something husband-shaped.”
Every Umbrella higher-up possesses the same preternatural wit. Sometimes, you fear breathing wrong lest the members discover your ruse, and that perception only sharpens with age—couldn’t last long with the company otherwise.
This time, however, you’re one step ahead.
You breathe out a sigh and regard her with a pinched brow. “Can I ask you something? In confidence?”
She refills her glass halfway with deep red wine and takes a sip, smudging same-colored lipstick along the rim. “Of course, my dear.”
“How do you know if someone’s… cheating on you?”
Her lips purse, gaze casting to the floor. “You just know. But it wouldn’t matter anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“As spouses, we support our husbands in all their endeavors. No matter how much it hurts us.” At your widened eyes, she smiles. A broken thing, thin, resigned. “Think about it for a moment. With the resources at their disposal, what do you think they would do if we tried to leave?”
Not exactly the information you were seeking. Painful all the same. A perspective you hadn’t considered.
“That’s horrible.”
She rests a wrinkled hand over yours, thumbs at the metal of your ring. “You’re still young, which is why I’m telling you this. It’s not worth it. Let him do what he wants, and when the time comes, you swallow your pain.”
You carry her advice back to your false home where Leon awaits, files strewn across the dining room table, mid-conversation with a burner-phone Hunnigan.
He turns at the sound of your footsteps. Says, “We got word from the informant. I’m heading to the facility tomorrow.”
You take a seat at the table as Hunnigan greets you over the speaker, and you return with your own pleasantries. “So they got you a badge?”
He nods. Pulls out the chair to sit beside you. “How’d your visit with Mary go?”
“I still can’t get over how big their fucking house is.”
Hunnigan cuts in, voice rough from the static. “Did you find anything of note?”
“No. I mean, I know she likes to read in her library, she enjoys red wine, she—wait. Actually.” You turn to Leon with a solemn frown. “There’s trouble in paradise.”
His gaze sharpens, and the line of his back straightens. “What do you mean?”
“Well—okay. I might’ve told her that I think you’re cheating on me.” As his mouth opens, you raise a hand to give him pause. “I thought it would be a good way to cover our asses and get some dirt on them.”
What better excuse for aloofness than adultery?
“Did you?” Hunnigan asks.
“A lot more than I expected. From what I gather, the elite get up to a lot of… morally questionable shit in regards to the treatment of their spouses.”
“That’s kind of a given, Nightingale.”
He still hasn’t referred to you by your real name. Either by alias or code, despite the latter’s arguable lengthiness. And it shouldn’t affect you as much as it does. A silly thing to find hurt feelings over, but it sours your mood. Leaves you bristling.
“But to hear it from an actual victim. I saw the look in her eyes, Leon.”
He leans in close, drops his voice to a low grumble. “These people aren’t victims. Don’t let them get in your head. We have a mission to focus on.”
Through your nose you exhale a tired sigh and look away to follow the woodgrain of the oak-stained table. He’s wrong. Didn’t hear what you heard, see what you saw. “You seem to forget that my specialty is subterfuge. Reading people, blending in, manipulation. I know what I’m talking about.”
“I remember perfectly fine, actually. You seem to forget what Umbrella’s capable of.” You meet his glare, stubborn and unyielding, then lean back in your chair.
Raccoon City stains deep, leaves him wary and standoffish. You’ve read his file. Little more than two dozen pages of redacted writing, but word of mouth spreads. A man like him doesn’t just fall under the radar, and government officials love to talk. To you, especially.
After a long moment, he brushes the hair from his eyes and turns back to the messy spread of papers. “We just need to be careful, okay?”
“You need to stay focused. Both of you.” Hunnigan, bemused by your arguing. “Do whatever it takes to complete this mission.”
—
Your first real party as newlyweds. The ballroom is brightly lit, spanning half a football field of sparkling chandeliers and velvet settees and champagne glasses filled with diamonds. Neither of you belong here, but you walk through the doors hand-in-hand, and you wave to those who recognize you, and attempting to navigate public affection through the lens of realism proves difficult.
This was a sore idea, in hindsight. Choosing an era commonly characterized by the most intense love and affection and happiness of the entire relationship. You should have spun a different story. A better one. But Umbrella didn’t seem an arranged-marriage type. From your research, most of their scientists got married around this age anyway.
Maybe you try too hard to fit in, and maybe that’s obvious. The wolves love fresh meat, and you and Leon are fresh out the cradle. It puts you at a disadvantage, leaves you as vulnerable as a fresh wound.
“I’ve noticed that you and your husband aren’t quite as… in love as newlyweds usually are.”
Carina Voerman: an absolute snake of a woman. The wife of an exec. Nosy to an impressive degree. An unconventional beauty, a stand-out. Every facet of her personality perfectly engineered for subterfuge.
What you wouldn’t give to pick her brain.
“The move has been… stressful, to say the least.”
“Let me guess.” She joins you against the wall, glossy lips pursing, and gazes off to where Leon mingles with his new work friends. “He’s staying out late, won’t tell you where he’s been. He keeps his phone a little too close.” When you say nothing, she turns to give you a wincing smile. Soothes a palm down your arm. “I thought my last husband was cheating? Come to find out, he was looking to use me in his experiments.”
You swallow down your surprise alongside the bitter taste of white wine, and your tongue almost sours in response. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She brushes a dark curl away from her forehead and it falls immediately back into place. “I’ve heard much worse stories than my own. You’ll get used to it.”
A few weeks ago, you would have doubted that, but you’ve heard stories as well. Each more horrific than the last.
“But I digress,” she continues, plucking a pack of cigarettes from her purse. “Do you smoke?”
Rarely, but when in Rome…. “Of course I do. Cigarettes are my very own brand of Vicodin.”
She laughs into the back of her hand, and the bejeweled bracelets on her wrist jingle. “I’ve never heard such a thing, but I think I’ll steal that.”
“They said it a lot where we used to live.”
She lights up her cigarette and exhales from the corner of her mouth. “You moved from the States, right?”
From your peripheral, Leon approaches. Gives you a stilted smile and pauses a moment before you outstretch a hand. Embrace me, dumbass.
The exchange is painfully awkward, slow-moving, and Carina clicks her tongue in disapproval. “You’re supposed to pretend at these events, my dears.”
Leon’s fingers tighten about your waist, and your heart soars up into your throat, each beat pulsing and painful. Her eyes narrow to a piercing scrutiny, and Leon turns to kiss you soft on the cheek. She could mean two different things, and only one of them would bring you relief.
She hums. “Aren’t you just the cutest couple?” Stamps out the lingering burn of her cigarette’s filter in the ashtray sat on the high table. “I suggest you keep each other close. The wolves around here tend to prowl.”
You aren’t sure if it’s a threat or a warning—maybe both. But you know not to underestimate her. Anybody, for that matter.
She leaves with a wave of manicured fingers, and Leon slumps against the wall at your back. Says, “Well. We might be fucked.”
“To be fair, you could’ve at least acted like you enjoy my presence.”
“I didn’t wanna overstep.”
You turn to glare at him. “We are married. I implore you to remember that.”
“Then as your husband,” he takes the half-smoked cigarette from between your fingers and smothers it inside the ashtray, “it breaks my heart to see you smoking.”
“It’s social.”
“It also kills people.”
With a starry smile, you lean your head on his shoulder. “Wow. So you do care.”
“I kinda have to.”
With a roll of your eyes, you push him away. “Oh, fuck you.”
—
It seems like a great idea. Fantastic, really. Your intimacy appears staged. Your safety, along with your chance of success, is up in the air. Not to mention, he’s a pretty man and you’re undeniably caged by touch-starvation.
Be honest with yourself: it’s the only idea.
You work on kisses first. Practice loving pecks. His lips pillow soft against your own, over and over and over again until you relax into the motion and instinct takes over—the caress of an arm here, the cradle of a neck there. It isn’t weird. It should be, but you tell yourselves that the mission takes priority. Nothing matters above this: swearing fealty to your roles.
You practice daily. When you leave for book clubs and gossip circles and brunch. (Yes, you’re eating brunch now.) When he leaves for the facility and late night bar-hopping and some top-secret locations he can’t even divulge to you.
It becomes easy. Second-thought.
Mary hosts a wine-tasting and invites most of the spouses from the facility. It’s extravagant as always, the furniture cleaned to the point of glittering, the dining room stocked with a feast of military-sized portions. Everyone gathers inside one of two seating rooms, chatting and laughing and sharing gossip with razor-sharp glances.
But you miss Leon. He always accompanies you to the large events, and you’ve found a certain comfort in his presence. Umbrella’s social dynamics ensure that he holds power in conversation, that you’re little more than set dressing. Being here, nothing but a little lamb on stumbling legs utterly ripe for the picking, leaves you appreciating the buffer of his standing a lot more.
“Oh, you look so pitiful standing in the corner like this.” Mary embraces you with a comforting smile, then hands you a tall glass of pale pink wine. “My husband just received this new shipment from Italy and it’s absolutely wonderful. I think you’ll like it.”
She’s become somewhat of a friend over the last few months. Treats you kindly, offers advice, shares with you her books and recipes and jewelry.
Missions like this require a certain amount of vulnerability to keep masks authentic, but trust is a slippery slope and you’re sure to break a few bones lest you fortify a few on-guard spikes.
Regardless, you think you’ll miss her when this is over.
You’ll surely miss the wine that you sip from your glass. A note of sweet strawberry that lingers bitter on the back of your tongue. Whether from the nerves or your actual enjoyment, you could drink the whole bottle.
“This is amazing. Sweet wines are very under-appreciated.”
A look of pride gleams on her face, and she nods to your glass. “I can send you home with a bottle, if you’d like.”
“That would be lovely.”
She nods her head over to the center of the room, where the other spouses mingle. “Why don’t you join us?”
Everyone greets you with their usual pleasantries. A woman a few years your junior compliments your outfit. Another offers you a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
“So,” begins the woman to your right, “I’ve noticed a change between you and your husband at our last few parties.” Spoken hushed, like the truest form of gossip. “I could almost call you love birds.”
The smile that graces your face is genuine this time. Easy. “Yes. We had a bit of a rough patch, but we’ve worked things out.”
A few people coo in response, others gush amongst themselves. How sad, in a way, to find a smile so enviable. But the shift in attitude was easy. Just a few kisses and suspicions are destroyed. You aren’t sure whether it speaks to your experience or their own romantic yearning.
Then comes the hard part. Sharing a bed. Leon proves horrible as a bed partner. He steals the covers, rolls onto you, possesses a mean snore. But the most egregious sin is one he can’t control at all, that chills you down to your marrow, that breaks your heart into each individual atom: nightmares. They plague him frequently, and you wake to him calling unfamiliar names, to rogue elbows sore-ing up your face, to his childlike clinging.
Most everybody working in this field has nightmares, but his. His are different. Personal.
On very rare occasions, he whispers about them inside the pitch-black limbo of your shared bedroom. The split-second blink of his mother’s hair, the tick of his father’s watch. He can’t remember what they look like, not anymore, but slivers of memory cut through the empty longing.
It’s the first time you truly see him. Leon. Less star-striking agent and more man, wet clay shaped around a shell of suffering.
His transparency gives you permission to sink between the fresh gaps in his guard and dare to know him. It isn’t about the mission anymore. You come from a place of sincerity.
Maybe it’s the loneliness. He’s the only ally you’ll have for the foreseeable future. Why not learn about him? Become friends?But everything is… weird. Friends do not kiss each other. They don’t cuddle before bed. They aren’t faking a relationship.
The first time you both say I love you on instinct, you’re settled in for the night. The lights shut off, sheets cozy, his body warm against yours.
It just comes out. Good night, Leon. Love you.
He laughs, a puff of breath against your nape, and you wish for the mattress to swallow you whole. Your eyes squint shut. Your face buzzes to numbness. Until,
Night, Birdie. Love you, too.
You have the best sleep in weeks, and you wonder what the fuck that means.
—
Leon calls you early on a Tuesday morning. Says he forgot his lunch, that you need to bring it by the facility.
You aren’t sure how Hunnigan pulled the strings, but he works alongside the businessmen in charge of hiding Umbrella’s dealings. Access to secret files, special projects, names upon names names upon names of suspects.
Your target is here, somewhere in this building. Selling off Umbrella’s most dangerous viruses to the highest bidder, and catching him means busting the whole operation wide open. Linking who knows how many corporations and billionaires to shady dealings. Finding him amongst the sea of guilty faces will be difficult.
The facility is stark-white walls and fluorescent lights and open-plan rooms but you’ve never felt more claustrophobic. People mill about on their lunch break, bright red and green and blue badges hung about their necks. A headache starts behind your eyes just as you check in at the front desk.
Once your identity has been confirmed, the pretty receptionist hands you a bright yellow badge with heavy black font that spells out VISITOR, then leads you through a maze of hallways, past office doors and lounges and holy shit how big is this place?
Finally, she pauses before an inconspicuous door with a plastered-on smile. “Remember that guests are only allotted ten minutes in employee-only spaces as per our safety policy.”
“I won’t need more than five.”
With a narrow-eyed smile, she knocks thrice then opens the door. Steps aside to allow you entry.
Leon looks up from his computer before standing to embrace you with a relieved groan. Gives you a lengthy kiss before relieving you of his lunch bag. “You are amazing. I’ve been starving all day.”
“These walls are thin, if that’s of any concern to you,” says the receptionist, before she turns to leave with raised brows and a click of the door.
You blink. “Wait, is she—do people fuck inside their offices or something?”
He shrugs. “Probably.”
The room falls silent in her wake as Leon sits down at his desk, and you can’t help but think of how natural he looks like this: surrounded by monetary excess in the form of mahogany furniture, dressed in a silk button down and spit-shined shoes and the finest watch available. But it’s also odd. This isn’t him, and you know it. He looks more like himself when he’s a little disheveled, his clothes wrinkled from fighting, dressed in a tactical vest and belts and guns galore.
“Did you get my favorite?” he asks, unzipping the bag.
“Plus dessert,” you say, moving to hover over his shoulder.
Beneath the actual food, slid beneath a cut-out slice of fabric, he pulls out a set of items. A USB drive, an SD card, and a slip of paper with the email of Hunnigan’s contact written upon it.
“That’s what you wanted, right?”
“It’s perfect. Looks good, too.”
The code speak may be a bit too much, but you put nothing past Umbrella. Eyes and ears could be anywhere. These walls are thin.
“I’ll see you at home, then? Wouldn’t want the receptionist to come looking for me.”
He exhales a laugh before glancing up at you. “I may be a little late tonight, but I’ll text you.”
“Don’t forget like the last three times. You know I worry.” That they’ve figured out our secret and you lay dead in a gutter somewhere.
“I won’t. Promise.”
As you step out of his office, an odd mourning hits you much like an ice-cold wave. Always that fear—the last meeting, the last goodbye, the last fake I love you. You don’t think it’s too outlandish to say that you care about what happens to him. You wring your hands every time you imagine his potential fate.
“Excuse me.”
You blink to attention at the voice, and a man you recognize from your files approaches you, suit perfectly ironed, hands stuffed into his pockets. Leon’s boss, for all intents and purposes.
“Hello,” you say, glancing over his shoulder to where the double doors open up to reception. So close to freedom. “Can I help you?”
“I just wanted to properly introduce myself. Carl Voerman.” You accept the hand that he offers to shake. “You and your husband have been here, what, three months?”
“Four this Saturday.”
His smile makes your skin crawl. All teeth, plastic in its falsity. Sharpened canines. Every bit the wolf Carina—his wife—warned you of. “You’ve been the talk of this facility.”
“Oh, I’m sure. My husband does fantastic work.”
“That he does.” He takes a step forward, and your thighs tense to keep you in place. Much like a skittish deer. “But I’m more interested in you. Maybe we can discuss your contributions to this company over dinner.”
Your heart drops to your stomach. The last thing you wish is to be alone with this man. But he’s in your files. Could have information you need.
‘Do whatever it takes to complete this mission.’
Goddamn it, Hunnigan.
“I’d have to ask my husband, but—“
“Why? It’s just dinner.” When you give him little more than a blink, he lowers his head with a deep sigh then meets your gaze again. “The culture here is different than what you’re used to. I forget that sometimes. But my wife will be there as well, if that eases your worries.”
Soon, you’ll walk straight into the wolf’s den, and you can do nothing. The worst part? He truly thinks you believe a word he says. But you know types like him—he won’t take no for an answer, and you need no more suspicion on your behalf.
“In that case, I accept.”
“Fantastic. Friday then. I’ll have a car fetch you around seven.”
Leon doesn’t come home until eight. A fact that Carl must know. Not that it matters. You’ve already sealed your fate.
After arriving home, you beeline to the office where your files sit inside a false bottom of the desk drawer. Carl Voerman. One of many suspects. A seedy individual with a very undocumented past—a possible identity change somewhere during early adulthood. The earliest information you can find of him is when he started working for Umbrella around twenty years ago as a temp, then quickly worked his way up the corporate ladder. And now, he leads an entire department.
A few HR complaints that led nowhere, business dealings with unnamed companies. He sounds like your guy, but most every higher-up shares a similar story.
So you need a plan to get him talking. Need him vulnerable.
You research late into the night, long after Leon comes home. Hunnigan helps from her place on speaker phone, finding connections with other members of the company, helping you fill in the blanks of Carl’s timeline.
Neither of them know what you’re planning, that you even spoke to him earlier, and you hope to keep it that way.
Leon does his part in all this. He needs no more danger breathing down his neck, weighing on his shoulders. It’s time you do yours.
—
Friday evening rolls around, and Carl shows up not a minute late. He greets you at the front door with his usual smile, says you look lovely, then escorts you to the car where the driver awaits. Carina sits on the opposite row of seats, legs crossed at the knee, a half-smoked cigarette in hand. The burning tobacco bursts an ominous blister in the dark as her husband’s warmth seeps into the line of your side.
Carl turns to you, expression marble-esque. “We’ll be having dinner at my home tonight. I hope you like salmon.”
You won’t be eating anything if you can help it. No telling what he’ll do to your plate. “I love it.”
“Fantastic. My chef is one-of-a-kind. The best of the best.” He turns to his wife, and from the bleary street lights, you see her force a thin smile. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
“Of course.”
You arrive to a home of extravagance. Mansion-like in size, pearly stone on the exterior, a curved set of concrete steps leading up to the towering double doors. You’ve never felt so bottom-feeder in all your life, living in a one-bedroom apartment back home.
And you thought Mary’s home was large. How ignorant of you.
Once inside, Carina leads you to the sitting room. Her red-bottom heels snap against the marble flooring, and the black dress she wears accents the curve of her hips. Her jewelry reflects the golden accents scattered about the place, like the glorious chandelier and the statues and the photo frames.
Carina Voerman looks way too good for a man like him.
You take a seat on one end of the couch, and she occupies the one across from you. When Carl returns with a bottle of champagne and three glasses, he chooses the cushion beside yours.
“You don’t have to sit so far away. I won’t bite,” he says.
If you scoot any closer, you’ll be pressed up against him.
From the corner of your eye, Carina downs her drink. Still, she never looks at you. Instead, she reaches for the champagne again, eyeing her husband’s empty glass.
This was a goddamn mistake. Your chest fights pangs of anxiety, and your heart threatens to break open your ribcage. You knew where this could lead, and the knife holstered at your hip provides comfort, familiarity.
But you’ve been here, done this before. Threatened your own safety for the sake of a mission. Still, it never gets easier.
“I’m not sure my husband would appreciate me cuddling up to his boss.”
He laughs, a loud, bassy sound that sends your skin crawling. “I can see why he likes you. Everyone else is quite boring, wouldn’t you say?”
“I quite like boring.”
“And I don’t believe that.”
He moves in closer, spreads out a knee so it collides with yours then takes a long drink from his glass. Across the clawfoot coffee table, Carina exhales a cough.
What a horrible man, to do such a thing before his very own wife. To flirt so extensively with another man’s spouse. But you aren’t surprised. If anything, awed by his brazenness. As if you would ever entertain the thought.
“I do have a question, however.” Carl throws an arm over the back of the couch, fingers brushing against the fabric of your dress shirt. “How would you like it if I gave your husband a well-deserved promotion?”
Carina then stands and leaves to the other room, almost on some unspoken cue. You remember the dinner he supposedly arranged. Hasn’t mentioned it since. This—bringing you here, the isolation, the attempted seduction—was his plan all along.
Your mouth stretches wide into a boxy smile. “I would be ecstatic.”
“Unfortunately, these things come at a cost, you see. I have to put in a mighty good word to my peers, which I’m not sure he’s earned yet.”
He moves in closer, until you’re hip-to-hip, then leans forward with a wide grin. Every bit a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“I thought you said he did good work.”
His grin falters, glaciers forming in the blue of his eyes. “No, you said that.”
“And you agreed. Did you not?”
Tension swells in the room, and you soothe the sudden stiffen of his body with a hand upon his knee. Squeeze just enough that the line of his shoulders calm.
“That I did. But I require a bit more persuasion.”
“I’m not sure I can give you that.”
Amidst the lengthened silence, your phone rings inside your pocket. A perfect out. A gift from the universe itself. Leon guised under a different name—a heady balm for the pain in your chest.
“I’m sorry. I need to take this.”
You measure out your steps to keep from rushing into the hallway, but your hands tremor as they answer the call. You press your back to the wall, Carl just out of sight on the couch.
Stay calm. It’s fine.
“Hey, honey.” You lower your voice, barely above a whisper.
“Hey. Everything okay? You didn’t answer the house phone.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m with some friends right now, so…”
He stays silent for a moment before the sound of fabric muffles against the speaker. “I thought we agreed to let each other know when we went out.”
“No, we did. I just forgot. I’m sorry.”
“When will you be home?”
“I’m not sure. Later.”
“Something’s wrong.”
“I can’t—“ Carina rounds the corner barefoot, tight curls freed from her updo. Takes guard against the opposite wall and stares your way. “I’m sorry you’re sick. Do you need me to come home?”
“What?”
“I know you always feel better when I make my special soup.”
You lock eyes with her, pinned in place by her raised brows, and all you can do is keep talking.
She knows. You know she knows. She knows and Carl is in the next room and you need a plan to get the fuck out. You’ve been in situations much worse than this, can lie with the best of them, but something about the Voermans—their ooze of power, control, wickedness—renders you novice-level in skill.
“Okay, uh. Yeah, sure.”
“I’ll be home soon.”
“Good. You can tell me what the fuck’s going on.”
You hang up, and her shadow falls upon you. A whisper of, “Follow me,” into your ear before she turns away.
You remove your shoes to heed her order, feet a light pitter against the floor, and she leads you further down the darkening hallway.
“He looks to punish me for my misbehavior,” she whispers, eyes lidded and bloodshot. “If you would like a promotion for your husband, I suggest you take him up on his offer.”
“I would never.”
“Oh, don’t act virtuous on my account.” She pauses to lean in close, perfume cloying and thick. “You think you’re the first?”
Feigning surprise, your eyes widen. “No, I don’t.”
“At least you’ve done better than them.” You see it, then. Hurt, raw and visceral, tucked between the wrinkles of her brow. “They jumped at his little opportunity. Every single one of them.“
Maybe this is why she confides. Sees some shred of loyalty within you, needs some way out to prevent drowning from her own desperation.
“Listen,” you say. “I love my husband, and I would rather lose everything than betray him like this.”
She tilts her head back. Stares down the line of her nose for a long few moments, jaw working beneath the skin. “I never thought I’d say this, but I actually believe you.”
You aren’t sure where you stand with her. She shares her suspicions—rightfully so—but still, she’s never acted untoward or disrespectful. Not like the others you’ve met. Blunt, but never rude. Shit, she even gave you advice.
“I have a question,” you say as she leads you into an office. Locks the door after you enter. “When you talked about prowling wolves, who were you referring to?”
She heads for the desk then takes a seat in the thick-cushioned chair. “Many people, dear.” She nods you over. “I slipped something into Carl’s drink, so get what you need while he’s asleep. But make it quick.”
“What?”
Her fingertips clack against the keyboard before the home screen sunburns to life.
“To protect my own safety, I can tell you nothing, and tonight never happened. Do you understand?” She rolls away from the desk to allow you room to take her place.
Oh. You get it now.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
You search through his web browser, emails, personal files. A few emails from upper management, more business related. B.O.W. incrimination, salary cuts for bottom-rung employees, buyer information. Most of it makes little sense to you, heavily coded as it reads.
But one name sticks out. Nolan Reed. The lead virologist linked to a secret project that Carl helps fund, who pops up in files dating back three years ago—around the time USSTRATCOM had been tipped off to Umbrella’s dealings.
Okay. You have a name. Another lead. Maybe you could track this Nolan to the head of the project.
With a heavy sigh, you shut off the computer then turn to Carina. “How did you know?”
“You’re good at what you do, make no mistake. But I’m the best.” She gives you a smile, almost prideful if you squint hard enough. “As it speaks to your talents, I wasn’t entirely sure until your phone call.”
You exhale a sheepish laugh. “I panicked. Your husband’s quite scary.”
Her face falls, darkness shadowing her eyes. “Don’t I know it.”
You escape the Voermans alive. Carl snores on the couch. Carina wishes you well.
She never tells you why she helped.
Leon does a poor job at hiding his anger. A cloying tension festers throughout the house as you enter, as he rises from the couch with a huffing sigh.
“Where the hell have you been?”
You pass by him in a rush, and he grabs on to your arm. Spins you half-around, enough to catch the ghost in your eyes. “Leon, please. I don’t have time for this.”
One thing about him—he knows when to back off, leave shit for later. And he must see those ghosts swimming around, fresh as a bullet wound. Bitter as a blow to the ego. That’s why he lets you pass.
The office is a mess by the time you’ve finished pulling out files. Separating the names you recognize from the names you don’t. Leon hovers in the doorway, ice clinking against the inside of his glass. You’re guessing whiskey, but can’t chance the time-waste of looking back.
“What are you looking for?” he asks, and you almost snap. At him, in two. For all the government’s resources, all the preparation and the research—not one goddamn mention of Nolan Reed in almost a hundred files.
Maybe it’s the stress of the day. Maybe you’re worn down, threading a lost-cause needle. But biting back your anger takes every ounce of empty-tank energy left inside you.
“Nolan Reed. That name ring a bell?” You rest your head in your hands, elbows propped up on the desk.
“Who?” he asks. Steps into the room, footsteps muffled by his socks.
You look over at him, a palm clasped over your mouth, and note his lack of outfit change. Still in his suit from work, jacket undone, tie loosened. And you think.
Either an alias, or Carina Voerman played you. The latter catalyzes your downfall.
Shit. You might’ve fucked up the whole operation.
“I went to see the Voermans for dinner tonight. Had a… very lovely time.”
His shoulders tense, fingers white-knuckling his glass. “What?” You nod. It’s all you can do. “You—” His eyes close, lips drawn into his mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t wanna put you in any more danger.”
“That’s bullshit.” His glass slams to the table, and you expect a shatter than never comes. “I knew the risks when I agreed to this. So did you. And we made a deal to HQ—to each other—that we would never act alone.”
His disappointment cuts quick, and it cuts deep. Festers and wells, and fuck. You really don’t wanna cry. Not in front of him. Unprofessionalism to the highest degree. But you suppose you already crossed that bridge and burnt it to ash.
“I know. I fucked up. You don’t have to tell me.”
He spins your desk chair around, plants his hands on each arm, and stares at you. Asks, “How long have we been here?”
“Four months tomorrow.”
“And you still don’t trust me.”
“Listen, Carl approached me. Right outside your door. What was I supposed to do, say no?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how that would’ve looked? You don’t say no to these people, Leon.”
You wish he would understand. He hasn’t heard what you’ve heard, seen what you saw. You are nothing but fodder, disposable, breakable, a means to an end, a prize. You are nothing.
“Carina told me her last husband tried to experiment on her. Mary told me that if you’re cheating, I should mind my fucking business. Lucia’s husband beats her for fun—”
“You’re in too deep with these people.”
He might as well have slapped you across the face. Given your shock, maybe he did. “I can’t fucking believe you. What happened to saving innocent people, hm? You suddenly forget about that?”
Raccoon City cuts deep.
“You seem to have forgotten a lot of things.”
He sleeps on the couch for the next week, of his own volition. Can barely look at you from across the dinner table, when you see him off for work, when you ready for bed—as if you give a shit.
You don’t need him.
You don’t.
Too busy anxiously dreading a phone call, a knock on the door, an interception of life-ending proportions.
Four months, two weeks, three days in: your mistake comes back to break your skull wide open.
—
Okay, so it doesn’t. But a blow to the head sure feels like it, and the blood seeping into the collar of your shirt doesn’t help.
“Sorry about that,” says the woman, swimming soupy behind the opaque sheathe of your blindfold. “We didn’t expect you to put up such a fight.”
“Good. How’s your boy’s windpipe?”
“Severed. Where did the spouse of a businessman learn experience with knives?”
You exhale a humorless laugh, working numbed wrists beneath their bindings. “I dabble.”
“Oh, I know.” A chair scrapes, and your head follows the motion, until gooseflesh prickles along your forearms. She sits close. Close enough that you smell her expensive perfume. “I guess I should cut the act, huh? We know you’re USSTRATCOM.”
“And I know that if you wanted to kill me, I would’ve been dead in that parking lot.”
“You’re right. That’s not why we’re here.” Someone steps up behind you, fiddles with the knot holding your blindfold in place. Then, inky darkness. Plying shadows dance across the basement. “I’m here on behalf of Carina Voerman. You know her, right?”
Your poor vision fails to adjust, instead a gentle sway that incites nausea. “I guess you could say that.”
“She has a proposition for you. Let’s say it’s a good-faith agreement between like-minded individuals.”
“Like-minded?”
“Two talented spies after a similar goal.”
“I’m not a spy.”
“And I’m the Queen of England.” Bathed in shadow, she leans in close, and you note the curve of her features. Hooded eyes, full lips, an aquiline nose. Little to go off of, but you’ll take anything at this point. “Nightingale, we can help each other.”
She’s done her homework. Unsurprising, given Carina’s efficiency. Her intelligence.
But you still don’t trust her. Any of these people.
“So what’s in it for me?”
“You want Nolan Reed, yes? Carina can get you to someone even higher on the totem pole. All you need is to dig up some dirt on Carl, be a little birdie in the government’s ear—”
“The U.S. doesn’t have that kind of jurisdiction over here.”
“Not yet. But Umbrella’s claws dig deep, do they not? He gets extradited to the U.S., that’s one more player out of the game.”
“He’s a small fish in one very big pond.”
The woman grins, laughs under her breath. “A win is a win is a win. Think of the long-term.”
“Carl Voerman isn’t our target.”
“But a bioterrorist is still a bioterrorist, right?”
You’re worn down. Exhausted. Sore as all hell. Really miss your bed.
Fuck your pride, you miss Leon.
“Okay, fine. I’ll talk to my contacts, see if I can’t get something worked out. Widen our field of view.”
“That’s all we ask. You do that, Carina will pay you back tenfold.”
The car dumps you a few blocks from home. Shoeless and battered, you hope Leon still holds his anger close. Can’t imagine his reaction otherwise.
Unfortunately, you experience a string of misfortune. He’s on you as soon as you unlock the front door then step inside. Asks where the fuck you’ve been, drags you over to the kitchen table to play doctor.
Worry. Worry tenses up his shoulders, furrows his brow, leaves him tender and malleable.
“I should probably apologize,” he says, discarding another square of bloodied gauze.
“I mean, I kinda deserved it.”
He treads carefully around your blunt-force wound, crusted with dried blood. The wet cloth burns regardless, despite his cautious touch. “Maybe. Some of it.”
“You are a very shitty apologizer.”
“Cut me some slack. I’m not exactly used to this.”
“Oh, I can tell.”
He smiles at you and the world rights itself. Your headache ceases. You forget about the last few days so easily it almost makes you sick.
“What’s that saying? You don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone?”
You don’t expect him to kiss you, and if anyone asks, you absolutely do not pull him closer. Definitely don’t curl a fist in his hair. Definitely don’t sigh in relief.
No. God, no. You’re playing pretend. Faking a relationship built upon foundational love.
This means nothing.
It means nothing.
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