Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s days like these that Leon wonders if the DSO is just throwing him around for their own sick amusement.

He stuffs his balled fists into the pockets of a leather jacket that it’s too warm out to be wearing. Even with the dark of evening cooling the air, the sun having crawled off to die behind the rooftops hours ago, the day’s heat lingers. He doesn’t care, won’t go without it. Wears it like the Kevlar they seldom deploy him with, as if with four billion and change shovelled into the bottomless pit they call a quarterly military budget, they still just can’t spare him the steel. He may as well have gone through Spain bare chested. Any kind of armour is a treat, these days.

There’s a tactical blade in his boot, another on his belt. Silenced handgun in a covert holster under his arm. One mag, 24 rounds. Sharp, ready, and hidden away, like the walking, talking, concealed weapon that he is. The president’s favourite pocket knife.

Living the dream. More like the nightmare. He kicks a rock into the gutter, watches it splash into the muck, breaking the rainbow film of gasoline that lays atop stagnant rainwater.

This op has him on edge.

There’s too little intel. It’s not that investigation is out of his wheelhouse, it’s just that in the eyes of the higher-ups, good old fashioned detective work isn’t the first— or frankly even the second— skill listed on his resume in descending order. Other agents could’ve been sent for what they’ve told him. If they’re sending him, that means they know it’s something bigger. Something bad. Something dangerous.

It hovers over him like a distant cloud as he stalks through the streets towards the target with his head down. Mentally, he reviews the dossier Hunnigan handed off to him yesterday before the flight. This’ll be good for you Leon. Get you out of the house, for once. As if they haven’t dragged him out plenty. He needs good company like he needs a bullet in the head. Very, very badly.

He pushes down the memory of her concern for his apparent loneliness and refocuses. 

Suspect is Matthew Cutler, 5’8, caucasian, male. Former virologist, former professor, medical licence revoked six months ago. Tangential ties to former Umbrella Corp employees and pseudo-scientific practitioners with bad reputations. Formerly, a staunch atheist.

He’d been turning heads, banging his drum about organisms beyond our biological comprehension, perhaps even our realm, louder and louder before eventually being ousted from the medical society and losing his tenure at the university due to volatile and aggressive behaviour during lectures. Tale as old as time.

Last seen frequenting The Seventh Circle. A strip club. Intentions unknown. After that, nothing. The counter bio-terrorism department doesn’t like when the freaks on their watchlist go awol.

Leon suspects the club is a front for a lab, test site, some other sterile playground for psychopathic hubris. That, or Cutler is short on cash and running with the mob, in which case Leon is to promptly get the fuck out of dodge and the case will be “handed over to the FBI”, which is code for swept under the paperwork rug.

Or he’s just a deadbeat creep drinking away his sorrows and pissing away his pension on topless girls. Somehow, that seems unlikely.

Leon sighs, swallows his doubt like the bitter pill it is, and enters the club. The blare of trashy music leeches out into the night air as he opens the door. His eyes do a quick pass around the room, blinking to adjust to the low light as he ducks out of the stairwell.

There’s a hallway, back left, shuttered by a beaded curtain, signs indicating bathrooms and a fire escape, and if he squints, employees only. Two- no, three bouncers standing around, unarmed and looking mean. A raised stage that reaches out into the centre of the room on a long catwalk with a tall silver pole at the end, currently unoccupied. A couple dozen customers, both men and women (but mostly men), falling somewhere on the sliding scale of desperation and shame, some pathetic, but most just plain and drunk. No Cutler, but there is a group of (mostly) women that have two tables pushed together right up front by the stage, doing vodka shots and laughing far too loud for Leon’s already aching ears. A bachelorette party, he gathers. Girls walking around in skimpy little getups, serving drinks and giving lap dances. A few boys, too. They really didn’t tell him shit all about this place before throwing him in. Oh, the wonders of the modern world.

Inevitably, he zeroes in on the bar against the wall to his right.

Leon sinks into a seat and orders a whiskey on autopilot. He’s technically on the clock, but a little something to take the edge off couldn’t hurt, and he sure as shit needs it. He tosses it back the second it’s in front of him and orders another. It goes down easy as water.

The air shifts. Someone slides into the stool next to him. Leon pays them no mind.

Well, he tries to pay them no mind. Hard not to eavesdrop when the conversation is barely a foot and a half to your left.

“You’re late,” the bartender deadpans.

“Yeah yeah, good to see you too, Vin. I’m doing fine, thanks for asking,” the stranger beside him quips. He’s got some kind of dry, impish smile in his voice, and Leon argues pointlessly with himself for a second before deciding he’s in for the ride regardless. His eyes fix blankly on his hands as he listens in.

“I’ll have the usual. Put it on my tab.”

“Y’know the whole point of having a tab is that you pay it later.”

“And pay it I will. Later.”

“Sure you will.” The bartender rolls his eyes, and turns to call into the kitchen. “One strawberry sundae!”

Leon huffs a small laugh to himself, watching the ice in his drink slowly melt as the bartender walks away. He lifts it to his mouth, muttering into the rim of the glass. “Didn’t know they had any dessert on the menu.”

“Well, most places’ll make it special if you pester them enough.”

He turns his head to the voice. Wasn’t expecting to be heard over the music. But that thought is abandoned the second he lays eyes on his neighbour and— oh, wow .

The man beside him doesn’t look anything like the typical sleaze of a gentleman’s club. Strong nose, cheekbones high, brow severe but in the good way, expressively handsome and symmetrical the way a marble statue tends to be. Peeks of ivory skin hint at significant muscle under a weathered black Henley, collar loose and sleeves rolled up to the elbows, pants matching the colour but the light is too low to confidently discern a material. Leather, maybe. He looks about Leon’s age, maybe a little older— which makes him no kid, but still far too young for his hair to be as starkly white as it is, falling shaggily a couple inches shy of his broad shoulders. Even in the shitty light, Leon can see that his brows, lashes, and the hint of stubble on his chin all match it; not silvered or salt and pepper like he’s aged into it, but rather framing his curious eyes and gracing the sharp cut of his jaw like the first flakes of fresh snowfall catching between blades of grass. It’s unusual, sure, but incredibly flattering in a way that somehow looks completely natural on him. His whole posture is steeped in something subtle and decidedly playful; smirk pulling eternal on the corner of his lip, bangs sweeping just barely over his eyes, piercing blue like ice.

He’s gorgeous.

…Uncanny beauty like this doesn’t often just waltz into the bar and sidle up next to you with a smile. Wariness takes root in Leon’s chest, but he tempers it. It’s too soon to tell if this is too good to be true. Besides, he’s here for business, not pleasure.

Still, the man leans a little closer, shooting him a wry look. “Vinny likes to act tough, but he’s a real pushover.”

Leon just hums, taking another sip of his drink as the bartender (Vinny, apparently) returns with the dessert, setting it none too kindly on the counter and sliding it towards the man, who simply grins at him and mutters his thanks. Vinny waves it off and saunters away again with a mild glare.

The man digs in, and Leon chews the inside of his lip for a moment, considering. Fuck it, small talk couldn’t hurt. Maybe he’ll learn something. He can’t afford to be choosy about interviewees with the DSO breathing down his neck.

“Anything else I should know about this place?”

“What, like the lineup?” The man asks through a mouthful of ice cream, then points at him with the spoon, a sly glint of mirth in his eye, almost conspiratorial. It does something funny to Leon’s chest. “The next one on is a real bombshell, I’ll tell you that much.”

A puff of air comes out of Leon’s nose, not quite a laugh. He isn’t here for the entertainment, much to his own chagrin. “Yeah, I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

The other man eyes him, hums through a couple more bites of his sundae before speaking. “Well, what do you wanna know, mister tall, dark, and mysterious?”

“Scott.” Leon corrects. He’s not technically undercover for this op, but he’d rather keep some stretch of personal distance from this place— or at very least, from the people who frequent it. Is his middle name the greatest alias in the world? No, but he doesn’t plan to be talking to this guy for more than thirty seconds total, no matter how… beguiling . So, he ignores the flirty comment, holds in a sidelong look. In his periphery, he still sees the man lean away in a little momentary show of shock. He seems to enjoy playing up every little thing to an audience of only himself.

“He has a name,” the man says with a lilt of amusement, slouching forward on the bar top again, and notably not providing a name in return. Those eyes flicker all over Leon from behind a stray swoop of white hair, voice lowering to something sly. “Alright. What is it you’re looking for then, Scotty?”

Leon shrugs. “Rumours, regulars, clientele.”

Pale blue lingers on him for a good long moment, both curious and amused, with an edge of something else that almost makes him want to squirm. A tedious balance of levity that belies some kind of intensity simmering beneath. More than a few things are off about this guy.

“You sound like a cop.” He finally says, the observation plain and simple before turning back to his dessert.

Leon can’t help the dry, humourless sound that escapes him, drowning the bitter knife-twist of irony in a generous swig of whiskey. If there is a god, Leon’s sure its laughing at him. He swallows and it goes down harsh, rasping his voice a little. “Used to be. Haven’t been for a long time.”

“You look a little young to be retired,” The man observes with a hum, that gaze wandering sidelong over Leon again before putting another spoonful in his mouth and talking around it. “They fire you?”

Like what you see? Leon bites his tongue.

“Not exactly.” He sighs instead, glass clacking back down onto the counter. He sees the other man’s brow raise, lip pulling up with some teasing quip already locked and loaded, and decides to shift the conversation away from himself before any more information can be charmed out of him. “What about you, huh? You got a name?”

“Sure, I do.”

The man remains focused on his food for a second before glancing up to meet his eyes. They stare at each other, a long moment ticking by. Leon’s brow quirks, expectant. The man doesn’t relent.

“I told you mine.” Leon reasons.

The man just smiles, shakes his head. “No you didn’t.”

Leon’s expression remains schooled, neutral, poker face, military issue. But his focus sharpens. His lie has been picked out— far too easily. With all the practice he’s had over the years, Leon is a good liar. He knows, without a shadow of a doubt. This odd, beautiful, nameless stranger is a lot more clever than he wants to seem.

Leon doesn’t dignify the remark with a response. He shoots him a strange look, and moves on.

“Okay, then. What do you do for work?” He tries with a sigh.

Blue eyes narrow at him for a split second, but let it slide quickly with a shrug. “Odd jobs.”

Thats vague. In the polite way or the cagey way, Leon can’t yet tell. “What kind?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions.” The stranger notes, scraping at the melted pinkish dregs of strawberry and vanilla at the bottom of the dish. Cagey, then.

“I told you, I’m not a cop anymore.” He’s not lying. This time.

The man smirks, licking the spoon clean. “Whatever you say, officer.”

“Just trying to make conversation,” Leon counters, tracking the movement before flickering his gaze back up to meet his eyes again. “You wanna talk about the weather instead?”

“Spare me, please,” His new friend— friend? Can Leon call him that? He’d like to, although he’s not sure why, and the word doesn’t quite sit right. Chalk it up to his own paranoia and the man’s reluctance to give straightforward answers, for now. Either way, his… “friend” chuckles, polishing off the last of his sundae and pushing the glass away. “It’s mostly, ah, pest control, what I do. Invasive species. Not very appetizing stuff.”

“Bugs, rodents…?” Leon asks, just to keep the guy talking. Kill some time, maybe get some information if he’s lucky— although the more he asks, the less he seems to know. He’s being elusive in a way that does spark intrigue, but who is he kidding? The way it’s going, Leon’s not confident in getting anything actually useful out of him any time soon. And if he’s being honest with himself (barely), the company is almost doing more for him than the whiskey, and isn’t that something new. Doesn’t hurt that the aforementioned company talks like his voice is made of soft red velvet. Leon’s beginning to think it might as well be.

Maybe Hunnigan was right. Maybe he has been lonely.

“Devils.”

That snaps Leon out of his wandering thoughts like he’s been splashed with ice water. It comes too easily, casual and off-handed, with a smile that he can’t quite decipher.

His brow furrows, faltering. “What?”

“Questions, questions…” the stranger tuts, eyes teasingly narrowed.

“Humour me.” Leon insists, certain he’s misheard. He can hold his liquor better than that. There’s no way he’s far gone enough to be imagining things. If it’s some kind of joke or idiom or weird metaphor, it’s beyond him. His hackles raise, prickling with a sobering alertness that he hides with trained subtlety, guard up without breaking the guise. Never a good sign when a person of interest starts out vague and then ends up waxing poetic about heaven and hell. He’s found over the years that a lab coat fits far too well on a god complex, but it’s certainly not the only skin he’s seen it wear.

“Afraid I don’t have time,” The man says with a sigh, drumming his hands on the bar top. “Gotta go change. I’m on in five.”

“What do you mean you’re on?”

The man just smiles knowingly, claps a hand on Leon’s tense shoulder as he stands— tall , Leon realizes, taller than him. The touch is warm, noticeably so. He must run hot. Leon puts these observations away, carefully and immediately.

He leans down with a chuckle, just close enough for Leon to hear the purr in his voice, some kind of smirk still far too comfortable on his lip. “Nice meeting you, Scott.”

Leon swallows, brain lagging for a moment. The hand squeezes, then slips away, heat lingering under his skin in its absence. He gets a hold of himself and whirls around to see where the man went, scanning the crowd for a tall head of white hair— but its nowhere to be seen, vanished like smoke in the wind. He stares, mouth open dumbly, turns back to his drink.

“He run off on ya?”

Leon is brought out of his sexually confused stupor, blinking up towards the other voice. “Huh?”

The bartender— Vinny, the man called him— shakes his head at the empty sundae dish, muttering a curse under his breath, something about every damn time, Tony. He throws Leon an expectant look. “Look, you have my sympathies pal, but someone’s gotta pay for it.”

Leon’s eyes fall to the empty dish.

Son of a bitch.

Was he just… seduced? Was he scammed? Did that seriously work on him? Some sly looks, a warm voice, and one simple touch from a confident stranger who’s not so hard on the eyes, leaving him hot under the collar with a bill to pay? Jesus, he didn’t even get the guy’s name. He hasn’t even thought about batting for the other team in… years. Less than that, if he’s being honest. But still, when did Leon get so easy?

He needs another drink. He needs to get laid . He needs a vacation. Preferably the kind that never ends.

Vinny clears his throat.

Leon sighs in defeat, pulling out his wallet. At least he wasn’t pickpocketed.

“Yeah yeah, I’ll cover it.”

It’s going to be a long night. He orders another drink.

Chapter Text

It’s too fucking hot in here.

Leon hasn’t been able to get a wink of sleep since he got to this shithole city. He’s splayed face-first over the hotel mattress in nothing but boxers, bangs strewn over his eyes, sticking to his forehead. The duvet lies in a crumpled heap on the floor next to the broken AC unit in the wall. A shitty box fan courtesy of maintenance rattles on in the corner, gracing his tacky skin with just enough breeze to be bearable, but the heat still seeps in, thickening the air, stops him from easing all the way into any meaningful kind of rest. He tosses, turns. Rolls over again. He’s sweating through the sheets.

It doesn’t help that his only two options for entertainment are to relive the past that haunts him (thanks, but no thanks) or relive the events of earlier tonight.

Even in the heat, a shiver crawls down Leon’s spine.

He sighs, bone deep. Buries his face further into the pillow.

Tony Redgrave. What an awful fucking name.

He winds his fingers into the pillowcase, shuts his eyes and sees leather, tight and black.

Mister strawberry sundae himself, no more than five minutes after ditching Leon with the bill, sauntered out onstage to the squealing cheers of the overeager bachelorette party and the booming voice over the mic, give it up for Tony Redgrave! You know the rest.

He was wearing a cowboy hat and leather chaps and not much else by the end of it. Leon knows because he watched the whole thing, let the ice in his glass melt and water down the long forgotten whiskey in his hand. Odd jobs, huh? Tony can dance, he’ll give him that much. He wrapped himself around that tall silver pole centre stage with such ease and allure like he could pick it up and wear it like a mink stole if he wanted to, or a piece of silk ribbon tied around his nimble thumb. Strong and lithe and big all over, all catlike grace, pure sin. He wasn’t even sweating by the end of it. He had dollar bills tucked into places that made Leon’s fingers itch.

He’s a showman, that’s for sure. Gave the bride-to-be a real run for her money. Not that she had much of it left by the time Leon was able to peel his eyes away from the empty stage. She’d thrown it at him with enough fervour that maybe the groom should be worried. Leon would be, if it were him. He’d be worried for them both.

As is, Leon’s got enough worries to boot. He doesn’t need some tall glass of water with a vulpine smile raising questions he hasn’t really bothered to ask himself since he was in the academy (bullshit). It doesn’t matter how he feels about Tony’s erotic little number. He doesn’t have time for it to matter. He’s here for work, he has things to do. Lives could be at stake.

But the memory lingers like something stuck in his tooth. Try as he might, he can’t tongue it free.

He thinks about the man licking vanilla ice cream off the spoon, pink with strawberry syrup. Pulling off leather gloves with his teeth, one finger at a time. He’s got mixed feelings on the taste.

Leon harshes out a breath, twisting in a failed attempt to crack his back that somehow only leaves him more stiff than before.

This is a slippery slope. He needs to think about something else. That man dodged his every question and deceived him into paying for dessert. Minor offences, maybe, in the grand scheme of things, but more than enough to earn Leon’s suspicion. It’s dangerous how easily that happened. He can’t make mistakes like that, can’t let himself be fooled, even over something so small. His job is important, even if he fucking hates it— which he does. And despite the show Tony put on, Leon doubts that his dancing is what keeps a man like Cutler coming back to a seedy place like Seventh Circle.

…Although, he could hardly blame the man if it was.

It felt almost voyeuristic watching him perform, with every heavy lidded look he threw to the starry-eyed gaggle of women all but snapping at the heels of his boots, shedding inch after inch of fabric and tossing it their way to scramble over like starved lions at a zoo. Once, just once, he’s certain those cool blue eyes drifted to him at the bar, and winked at him. The moment was gone as soon as it happened. Maybe he’d just imagined it. But it’s not like the other man wasn’t blatantly checking him out at the bar earlier. Even if it was just to scam him.

Leon squirms on the thin sheets, goes still the second it starts to feel good. He’s not getting any sleep like this. He has half a mind to just give it up, peel himself off the mattress and take a cold shower, drown out the ache in his bones under freezing rain, or as close to it as he can get indoors. But he stays, limbs leaden, and tries to talk himself down instead. As if he has any sense.

It’s just the heat. He doesn’t have to think about it. His body’s just confused. It’s been way too long since anyone’s taken him to bed.

He wonders what Tony is like in bed.

No. Stop it. Bad Leon.

The image is already there. He’s already seen the man nearly naked anyways.

Maybe he’s more than just a dancer. “Odd jobs” can be a fairly subjective line of work, as it turns out. Maybe one of the bridesmaids caught his eye. He’s too charming for his own good, it’s probably so easy for him. He’d only have to lean in close during a lap dance in the back room they had rented out for the party and murmur that sweet red velvet in her ear. Then maybe she’d blush and meet him upstairs later, when the chance to sneak off presented itself.

Leon’s hips twitch of their own accord.

…What is he doing?

The question is too flimsy to stop him. Arousal prickles under his skin, still simmering from the bar, coalescing traitorously between his legs. Goddammit.

She’s probably never been with a man like Tony before. He seems nice, despite it all. Nice enough to talk her through it. Skilled enough to make her cum.

The box fan clanks, rattles. Leon barely hears it over the rush of blood in his ears. The scene takes shape behind his closed eyes. How do you want me, baby? Sweet and low, a little gravely. Warm skin, undressing her, letting her hands roam freely over his body. Laying her down. Just relax, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.

Leon sighs, throaty and strained and muffled in the pillow. He flips it over to the cool side, buries his face in it, swallowing back the guilt at his own depravity. He’s in too deep to stop now. It’s not like anyone’s going to know. He can be disgusting in peace, relish in a rare good feeling for once, no matter how fleeting and perverse. He hitches one leg up, sinks into it.

Would he eat her out? If she paid enough, maybe. His stubble probably tickles the inner thighs of anyone he goes down on. Leon’s thighs twitch with phantom sensation. Is it wrong that he wants to watch? To see her every supple curve quiver and tense, a blank canvas of smooth, wanting skin for that man to exact some kind of obscene prowess onto? His mouth waters at the thought.

Leon’s never wanted to be a woman before. He doesn’t think he wants to be one now either, but… god, it must feel so good, so good to be under him like that. Bent over, feeling Tony’s hot, rough palm smooth up the arch of her back as he fucks her. He pictures her with her head thrown back…

Oh, who’s he kidding. He’s not thinking about her.

He’s thinking about Tony; his spine bowed and head tipped forward, angular brows drawn in a focused little pinch of pleasure, lips shiny and parted, eyes heavy lidded and darkened with sheer lust, white lashes fanned over the flush of his cheeks. The way his long, soft hair would sway with the momentum of his hips snapping forward again and again and again.

The temperature of Leon’s blood ratchets up a solid ten degrees. Pent up doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He rolls his own hips into the mattress with a groan, heat churning low in his gut, crawling up his spine slow and syrupy, blanketing him in guilt-laden bliss. He’s rock hard, dick straining between his body and the bed, begging for friction. Sweat clings to his skin worse than before, drips down from his hairline to sting at his eyes. He blinks it away, reaches down to adjust himself. His own hand on his cock prompts the unbidden thought of what Tony’s looked like, trapped under tight red spandex, leaving little to the imagination. He wonders what it looks like uncovered, how much bigger it is hard. If he could fit it all in his mouth without choking. Not that he’d mind some rough treatment, if the man wanted to pull his hair and make him take it all the way down. Leon swallows thickly around nothing.

Jesus, he’s probably loud, too. Can’t dance like that with any ounce of shame weighing you down. Leon shudders at the thought of the noises he’d make, the sound of his voice, all twisted and breathless in the throes of pleasure, and muffles a weak moan of his own into the pillow, finally curling his fingers around his aching cock. Shame burns him to his core.

His legs twitch further apart, rutting steadily into his own palm. He’s losing himself in it, letting it carry him away, far, far away. God, how pathetic does he look right now? Somehow, the thought only turns him on more, a feedback loop of humiliated arousal thrumming under his skin. He hears the ghost of that voice, a low tut, a sly chuckle. Oh, look at you…

He pictures the woman again, envy poisoning the desire flowing hot in his veins. He feels like he’s going out of his mind.

He wants that tight black leather and soft red velvet and hot ivory skin pressed flush against his. He wants that man, smirking down at him, panting behind him, on him, inside him, all fucking over him. Why does she , some nameless, faceless she, get to have that, and not him? He hates every single answer to that question, almost as much as he hates that he asked. It’s not her fault— hell, Leon doesn’t even know if she exists. Green is an ugly, ugly colour on him.

Red would look so much better. Fuck.

Delirious and vulnerable in his state of arousal, Leon wishes pitifully that he could be taken care of too, for once in his awful, wretched goddamn life. Is that really so bad? He just- he just wants to be held down and ravaged , reduced to a gasping, writhing mess under the touch of someone who knows exactly how to take him apart— better yet, just use him, throw him around, make him forget. Break his fucking back, for all he cares. He just wants to feel small, feel worthless, feel helpless. Feel good .

Good lord, Leon just wants to be fucked.

He cums, shuddering and pathetic, spine arching as pleasure lances through him and he whimpers nonsense into the sheets. He lays there boneless for a moment after, rolls over onto his back with a miserable groan, guilt hitting him tenfold in the lifting haze of post-orgasm clarity.

What the fuck is wrong with him? So absorbed in his own crippling ache for human contact, he let himself get carried away fantasizing about a man he’s been given every reason not to trust. Too knowing, too evasive, too charming, too good to be true. His only real “crime” was small, but once should be enough for Leon to learn his lesson, especially on the job. He can only hope he got it out of his system and hope that he never, ever sees Tony Redgrave again.

Good thing he’s going back to the club tomorrow, which is in— he glances at the clock— six hours. Of course. Why would his life ever be easy? That wouldn’t be any fun for whatever sadistic force of nature that gets off on keeping him down. It’s like there’s been a boot on his neck since he was nine years old.

Leon sighs, wipes his hand on a tissue, throws it out. Flops back onto the bed. Sweaty, alone. Ashamed. The box fan rattles, threatens to give out.

Leon stares at the ceiling, feeling sticky all over.

…It’s too fucking hot in here.

Chapter Text

The mission outline is barebones, but clear: 

Go in, gather intel, get out. Poke around, kick anything flimsy to see what’s hiding behind it when it falls. Report back and discern an objective from there. All in all, this op should only take a few days. A week tops, but Leon knows the higher ups would be displeased with any time wasted.

Still, they’ve given him too little to go off of and too much grace. Leon can’t get comfortable. Maybe that’s the point. 

Seventh Circle is closed on Sundays, has easy locks to pick and an even easier alarm system to crack— but so far in his search, Leon’s come up dry. No false walls, secret passageways, trap compartments, hidden elevators— still, he has yet to dig around for any sketchy bookkeeping. More than a few health code violations, though. He won’t be ordering off the menu here any time soon. If nothing else, maybe he can get this place shut down once he’s done. 

Leon clicks off his flashlight and steps out of the dingy kitchen. Warily, he eyes the beaded curtain at the mouth of the hallway. 

…He’s been avoiding the dressing room. Walked past it on the way in through the back door, around the corner from a couple private rooms and maintenance closets. Call it intuition. A more honest man might call it guilt. 

Leon’s honest enough with himself to know that he can’t put it off forever. 

He sighs, rolls his shoulders, and weaves through the maze of tables towards the beaded gates of hell. Maybe that’s a little dramatic, but he’s got a sinking feeling in his stomach about this, something he can’t quite shake. 

He pushes through the curtain gun first. 

The hall is red with the glow of emergency lights, stationed high on the wall, casting everything in a shadow that leaves a profound sense of wrong. Leon stalks past door after door, his steps quiet and careful on the carpet below. He turns the corner, braces, and gently pushes open the door.

It’s empty. 

Well, not empty. There’s an old wooden vanity table with a mirror over it to the left, a love seat pushed against the far back wall, a folding paper screen in the corner with some thin floral pattern on it, a few lockers on the right, a couple chairs. Nothing unexpected, but that’s exactly the problem. 

Leon lets his shoulders relax a little and tucks his gun away to start digging around. It still feels a bit strange having it under his arm instead of at his hip, but even after hours, this op is strictly covert. He’s plenty adaptable, even through gritted teeth. 

He goes to the vanity table first, rifles through the drawers. Lingerie tape, nipple pasties, a half pack of cigarettes. Hair ties, body glitter, et cetera. Par for the course. He runs his fingers along the lining of the drawer. No latches, catches, buttons or gaps. He pushes the contents aside, knocks on the bottom. Doesn’t sound hollow. Hm. 

He turns to check out the lockers next, but doesn’t get very far. 

“Come here often?” 

Leon whirls around towards the voice, coming face to face with his worst case scenario. 

The universe hates his guts, so of course, it’s Tony fucking Redgrave leaning against the doorway like a bad omen, blocking his only exit. He’s got his arms crossed, that eternal lilt of amusement on his brow, the contours of his face cast in harsh shadow from the emergency light, red on black like the rest of his getup. He dresses much the same off the clock, it seems; no hat, but still in the chaps with red pants underneath, black shirt with too many belts on it, black boots, matching fingerless gloves, and a long red coat. Stylish and loud, and almost one hundred percent leather. Leon’s no authority on fashion, but it suits him. 

Tony looks him up and down, apparently entirely unbothered by the break-in. “I charge extra for a lap dance, sweet thing.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Leon tosses back with a scoff, trying to quell the anxious feeling of being caught red handed. 

The other man hums, knowing, observing him calmly from the door. “Had a feeling you were looking for something.” 

“That obvious?”

“I do a bit of sleuthing myself. I know a gumshoe when I see one.” 

Vague again. Leon isn’t fond of the mystery he shrouds under that big coat and easy smile. 

“Detective work falls under odd jobs now, does it?” He presses mildly. 

The man shrugs. “When it pays the bills.”

“And here I thought you were just moonlighting as a stripper.”

“Ah ah,” Tony— which Leon sorely doubts is his real name— raises a finger in a playfully chiding expression. “Exotic dancer.”

“Whatever you say.” Mock reassurance. 

A very put-on scandalized expression takes hold of Tony’s entire posture, clutching playfully at his invisible pearls. “What kind of girl do you take me for, mister?” 

“I wouldn’t like to take you for anything, if I can help it.” Leon says, and rolls his eyes, just long enough for the other man to leave his sight. 

Big mistake, apparently. 

The air shifts, and his instincts immediately prickle. His gaze snaps back over, just in time to see that the other man has vanished completely from the doorway and, with a whoosh of red leather is now, all of a sudden, sauntering out from the space directly behind him. Leon nearly jumps clean out of his skin, whirling around to face him again, almost reaching for his gun. Almost.

“Agent Kennedy, DSO,” ‘Tony’ reads aloud off of the ID badge situated in Leon’s wallet— his wallet? Leon’s hand flies to his back pocket. Empty. The other man continues reading, some tinge of victory lacing his tone. “Kennedy, Leon, Scott.” 

He pops the T in Scott, gaze flitting back up to Leon. He flips the wallet shut and tosses it back to its owner, head tilted with a dry little smile, eyes narrowed. “Very creative cover.” 

“Thanks.” Leon deadpans, catching it one handed. He stuffs it back into his pocket— a better one this time, inside the lining of his jacket. “Not to throw stones from glass houses, but something tells me Tony Redgrave isn’t written on your birth certificate.” 

The man eyes him for a moment, again in that way Leon can’t quite identify, pale blue gaze piercing in a manner that belies something else underneath all the cheap jokes and flamboyant outfit and all-around attitude. A slight smirk still lightly graces his face, but no longer quite reaches his eyes. Not humourless, just something keener, more… acute. Twice now, he’s gotten this look. Leon wishes he knew what the hell it meant. 

“…Dante.” He finally relinquishes. 

“Got a last name?” Leon presses expectantly. He doesn’t like that this guy seems intent on withholding any information from him. Still cagey. He wants to know why. 

“Just Dante,” The stranger tilts his head, hair falling over his eyes slightly, one thumb hooked in his belt loop beside the flashy silver buckle. The sharp gleam of whatever that was in his gaze remains elusive, dissolving back into mildly cocky amusement. “Y’know, like Cher. Prince. Madonna? Let me know when one of these rings a bell. Uhh… Beyoncé? Wait, I’ve got a few more in me-“

“Yeah, I get the idea.” Leon cuts him off, tone clipped. 

Dante lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to help.”

“Save it for someone who needs it.”

“Pleased to finally meet you again, by the way.” Dante fires back with a mild sneer. 

Leon somehow manages to bite back most of his own. “Yeah, this time sure is a pleasure.”

“Last time wasn’t?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” 

Dante chuckles faintly, head tipped down, bangs falling over his eyes, and turns leisurely on his heel. 

“So tell me, Leon. What’s a pretty little lapdog like you doing all alone in a place like this?” He drawls with a toying mock-innocence, thumbs tucked in his pockets as he paces the length of the dressing room idly. “At night. On a Sunday. When we’re closed. Sneaking around, and… rifling through my things.” 

Leon can’t help but feel tense, like he’s being circled by a hawk. Like he… knows. Logically, he understands that Dante has no earthly idea about his little late-night indulgence, that he couldn’t possibly read Leon’s private fantasies like they’re written on his skin in bold, scarred letters. But the feeling of being caught lingers, keeps him on edge. 

“I wasn’t… rifling through your things.” God, he hates how defensive that sounds.

Dante looks at him with an offering gesture. “You sure? Because I’m not above selling a couple pairs of dirty underwear. Hey, I don’t judge. Perverts always pay top dollar, and I need every cent.” 

Leon scoffs, feeling his face heat up. Thank god for low lighting. “Oh, so you’re just disgusting. I see.” 

“Actually, I’m in poverty.” Dante says smooth and matter-of-fact, still smiling easily. “But thanks.”

Oh. Guilt crawls up Leon’s throat.

“…I’m sorry.”

“You’re blushing,” Dante observes, apparently already moving on, breezy as ever. “Is it because of the underwear thing? Or because I called you pretty?” 

Leon’s jaw tightens. He’s been called pretty before. Never in a nice way. Usually followed by a hard shove, or some other belittling, slur-laden jeer about his manhood on the basis of being sensitive enough to befriend women and willing to shed some tears at a sad movie every now and then. Or with his back hitting the ground and the blade of a bowie knife grazing his throat, staring at Krauser’s carved up face, war-grizzled eyes boring into him with far too much interest for the dark mixture of disdain and pride and distinctly sadistic enjoyment that they harbour. 

Prettyboy. That was one of the nicer ones. 

Fag. Whore. Cocksucker. Queer.

Instinctual shame runs hot in his veins— hotter than normal, because even after he braces for it, the hate never comes. The taunt in Dante’s voice is more like a sultry tease. The look in his eyes isn’t one of smug disgust, but rather distinct and open appreciation. Not looking at him like a thing to be used, but rather as a man that he’s actively trying to coax into bed with him— and the brunt of the shame fades away, leaving nothing but raw, anxious heat in Leon’s blood. It’s the first time he can recall being flirted with by another man without a threat hanging implicit in the air like a noose in the gallows.

For the first time in a while, his wit fails him. He doesn’t answer. 

“Both?” Dante smirks wickedly in the guilty absence of his quip, turning towards him again. “You dog.” 

“What are you doing here?” Leon redirects. He needs to fucking focus. 

Dante looks to either side with eyes narrowed, then back to him. “Uh, I work here. What are you doing here?” 

Leon frowns at the flimsy excuse. Something doesn’t add up. “The club is closed today.” 

“You’re right, it is closed,” Dante repeats with played up fascination, brow furrowing ‘thoughtfully’. “Hey, speaking of which, how did you get in again? Or is the step-by-step on breaking into nudie bars a state secret?”

Leon scoffs, crosses his arms, tilts his head chin-up in casual challenge. He’s out of angles to deflect, except for the filthy ones. Fuck his life. “Who says I’m on the clock? Maybe I am just another pervert.”

Dante eyes him for a moment before shaking his head, waving dismissively. “Nah, I don’t buy it. Didn’t even walk in on you jerking off. Not that I would’ve minded a little backstage show.” 

Leon’s face heats up. He should’ve taken some of his paid time off, precious rare as it is. He should’ve taken that cold shower last night. He should’ve taken a detour on the walk here directly into the nearest river.

There’s no way Dante knows. It’s not possible. His paranoia doesn’t care though, needling at his skin with implication, but he does his best to quell it regardless. Maybe he’s just easy to read (not a very reassuring thought), or maybe Dante is just a hopeless flirt, or maybe, maybe— 

“What are you playing at?” He bites quietly, bitterness low in the back of his throat like the growl of a cornered dog. He’s beyond trying not to sound guilty. 

Dante’s brow furrows. “Beg pardon?”

Leon shoots him a look. 

Dante takes a long breath, looks at him like he can see right through his skin. It makes Leon’s mouth feel dry. 

“You ever been with a man before?”

Leon pauses at the sudden, awfully direct shift in tone, eyes narrowing. He keeps it vague. Where the fuck is this going? “…Not usually my department.”

“Usually?” Dante asks, brow quirked.

Usually.

Leon has, technically, ‘been with men’ before— if fumbling around drunk with a stranger in a cramped storage closet (of which he remembers very little) or getting his hair yanked and his throat fucked raw by a superior officer in the middle of the woods while desperately jerking himself off (of which he remembers far too much) count as ‘being with’ someone. He doubts it does, at least not in the sense that Dante probably means it. But the want for it has always been there, even when he wished above all else for it not to be. 

He’s not sure where the honesty comes from, even if it’s still a little veiled. Maybe he really is just that lonely. Maybe Dante is just that charming, that disarming, despite being suspiciously guarded and all kinds of strange. Clearly, Leon has a type: wry, elusive, dressed in red, and in more ways than one, a very tempting, very bad idea. At least this one hasn’t pointed a gun at him. 

Yet. 

“I’m beginning to have… second thoughts on that position.” He mutters in response. Still vague. He chews the inside of his lip.

Dante nods slow, eyes knowing. He steps closer, gently crowding Leon’s space. “Thinking about acting on any of ‘em?” 

“…I’ve got a job to do, here.” He tries to assert, but his voice comes out softer, with a bit of rasp. Affected. Fuck. 

Another step. Dante tilts his head, matching the volume. “Didn’t ask what you’re doing. I asked what you’re thinking.”

Leon’s breath shakes a little on the inhale. He can smell him, sweet and smokey and masculine, a woodsy little hint of cologne. He likes it. A lot. 

If this is a distraction tactic, it’s working. 

“…Thinking about it.” Leon mutters. 

Dante hums, eyes flickering down over his body, and back up. The moment lingers. Heavy. 

“I could show you the ropes, if you’d like.” His voice comes out smooth and about a half octave lower, and something in Leon stirs at the sound of it.

He fights the urge to back away, for a conflicting mixture of reasons. Again, he falls back on his wit, and thankfully it somewhat catches him this time. “I thought you weren’t that kind of girl.”

Dante chuckles lowly, giving him nothing short of bedroom eyes. “I’m not any kind of girl, sweetheart.” 

Shit.

Something about the way he says it arouses Leon beyond belief. Dante is not a girl, or a woman, or anything like it. He’s a man, a whole lot of beautiful, beautiful man, with broad shoulders and long legs and a five o’clock shadow. He’s got a wry, playful lilt in the purr of his voice like he knows exactly what he wants and a sly glimmer in his eyes that says he knows exactly how to look at a man who wants things he doesn’t fully understand. And he carries it all with a sexy, roguish kind of charm that sweeps Leon clean off his feet, leaves him tense, breathless— yearning, like it’s his first time getting an awkward hard-on in the locker room.  

A big, warm, leather-clad hand comes up to gently cup Leon’s chin. Dante’s voice rumbles soft and low in his chest. “But something tells me you don’t mind.”

Leon opens his mouth. Nothing comes out but air. Dante takes the opportunity to run a calloused thumb over his chapped bottom lip. 

“I won’t charge you, if that’s what you’re asking.” He adds mildly. 

Leon huffs out a dry laugh, sarcasm bubbling up before he can stop it. “First one’s on the house, huh?”

Dante’s eyes narrow, hand falling back to his side. “Y’know, for someone who insists he’s not a cop, you sure talk like you’re trying to put me away for prostitution.” 

“I’m not a cop-“

“And I’m not a hooker, I just like what I see. Is that so hard to believe?” Dante cuts him off, even keeled. “Now are you going to kiss me, or what?” 

His eyes drop to Dante’s mouth, mind going blank. He hesitates. 

A tense beat of silence crawls by. Dante’s breath fans over his face, and Jesus, he really does run hot. Leon wants to bask in the warmth. 

He wants it. Whatever this is. Whatever it is that Dante is willing to give him. He wants it so, so bad. But he just… can’t quite let himself have it. He shouldn’t. 

This has to be a trick. He’s being set up. A gorgeous stranger eerily close to the mission just so happens to want him— and not the typical shoving him down, oh the mouth on you, hushed sounds with harsh looks and “don’t ask don’t tell” with power hanging over his head like a sword kind of wanting him. No, this is something else entirely. This is smooth-talking, warm smiling, all gentle touches and subtle tests for mutual interest. Dante is laying it on pretty thick, sure, but it’s not demanding or domineering at all. It’s sensual, casual and playful, and to be quite honest it’s really, really fucking working. Leon can’t deny the allure. It scares the living shit out of him. He doesn’t get to have things like this, things that are easy and good without sending him barreling even faster than he already is towards an early grave— or worse, a living hell. 

“Why are you doing this?” He asks softly, throat dry. Distrusting. 

“What, this?” Dante mirrors his volume, gestures back and forth between the two of them, and then to the room they’re in. “Or this?” 

“This,” Leon mimics the former, to which he shrugs, scratching at the stubble on his chin. His eyes wander lazily over Leon’s body again, and Leon has to fight the urge to squirm. 

“Hey, a man has needs. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re a sight for sore eyes, and I am bored out of my mind.” Dante says, plain and simple. “And, correct me if I’m wrong, but you look like you could use a hand, uh… figuring some things out.” 

When Leon hesitates again, he sighs, looking down, moving to back away with hands raised. 

“Look, I don’t wanna press you. If I read this all wrong-“

“You didn’t,” Leon rushes to cut him off before he can think that it might be a bad idea. “You didn’t, I’m just… I don’t know.” 

He bites back a shudder, slight panic ebbing away as Dante looks him over for a moment, and then eases tentatively back into his space. 

“Don’t know what?” He asks. 

Leon swallows. “If this is a good idea.” 

Dante doesn’t move. Sharp in the eyes again, scanning him. Unreadable, save for that knife-point of intensity, now laced with something more heated. His voice comes out low, a little rough. “Probably not.” 

And yet, neither of them move. 

They just stand close for a beat, Leon looking everywhere except for his eyes, heart pumping hard at the proximity. His hands itch to reach out and touch, but he keeps them firmly at his sides. Dante’s are still in his pockets, that gaze boring into him. The silence is suffocating. 

“Now or never, loverboy.” He murmurs, all gravelly and soft, and Leon feels outright betrayal at the resulting twitch below his belt. “Say the word, and I’m yours.” 

…This could be a trap.

This could be a way to use him, keep him distracted, push him further from the truth, kidnap him, maybe even kill him if he’s lucky. 

But hey, Leon’s no stranger to being used. And maybe it’s the voice in his head, parched of alcohol, starved for affection and craving any kind of self destruction he can latch onto, or the hollow pit in his chest that threatens to collapse in on him like a black hole. Maybe neither, maybe both. Whatever it is, for once in his life, it has Leon deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Fuck it. Why not.”

He caves. Grabs the collar of Dante’s shirt and tugs him forward. 

A smirk spreads over the other man’s face. He gladly follows the pull, his broad frame blotting out the dim glare of the emergency light, putting Leon in near total darkness. Before he can swallow his apprehension, there’s a hand on his cheek and another set of lips on his. He tries and fails miserably not to think about how long it’s been since he’s been kissed— let alone kissed like this. 

It’s slow and burning, all-encompassing like the hot desert sun. Dante’s stubble scratches pleasantly against his own, and Leon can’t help a small moan when the man’s tongue sweeps over his lips. It falls open easily, a hand coming to his waist as the kiss deepens. Any higher and he’ll be feeling up the hard outline of a silenced M9. Leon places his own hand overtop and guides the touch lower, to his hip. Dante seems none the wiser. 

He tastes sweet, like strawberry. Of course he does. He’s also probably the only man on earth that runs hotter than Chris Redfield. If Chris is a human furnace, then Dante is a walking house fire. Fuck basking in it, Leon wants nothing more than to be swallowed by the flames, smothered in the heat entirely.

He runs his hands greedily over Dante’s chest as he’s walked backwards, stopping when his lower back meets the edge of the table. They stay there just making out for what feels like hours before finally breaking apart for air. 

“I take it you enjoyed the show last night,” Dante murmurs against his jaw, peppering it with kisses as he slips a thigh between Leon’s own. He mouths lazily at his neck, humming with satisfaction at the way Leon gasps when their hips press firmly together. 

“Wasn’t half bad,” he manages to tease, rendered breathless under all the attention. Jesus, he’s touch-starved. 

“Good enough to get you all hot and bothered,” Dante drawls all sultry, then chuckles, and the sound of it goes straight to Leon’s dick. “Did you have any sexy dreams about me?” 

You have no idea. 

“You wish,” Leon scoffs instead, feels his face turn bright red, eternally grateful yet again for the cover of near darkness.

A knowing, wolffish grin curls on Dante’s lip anyways. “Really cute when you blush, by the way.” 

Leon doesn’t care enough to examine how exactly Dante can tell with the way the lights are. He’s too busy spreading his legs wider around the man’s strong thigh, letting his forehead fall to his shoulder as his hips grind steadily against him, denim on leather, guided by a half-gloved hand on his hip, fingertips sneaking under the hem of his shirt. Dante pulls his body away just enough to let the other hand slip between their bodies and between Leon’s legs, running a hot palm over the growing bulge there, drawing some pathetic little sound from his throat. A thought skitters past, too quick to grasp onto. Something about how long it’s been since he’s been touched, let alone touched like this. His eyes squeeze shut, brow pinched in pleasure. “Fuck…” 

Dante runs a hand from the small of Leon’s back all the way up his spine and into his hair, long fingers tangling in the mess of dirty blonde. He urges Leon to lift his head up with a gentle, barely-there pull and dives down to kiss him again, deep and filthy, moaning into his mouth. The sound makes Leon’s knees fucking weak, low, heady and satisfied. He feels the tug of his belt being slowly pulled free from its clasp.

Shit, is Dante about to take him down right here? His cock twitches at the thought. Getting manhandled in the dressing room of a stripclub… he feels fucking filthy. Not entirely in a bad way. Maybe this is moving too fast, but he doesn’t care. To hell with normal. Nothing’s been normal since the nineties. 

Then Dante goes deathly still.  

Leon doesn’t ask why. He hears it too, only a fraction of a second more delayed. 

The moment immediately after is a complete and total blur, pure motion and instinct. Not the sexy kind, unfortunately. 

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG—

Bullets rip through the air, shattering the intimate silence into a million little pieces as the hulking mass of dark, pulsating flesh lunging forward in the doorway is pumped full of lead.

The… thing, whatever it is, gurgles, lurches, and falls to the floor with a wretched, squelching thud. Its body glistens, wet and bloody and deflated in the red glare from the hall. It takes Leon a second to fully physically register the familiar weight of a gun in his hands— and three more to realize he’s not the only one packing heat. 

Leon’s eyes trace the thin lines of smoke rising from Dante’s pistols. 

“Well,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. Perhaps to the pit of dread taking root in his chest. Who knows? Certainly not Leon. “This just got interesting.” 

Chapter Text

In the face of the kind of monstrosity that should command his full attention, Leon’s traitorous eyes crawl over the man still standing halfway between his legs. 

His torso is twisted towards the door behind him, a pistol in each hand, one steely black and the other silvery white, both still pointed sideways at the creature. High calibre– and custom, by the looks of it. Not reassuring. He looks alert, focused, that sharp little gleam in his eyes honed to a razor’s edge. Hair messy, lips shiny and kiss-bitten, shirt half untucked. Like he was just tongue-deep in another man’s mouth. Funny, how that is. 

Leon swallows back his arousal. He lowers his own gun. 

“Never a dull moment,” he mutters to himself, still a little breathless, straightening up and pointedly moving out of the danger zone of proximity to Dante where his dick seems to do all the thinking. 

“You’re telling me,” Dante scoffs in return, tucking his guns behind his back under the coat as Leon goes to assess the damage. He crouches down in front of the creature, grabs it by the back of the “head”, lifts it up to examine the “face”— what’s left of it, anyways. 

Dante whistles lowly from somewhere behind, tucking his shirt back in. “Hello, ugly.” 

Ugly, indeed. Whatever this thing used to be, it’s been mutated beyond recognition. Features are hard to discern through the damage, but it might’ve been humanoid, at some point. Hard to say. The skin is leathery, there’s jagged teeth and claws and tendrils, multiple faces, all covered in a ghastly filth and ichor which is beginning to seep into the dingy carpet below. Some portions of it look almost insectile, like something straight out of The Fly. That part is… somewhat new, but not entirely unheard of. And the rest checks out. 

 “B.O.W.s,” Leon mutters bitterly to himself. 

“B.O. what now?” 

Leon sighs, stands. The creature’s head hits the floor again with an awful, wet little sound, falling into the growing pile of its own gore. His voice goes grim. “Look, I don’t know who you are, what you do, or why you’re here, but you should really get out of here. Now. This shit is dangerous. I don’t need any civilians getting hurt.”

A second goes by. Two. Three. 

Then Dante laughs. He laughs at him. Leon glares daggers over his shoulder. 

“What’s so fucking funny?” He bites, and shoves the barrel of his gun towards the already decaying heap of flesh on the ground. The smell of blood and rot hits his nose with a vengeance, souring his mood even further. “Do you see this shit? I don’t care what you’re packing, you need to leave.” 

“Relax, babe. I’ll take it from here.” Dante dismisses, still grinning as he shoulders past Leon into the hall. 

Leon blinks, and balks. “You’ll take it from here?”

“Take your own advice, sweet cheeks,” Dante calls with an enigmatic glance over his shoulder, stepping over whatever they just killed. “Get out of dodge.” 

Leon stands there stunned for a moment, then marches out after him. 

“Y’know, I hate to assume, but I don’t think you’re qualified for this.”

Dante snorts, waltzing down the hall towards the main room. “Don’t think I’m qualified?” He shoots Leon a strange sidelong look. “What exactly does a DSO agent do again?”

Leon frowns, following him stubbornly. “That information is classified.” 

Dante just scoffs at him, so he circles in front to cut him off and plants his feet, bringing them both to a standstill just on the other side of the beaded curtain, still rattling on its strings. Dante tuts, rolls his eyes with an exasperated gesture. 

“Don’t make me carry you out of here. Because I will.” He says, fixing Leon with a look. 

“No one needs to get hurt, okay? Just walk away.” 

“Now who said anything about anyone getting hurt? I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Which is what, exactly?” 

“You hit your head or something? I thought I already told you.”

Right, pest control. With two custom firearms and a bad attitude. This just gets better and better. “Who hired you?”

“Sorry, that information is classified,” Dante says with a snide smile, turning around and starting back down the hall through the curtain. “Client confidentiality. I’m sure you understand.” 

Great, another mercenary. Why are the pretty ones always in red? 

Leon huffs, following after him, drawing his gun. Dante stops the second he feels the press of the silencer between his shoulder blades. 

“Turn around.” 

His voice is cold. 

But Dante, enigmatic as ever, throws yet another wrench into all his efforts, and just chuckles. 

He turns, raises his hands palms-forward in mock defence, the gesture so amused, so casual and ribbing— I mean, is this guy suicidal or just plain stupid? Leon has a gun pointed right at him. A firearm. A weapon. You know, those things that kill, that reduce the heads of entire human people with their own individual lives and loves and thoughts and struggles into a fine red mist with nothing but a steady breath and the squeeze of a cold metal trigger. But no, “Dante” (just Dante, like Cher) seems so utterly unthreatened by it— by him— its like the damn thing isn’t even there. He hasn’t so much as spared it a glance since Leon pulled it out, and even then. It almost makes him feel like a kid pointing a water gun. Christ, what kind of freaks has he run into this time? 

Regardless, his grip doesn’t waver. If anything, it solidifies, like the sizzling hiss of white-hot steel quenched in oil after being pulled from the flames of the forge. He’s aimed his pistol at things far worse than a cocksure stranger in a red leather coat (and certainly at things far worse looking, but that’s neither here nor there), and he hasn’t truly flinched in a long damn time. He stares the man down through the sights—well, up, technically. Dante still has a good few inches on him. The word statuesque comes to mind. Leon doesn’t know if he likes how he feels about that anymore. Not like he has any time to waste thinking about it.

“Shows over, Dante. Drop ‘em.” His tone leaves no room for argument. 

The corner of Dante’s mouth quirks up, eyebrows lifting a little, a sly glimmer of mirth in those eyes, almost like he’s holding back a snicker. What is with this guy?

“Woah there, cowboy. If you wanted in my pants, you could’ve just said so.” he quips, unwavering, looking him up and down him with one hip cocked.

Leon’s brow curls in, unable (unwilling, more like) to keep the snark out of his voice. “The jokes are cute, but don’t quit your day job.”

Dante grins at that, enjoying himself far too much for Leon’s liking. He leans closer, voice thick with innuendo. “Hey I’m no comedian, but if you want a tight five—“

“The guns.” Leon grits out. “Hand ‘em over.”

“Oh, where are my manners! I haven’t introduced you to the girls.” He smirks, and draws the pistols from under his coat, twirling them with ease as he brings them forward to present, one and then the other. “Leon, this is Ebony, and this is Ivory. Ebony, Ivory, Leo– hey!” 

Leon keeps his eyes (and his gun, to the best of his ability) trained steady on Dante the whole time. He grabs one– Ivory, if he's playing along– and drops the mag, letting it clatter to the floor before kicking it down the hall behind him. He racks the slide back, discharging the one bullet in the chamber, and then tosses the whole thing over the monstrous heap of death that's still propping open the dressing room door to their left. Ebony gets snatched next and tucked away into the waistband of his jeans, the metal still warm against his lower back. 

“Great, now we all know each other.” He deadpans, leveling his own weapon back at Dante. “How ‘bout an icebreaker? I vote twenty questions.”

“Your belt is still undone.” The man observes with a brow raised. 

“I’ve got bigger fish to fry.” Leon bites. “Now you can start by telling me who you’re working for.”

“That’s not even a question.”

“You should answer it anyways.” 

“Man, you suck at this game.” 

“I’m not playing around.” 

“Then shoot me, cowboy!” Dante goads and spreads his arms in an exasperated gesture. “Here, I'll make it easy for you.”

He steps forward, grabs Leon's wrist and presses the barrel right into his forehead. They lock eyes. The stare is intense. Not in the way he wishes it was. There he goes, letting another good thing slip right through his fingers. Figures. 

“What do you want from me?” Leon asks, low and harsh. 

“My guns back. And maybe to pull that stick out of your ass for you, if I'm feeling generous.” Dante halfway sneers. “And for you, and the DSO, to stay the hell out of my way.” 

“Well, we can't always get what we want, can we.”

A tension permeates the air. Not the kind that smothers, but the kind that ticks like a bomb. Still, and inevitable, and very, very finite. Leon's every muscle is coiled taut, ready to react on a hair trigger of sudden movement. This is what he is built for. This is what he's been shaped into. To be lethal, and adaptive, and fast. 

He's not fast enough this time. 

The second he squeezes the trigger a hand knocks his aim off kilter with inhuman speed. Dante ducks low and lunges past him, tucking and rolling smoothly back to standing. He whirls back around to face Leon as he turns, long red coattails flaring out behind him. He cuts quite the figure like this; one hip jutting out, eyes hardened like ice, gun in hand–

Gun in hand???

Leon blinks at the black steel barrel. Son of a bitch must've swiped Ebony off him on the way past. 

There's no time to curse him for it under his breath. Next thing Leon knows, he's dodging bullets like raindrops. 

It's as much a gunfight as it is hand-to-hand, and in both regards, Dante is an absolute force of nature. There's nothing Leon can throw at him that he can't match in kind, meeting his strikes with counters, smirks, and jeers– and once or twice with honest to god laughter. It gets loud too, and not just because of the way Dante yanks the silencer clean out of the barrel of his m9 and spin-kicks it down the hall, shattering through one of the dusty overhead lights and raining the room with glass. 

Every blow he lands is met with five more to dodge. Every step forward is ten steps back. They're banging dents into the walls, bullets tearing through plaster and cheap peeling paint that gathers as dust on the already filthy carpet. Beads clatter down from the curtain and skitter out across the showroom floor like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Dante parries, flips, shoots out the security camera in the corner on his way over Leon’s head. They're really making a mess of the place. 

So much for subtlety. 

If he didn't need his every ounce of ironclad focus to even keep up with Dante like this, Leon would probably love to watch the man fight– maybe even as much as he loved watching him take off his clothes. There's something impossibly fluid about it, all raw power and unbelievable speed– but at the same time, it's completely inefficient. 

Leon can't help but feel like he's being fucked with. 

He can scrape away from attacks by the skin of his teeth but he can never quite get a leg up on him. He gets the sinking feeling that Dante could drop him in seconds without breaking a sweat, but he doesn't seem to want to, otherwise Leon would already be just another twitching pile on the floor, waiting to be scrubbed out of the carpet tomorrow morning. Instead, he seems to want to have fun with it, prioritizing sheer spectacle over clean takedowns, daisychaining moves together with all the spontaneity of improvised jazz and about twice as much style. It's hard to even keep his own two feet on the ground long enough to try and get the other man on the floor. There's no way in hell someone of his size should be moving so weightlessly. It'd be breathtaking, if Leon could afford to have his breath taken. Violence has never looked so good. 

As is, it's a little terrifying. He can't afford to draw this out. He needs to end this, and fast. 

Finally, Leon finds his sliver-thin window of opportunity and takes it like a thief. A well timed kick to the centre of Dante’s chest sends the man flying into the back door and subsequently clean through it, damn near tearing the steel thing off its rusting hinges. It flies open and slams into the brick wall outside with a horrible bang! 

Dante bends the momentum to his favour, wrenches around mid-air and somehow lands on his feet in the deserted back alley parking lot. His bootheels scrape against the grimy asphalt as he slides to a stop next to car that looks like it's been parked there for years, rising to face Leon again. 

He brushes the bootprint off of his black shirt with a curl of annoyance on his lip. Leon follows him out onto the step, raising his gun and taking a shot above the neck. He's well past aiming for centre of mass. Putting one in the chest probably wouldn't even slow Dante down, let alone stop him.

Even still, he dodges– and far too casually, leaning only a few inches to the side to let it whizz past his face, still scowling down at the remaining dirt on his clothes. 

“Careful. You could really hurt someone with that thing.” He chides, shooting a glare up at Leon that's halfway playful and halfway deadly. God, how he wishes he didn't find that so attractive. 

“That's the idea,” He fires back, and goes for another shot. 

His target doesn't like sitting still for him though, and dashes forward to grab him by the wrist, sidestepping bullet after bullet with ease. He gets a firm grip on Leon’s sleeve, smirks, turns, and fully throws him over his shoulder like he doesn't weigh any more than a sheet of fucking paper, down off the back step and flat onto the pavement with a wham! The whole world rattles for a moment, wind knocked loose from his chest on impact. Until now, the roar of adrenaline had been keeping the soreness at bay, but Jesus, that one hurt. Lucky he didn't smack his entire skull into the ground and shatter it. 

Dante saunters on over, Ebony in one hand and the other tucked in his pocket. Looks down at Leon as he drags himself up slow and aching onto his elbows. His vision swims back into focus, catching a shock of white hair falling blurry over ice blue eyes. The other man sighs. 

“You gonna smarten up and fuck off now?” He asks, cocking the gun and pointing it lazily at Leon’s head. “I'd really hate to end it like this. You're a damn good kisser.” 

“Thanks,” Leon grumbles with venom, loathing how the comment still makes his cheeks warm. 

Dante sees the way he moves beneath him and takes pity, letting the gun dangle loosely from his trigger finger, no longer poised to shoot. His shoulders relax, blowing out another sigh and running his offhand through his hair. 

“Look, I don't want this to be hard. Just get out of here. And don't-”

The second his eyes flit away, Leon pounces like a sprung trap. 

A swift kick, and the weapon is sent clattering out of Dante's hand and across the lot, banging up against the dumpster.

Leon doesn’t give him a chance to recover. He takes all the momentum he has and launches upwards lightning fast to tackle Dante to the ground. He heaves his weight over top of him, swift and strong and efficient, levering down to plant a knee firmly on his chest, draws his gun and points it square at his face. Not exactly how Leon pictured getting on top of him, but nothing really seems to go to plan anymore these days. If he has to take the man home in a body bag, so be it. What a shame. What a waste. 

It’s him or me. 

Leon needs to get a new job. 

Dante opens his mouth, but there's no time for last words. Leon mourns, briefly, then shuts it out. He pulls the trigger. 

BANG. 

…

There should be blood. 

Leon blinks. Dante blinks back. There’s something in those eyes again, the glimmer or the knife-point, he’s not sure.

There should be blood, he’s sure of that. Rivers of it. Leon Scott Kennedy has seen more headshots first hand, up-close and personal than he could even count (or would ever, ever care to). Exit wounds are brutal, messy, disfiguring. There should be gore, a pulpy red splatter of brains and fragmented chunks of skull-shatter painting the asphalt like Jackson Pollock had a really big canvas and a death wish. There should be blood, dark and oozing and sickly warm, enough of it to seep into the toe of his boot where it grinds into the grit of the pavement, wetted only by the humid cling of day-old rain. 

There’s no blood. 

Leon draws back a fraction to assess, reassess. Recalibrate. Find his footing. Double check. Triple check. His grip falters, pulling the gun away just enough to really look. 

Dante is lying under him, placid and unscathed. Leon’s eyes catch on a shine of silver, and that's when he sees it. 

The bullet. Pinched between his teeth. Gunmetal bracketed by pearly white— and only now does he notice that the canines are just a little too long, a little too sharp.

Slowly, without breaking his stare in the slightest, Dante turns his head to the side just so, and spits it out. The bullet makes a soft twinkling noise as it bounces away, skittering into the shadows. 

Dante is not a human being. 

Dread pangs into Leon’s gut, and his stomach plummets. 

Whatever the fuck he is, his lips quirk up at the corner, arms lifting to calmly lace black-gloved fingers together behind his head with a sigh. His eyes wander curiously over the man above him, assessing and lax. He looks more like a panther lounging on a rock than a man who just got shot in the fucking head point-blank. 

Dangerous. The word strikes Leon, rattles up his spine like an old, familiar ghost shrieking through the halls of an abandoned house, prickling the hair at the back of his neck. He’d call it a chill, but it’s hard to, with the sheer warmth that radiates from the body below him. He can feel it through his knee, still digging into Dante’s chest— and that’s another thing. He isn’t struggling at all to breathe. Leon is no small fry, and even putting his full weight into it, Dante shows absolutely zero signs of struggle. 

He cocks his head, scratches his jaw. Idle. Dangerous, Leon’s instincts screech at him again. 

“You’ve got some moves, I’ll give you that much.” Dante hums, nodding to himself.

Leon levels the gun on him again, more muscle memory than actual rational thought. 

“What the hell are you.” 

Dante just scoffs, pushing it out of his face. “Put it away, loverboy. You’ll waste your ammunition.”