Chapter Text
“Ow, ow, fuck!” You hiss at yourself in the vanity mirror, currently trying to re-pierce your ears with the blunt of an earring. Truly, more trouble than it’s worth, you think. Alas, you want to look nice for the party your best friend Veronica loved throwing. Hopefully get your mind off of him.
Leon S. Kennedy.
That fucker.
The one person on earth that you probably, most definitely, absolutely should not and could not pursue romantically. The man himself was an enigma, who came off as a hard-ass when really he was rather goofy. A golden retriever dressed up like a Doberman. Unfortunately you rarely saw that side of him—the real him. Having the absolute pleasure and yet devastating misfortune of him being a member of your personal detail, AKA your live-in bodyguard. A special agent trained in USS Stratcom, battle tested, and a renowned hero amongst the elite who were privy to his successful exploits—namely saving Ashley Graham from some rural Spanish cult. The rest was classified, even to you.
Not to mention he was fucking gorgeous, easily the most handsome man you’d ever seen. Someone you would only expect to find in those cheesy romance books or movies (you preferred the books, of course.) His hair cut neatly and swept to the side looked silky to the touch, the color of woven silver-gold with a hint of brown growing at the roots. A perfectly sculpted face and body made flesh instead of marble, tall but not outrageously so, with eyes like moonlit ice that still made your stomach swim until you were dizzy.
And you couldn’t have him.
Not like you think your feelings are reciprocated to any degree. Though maybe it’s easier that way. You wanted to forget him, even for just this one night. Find someone you fancy even just a little and pretend his lips are Leon’s. But that wasn’t forgetting, was it? You sigh to yourself, sitting up straight and still. You push the earring into your ear. Warm blood runs down your thumb. Now the other ear.
You clean yourself up with saline spray you got from some hole-in-the-wall tattoo shop you got your belly button pierced at when you were 19 and make a mental note to not take the earrings back out for a bit. You tug the top of your little black dress up, immediately needing to pull it back down over your ass. It was little, but who doesn’t love a teeny black dress? Practically a staple in women’s fashion. Then you think of what Leon would say, and find yourself rolling your eyes. You could practically hear his voice:
“I think you forgot to put on the rest of your clothes.”
Yet somehow that makes you smile at the same time. He wouldn’t make you change, never that controlling. Rather he would grab you a jacket or something along those lines and insist you put it on. Usually you end up needing it anyways so the precaution doesn’t bother you. Grabbing your “bigass purse,” as Veronica liked to say (it was Juicy Couture, of course) and heading out of your bedroom you almost forget to slather your lips with lipgloss. Almost.
You purse and pout your lips with a small pop until you feel satisfied with the dispersion. You reach the front door of your residence, really too large for just the two of you but you were used to the nicer things in life. Like big houses.
“Where are you going?
Oh, right. Leon.
You forgot to tell him about your plans, per usual.
You turn around and clap your hands together, turning them outwards towards him. “Forgot to tell you, I’m—we’re going to a little party tonight. I was about to come get you.”
He shakes his head, but doesn’t look the least surprised. “Mara, it’s 10pm.”
“Okay grandpa, go get your beauty sleep then.” You shrug, slowly opening one of the front doors. “But I’m leaving and I’m going to get drunk, so I guess don’t expect me until tomorrow.” You let your voice draw out “tomorrow.”
He breathes through his nose, nostrils flaring. “Let me grab my keys. How many people are we talking for this ‘little party’?”
You think for a minute. “…fifteen, more or less—ish.” You can feel his eyes on you, but you don’t look. “Mara.”
“Leon.”
He licks his lips and looks up, then back down to you. “Is it a girlfriend’s thing or will there be guys?”
You don’t lie, he’ll find out soon enough. “Probably guys, too.”
You know Leon appreciates the honesty, even if it makes him more wary about this gathering. “You know I’ll be close to you all night. Ten paces at most. You go somewhere else, you tell me. Alright?”
You nod with a small, knowing smile. “I know. I have my phone on me and a thing of pepper spray.” You rummage around in your purse and show him.
“Give me that,” he says, almost sounding snappy. He snatches it out of your hands. “I’m keeping this, you won’t need it and you’ll just hurt yourself.”
You pout at that. “Sorry for being prepared,”
He pockets the little keychain of mace, effectively confiscating it. “It’s either as good as water or it works, and it works on you too.” He states. “You ever been maced?”
You can’t say you have, and he knows it. “Whatever.”
"We leave at 12:30. No later." He adds.
"Wait hold on—"
"Don't push it. You gave me short notice as it is. I don't enjoy babysitting a grown woman but it's my job to protect you, so let me do that, okay?"
That gives you pause. Sure, you imagine it's not an attractive young male agent's dream job to be a glorified babysitter to a spoiled rich girl, but surely it wasn't that bad. Right? The thought of him not at least enjoying your company hurt more than it should have.
"No, you're right. I'm sorry, thank you." You say slowly, trying not to sound too apologetic. Desperate.
"Don't apologize, and that's my job. No need for thanks." He dismisses you, turning on his heels towards his bedroom, pointing to you over his shoulder. "Don't run away, I'll be right back."
"I won't, you'll just catch me." You call back, swinging your leg, already bored.
"Damn straight."
-
The car ride to Veronica’s was quiet, but a kind of comfortable quiet that made you feel settled compared to your usual restlessness. Leon tended to make you feel that way in the months he’s been with you, as if the killer in him tamed the fire in you.
Bon Jovi played softly in the background, almost obscured by the sound of the AC blasting. You had an idea of the kind of music Leon liked. For example, Bon Jovi, some Nickleback if he was in the right mood, 3 Doors Down, Pearl Jam, typical rock music. Sometimes he’d let you put in your CD’s consisting of The Cranberries, Britney Spears, Kesha, Fiona Apple, all the good stuff. He didn’t mind Fiona or the Cranberries but you could tell he didn’t like your party music. You rested your forehead on the window, watching the world fly by. “Thanks for coming, even if you have to.”
He repeats that it’s no problem. “You should put on a jacket, though.” He suggests.
You concede. “I guess it would be bad publicity, a headline declaring the president’s daughter a slut.”
The idea of someone insulting you like that seemed to disquiet him. Hands on the steering wheel a little tighter than they needed to be. It made the leather creak. “You know, if anyone calls you that or whatever else, you just come tell me alright?” You can feel him glance at you with those baby blues of his.
“Yeah yeah, you’ll kill them or something.” He lets out a small chuckle at that and the sound made your stomach flip.
“It’s also in my job description to protect your reputation.”
Now you laugh at that, looking over at him. “Oh? My reputation, Kennedy? Oh no! Poor little scandalous me!” You make your voice higher, very mockingly. “Whatever shall I do?” You finally finish before you burst out laughing. “That’s rich.” You mumble after calming down. You’re joking, yes, but there’s something else in your tone. He looks like he’s about to say something, but you’ve arrived. You get out of the car and shut the door a little harder than was necessary after shouldering your purse.
The walk up to Veronica’s house was uphill and long, making you already regret your choice of shoes. You make a frustrated noise, and out of the corner of your eye see Leon offer his hand. You take it, and he helps you stay steady and you walk up to the front door. You open it, knowing it would already be unlocked. The smell of Pink Whitney and perfume hits you immediately, but you hardly process it over the high-pitched squealing when your friends spot you and surround you like a pack of hungry sharks offering hugs instead of bloodlust.
Leon shuts the door behind you and stands next to them, quietly observing as your friends drag you away towards the kitchen and living room.
“He’s hot,” Veronica smiles as Vicky bites her lip at him.
“Quit that,” you chide them. “He’s not into you, he’s on the clock. No one likes getting hit on at work.”
Katherine frowns. “Buzzkill.”
“Not when she’s drunk,” Veronica laughs. “Shots!”
-
You definitely drank more than you should have. You don’t even know what time it is until Leon comes to collect you from the bathroom where you were sat on the counter, knees curled up to your chest and feet in the sink. Heels discarded who knows where. Leon bid goodbye to the girls lying in the bathtub and the couple of guys sprawled out on the floor as he gingerly helps you down.
“Where are your shoes?”
“Fuck if I know,” you hiccup.
He sighs, parking you on the leather couch in the living room. “I’m going to go find them, you stay right here.” You give him a thumbs up. 10 minutes later he returns to you, your giant purse slung over his shoulder and your heels in one hand. “C’mon, let’s go.” You stand up, or try to, and Leon sees what’s about to happen and secures his arm around yours just in time. You giggle, resting your head on his arm as he walks you towards the doors. You suddenly realize you’re not in your feet anymore, or even walking. You’re in his arms as he carries you, your purse, and your shoes down the steep walkway.
“I got David’s numberrrr,” you mumble happily.
“Good. Give it to me, too.”
“Mhmmmm…”
He sets you down in the passenger seat, putting your belongings on the floor to buckle you up. You don’t remember the drive back or getting home, just the smell of Leon’s cologne and how close you were to him as he carried you.
You dreamed about him that night in your drunken stupor, wishing to never wake up.