Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rookie was wrapped in a fluffy pink blanket and blinking sleepily.

It was disturbing how peaceful he looked. For once, his features weren't pinched and drained. There was a strange glow to him, an unmistakable pinkness to his cheeks. He looked like someone in love. Or coming down with a bad fever.

Krauser couldn't decide which.

The suburban house was large and anonymous, hardly the usual headquarters for a monster like Wesker. But here he was, one of America's most wanted criminals hiding behind a white picket fence. A place with air conditioning and a big backyard. Large, shady, private. The dream home for someone with a family to raise. But Wesker didn't have one. 

Even if he wasn't alone. 

He lived with Leon now. Or Leon lived with him. Krauser was still figuring that part out.

Krauser had been in bad shape when he'd crawled out of Spain, his broken body healing in painful stages, a gift from his dying Plagas. Since it was the dominant species, Lord Saddler's death hadn't killed him. But losing another leader, another cause, had almost done what the Plagas and Leon's knife couldn't. It had hollowed him out inside. Left him lonely in a way he couldn't name. 

Eighteen months later, his savings had run out and he was back to mercenary work. It was like settling back into a familiar groove. Despite it all, Krauser had survived, even if he might have preferred otherwise. He didn't hate the rookie for trying to kill him. But sometimes he resented him for failing.

That old hot resentment turned to fear when he heard about Leon's disappearance post-Spain.

The agent had dropped off the face of the Earth. It had bothered Krauser more than he'd realized. Not that his own time following Spain had been a picnic. He'd kept on the move, cloaked in rumours of his death, careful not to let the authorities suspect that he'd survived the madness and the Plagas and being impaled like a butterfly on the rookie's blade.

The rookie.

As soon as Wesker left the room to fetch the mission brief, Krauser turned back to Leon. The agent's eyes were wide and unfocused, Krauser noted, but he didn't look drugged. Not exactly. More like he was lost in a certain headspace.

"Hey," Krauser grunted. "Helluva world, right? Me working as a merc for smug assholes like Wesker and you hiding from the DSO while you let him... uh, take care of you. That's what this is, right? This dynamic between you guys?"

Because Krauser had to know. He never would have pegged Leon for the kinky type. At least not this kind of kink. But the agent seemed docile enough, curled up on the massive couch under that ridiculous blanket. It had bunnies on it, little rosy cotton-tails on a darker background of candy pink.

Jesus Christ.

"Yes," Leon mumbled, like a man half-awake, fighting not to slip under the surface of his mind. "Da... Wesker takes care of me. 's for the best. Can't do it myself."

Krauser felt a tug of discomfit then. He quashed it, telling himself not to be a judgmental prick. People found peace in all sorts of dynamics, even ones he didn't understand.

"Here it is." Wesker, strange in his casual Sunday clothes, was waving the manila file around like he was swatting something. All those deadly little details on who Jack needed to kill and Wesker was waving the file like a damn napkin.

Leon caught sight of the blurred papers moving back and forth, eyes locking onto them like they were a spinning Ferris wheel. He reached for them.

"No, no, these are for Jack," chided the scientist, sitting beside Leon. The smile he directed at Leon was positively doting, almost paternal. That hard, carved face suddenly turning warm and human.

Krauser didn't think he'd ever wanted to hit someone so badly in his entire life.

Leon pouted. "Lemme see!"

"You don't do missions anymore, silly boy," chuckled Wesker, his smile deepening. It didn't look warm to Krauser anymore. It looked smug. "Remember?"

The ex-agent's jaw tightened, pulling his face taut. Suddenly he didn't look like Wesker's little darling, all tucked away in fleece. He looked like Special Agent Leon S. Kennedy. Krauser watched with interest as Leon snatched the file from Wesker's hands and opened it, flushing a little in his defiance.

Wesker seemed charmed. "Oh, someone's feeling assertive today. Well, have a read then. It'll go over your little head, believe me," he purred, stretching his long legs out in front of him and leaning back against the sofa, like a 1950s father on a recliner. It was then that Krauser realized that Wesker wasn't wearing his sunglasses.

It seemed like a crucial detail, even if Krauser couldn't have said why. Leon flipped through the papers, lips moving as he slowly puzzled out the words. That was... new. The rookie had always been quick.

Krauser forced himself to study Wesker, really study him. Pushing back his own bias and dislike to dissect the man in front of him. Without his sunglasses, in tailored pants and a cardigan, his inhuman eyes concealed by custom blue contacts, Wesker looked... not older. But like someone else. He could have been a retired professor. He could have been a suburban dad.

Krauser had buried himself alive to escape the cold grasp of the US government. Wesker had simply, quietly reinvented himself.

The bastard could probably go shopping at his local farmer's market and nobody - not the woman who grew her own apples, not the man who sold knick-knacks - would suspect who he really was. What he really was.

The Major felt his dislike ripen into something like jealousy.

"Bo-ring!" Leon announced, tossing the mission brief aside. His voice was bright and young and stupid, more like the rookie Krauser had trained all those years ago than the DSO's killer dog.

With something like disbelief, the Major watched Leon snuggle against Wesker's shoulder and then fall asleep. As if Krauser wasn't even there. As if he didn't matter.

Wesker kissed the younger man's forehead, a slow, lingering kiss. There was love in it and gentleness and the darker undercurrent of a devouring possession. The bioterrorist looked like a child who had found a broken toy and wasn't going to let anyone else touch it.

"He said you look after him. Whatever that means." Krauser didn't bother to keep the scorn from his voice.

But Wesker didn't notice or he didn't care. The smile he gave Krauser was radiant. "Yes. My poor little angel has suffered so much. First Raccoon City, then under the DSO. Spain was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back, if you'll excuse the cliché. It's lucky we found each other."

"Or you found him."

The brightness of Wesker's smile didn't dim. In fact, its wattage increased. "Leon wants this now. That's all that matters."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Krauser was on his feet, hand moving towards his sidearm. He'd modified it himself, loading it up with the kind of ammo illegal in most countries. Definitely not standard issue. Against humans, it was devastating. Against BOWs, it brought you those few crucial minutes before you pulled out a rocket launcher.

Wesker's eyes flashed red at the implied threat, the sudden flare of color visible even through those tinted contacts, the ones that hid his snake gaze and made him look normal. Almost human.

Krauser's gun was in his hand before he could think. Another stupid decision in a long line of stupid decisions. Macho bravado as usual. Sometimes it moved his hands before his brain could catch up.

Even as his grip tightened, Krauser knew that he might die here. And for what? The rookie.

A kid who had cried at night during his training. Whose softness had stirred a feeling of protective helplessness in Krauser, one he hid under a show of gruffness. A man who had tried to kill him in Spain.

Well, there were worse things to die for.

"Oh, are you asking if it's consensual?" Bonelessly, Wesker dipped forward until his forehead touched the cold barrel of Krauser's gun. "Why don't you wake Leon up and ask him? He wants this, soldier. Even if it took some... persuasion to get him to admit it. Some training. But he's been looking for someone to hold him together for a long time." Wesker grinned and there was cruelty in it. "And you weren't there, were you?"

Krauser wasn't as fast as Wesker and nowhere near as smart. But he'd never been arrogant enough to stare down a loaded gun and think that the man holding it wouldn't dare pull the trigger.

Wesker could heal, but not from an entire clip of enhanced ammo emptied into his skull in quick succession. Krauser reloaded and emptied another clip into him just to be on the safe side.

"Jesus Christ!" Leon had jolted awake at the sound of the gunshots. When he saw Wesker lying in a puddle of blood and brains, he started crying. Not like a soldier, not like a man.

But the open-mouthed wailing of a scared child.

"Da... D..." He was blubbering so hard that he couldn't get the word out.

Krauser didn't have time for this. He could see Wesker's body twitching, see how it might knit together in time. Luckily he had gasoline in his van outside. And a hacksaw.

Leon wouldn't stop crying, words dissolving into sobs. Krauser slapped him hard.

"Special Agent Leon S. Kennedy. Pull yourself together!"

The younger man jolted like a man getting a shock. "I... Jack?" He sounded uncertain. "Where... where are we? Spain?"

"Fill you in later. We need to go. Now! Can you walk?"

"I think so."

When Leon tried to stand, he was unsteady on his feet, like someone who hadn't walked on their own for a long time. Without the blanket, Krauser could see that the agent was wearing tracksuit pants and a hoodie in soft blues. The hoodie had little bear ears.

Leon took a stumbling step. And then another, nearly pitching to his knees.

In the end, it was just easier for Krauser to carry him, Leon clinging to him the whole way. Krauser settled him into the passenger seat of his van. Shivering, Leon clutched his hand like a kid waking from a bad dream. Krauser squeezed back. 

Then he went back to Wesker's dream home and burned it to the ground.

Leon looked dazed by the sight of the house on fire. He sniffled once but caught himself when Krauser side-eyed him hard through the van window.  

The ex-agent ducked his head, fingers toying with the drawstrings of his hoodie. He peeked through his fringe at Krauser yanking open the driver's door. The soldier smelled like a gas station attendant. Soon the whole van stank of chemicals and ash and an unpleasant savory smell like burning pork. 

"I lived there," Leon said suddenly. "That was my home."

"No it wasn't, rookie. It was just where he kept you." Krauser tried to keep his tone level. But he was alarmed by what he saw in Leon's eyes, the fuzziness bleeding back in.  A soft hand brushed against the Major's forearm, hesitant as a question. 

“Jack?”

Krauser went stiff, not sure he wanted to hear what came next. “Yeah?”

Leon gnawed at his bottom lip. “You’ll take care of me now… right?”

There was no shame in his voice, just a quiet panic. Krauser had seen the agent tear through BOWs the size of houses and shake the blood off his knife with a cynical quip. Cool as frost on a blade. This panic was something that had been trained into Leon. 

He'd been conditioned to ask a certain question and taught what kind of answer to meant safety. 

“I’m not him,” Krauser said gruffly. “...But yeah. Yeah. I’ll take care of you, rookie, just til we get your head right."

Leon gave a quivering little sigh of relief. Even when he nodded off, he kept his fingers on Krauser's arm as if frightened  to break contact. In silence, they drove away from the fire and into the night. 

Chapter Text

Once they reached the seedy motel, Leon had stopped asking Krauser if he'd take care of him. The agent just assumed that he would.

And Krauser had no idea how to deal with that. Maybe in another life, he would have been a family man, someone with a partner and a kid. But somehow, the years had got away from him. They had slipped away in a blur, like the names of the men he'd killed over his long career, first as a soldier and then as a hired killer. Finally as Saddler's bloody right hand.

It was very strange to have to look after someone.

Leon was very unsteady on his feet for anything longer than a trip to the ensuite of the tiny motel room. But he managed to make it there by hanging onto the furniture or the wall. If he fell over, Krauser would pick him up and encourage him to keep going until he reached the bathroom. Thank God Krauser didn't have to handle that part.

He just had to handle everything else.

That included the meals. For supper, they popped by a quaint diner called Big Papa's.

The irony of the name made Krauser chuckle. Leon looked up brightly at that and joined in, like someone who didn't get the joke but laughed because that's what the grown-ups were doing. He pressed against Krauser as they stood in line, confident that the soldier could bear his weight.

The agent hadn't mentioned Wesker once, not since they'd driven away from the burning ruins.

Now Leon stared at the pictures and words and prices on the board above the cashier, trying to piece them together. Finally he gave up and looked expectantly at Krauser, waiting for the big man to make a decision. But Krauser wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily. They had to start somewhere if Leon was ever going to get back to normal.

"What do you want, kid?" the soldier asked. "Cheeseburger? Something else?"

Leon looked confused then scared. As if Krauser's words were a test. He tugged briefly at the stupid bear ears of the hoodie. Irritated, Krauser pushed the hood down. It immediately made Leon look more like his old self. Or better than his old self.

His strange captivity under Wesker hadn't damaged the agent, at least not physically. His hair was gleaming, falling almost to his collar now. And there was a peachy freshness to his complexion that spoke of early nights and no booze. Wesker hadn't hurt him, at least not physically.

No, Krauser corrected himself, he probably hadn't hurt Leon where it showed. There were a lot of ways to break a man's mind and not all of them left obvious scars.

The Major breathed out hard and tried to dig up his gentle voice, the one he used on scared cadets and kittens. "Come on. You can have whatever you want, rookie."

"Chicken nuggets?" Leon said tentatively, watching the other man's face carefully. Wanting to know if he'd said the right thing.

Abruptly Krauser wondered when last Leon had been allowed to choose anything for himself. It made him feel a little sick.

He covered it up with a broad smile, knowing how fake it must look. "Okay. Chicken nuggets. Sure."

By the time their order was ready, Leon was drooping. He picked at his meal, focusing on the greasy chicken and ignoring the side salad.

"Eat your greens," said Krauser automatically. "No, not with your hands. Use a fork."

The agent stared at the plastic utensil with a kind of wonder. "'I'm not gonna hurt myself with it? Like... like put my eye out?" Sounding genuinely nervous.

"It's a fucking plastic fork, Leon. You've handled combat knives!" Krauser growled, feeling his blood pressure tick upwards.

"You said a bad word!"

Krauser stared at Leon, dumbfounded. The younger man stared back at him defiantly.

"Bad words are a sign of a low vocub... vocubolo... not being smart. Someone's gonna wash your mouth out with soap." And as if to prove his point, Leon stuck out his tongue. There were faint discolored patches on it, a little darker than the rest of the gleaming pink flesh.

Someone's gonna wash your mouth out with soap.

Krauser remembered his grandma once doing that to him after he'd taken the Lord's name in vain or said "shit", something minor like that. She'd used carbolic soap, the kind that burned, the terrible chemical sensation of it sizzling inside his mouth. But that had only been one brief occasion in his childhood. Luckily the old bitch had died not long afterwards.

Now he looked at the marks on Leon's tongue. They looked very much like chemical burns, like someone had shoved something a lot more corrosive into his mouth than mere soap. More of Wesker's conditioning.

"Listen to me," Krauser said slowly, wondering how to play this, how to reel the old Leon back to the surface instead of this soft boy of Wesker's making. "I can fucking say whatever the fuck I fucking want. I'm a fucking adult."

"Okay, fine. Lucky you," Leon grumbled, turning his attention back to his chicken nuggets. He kicked his feet under the table a little sulkily, like a kid who realized that grown-ups can stay up late while he still has a 7 PM bedtime. "You don't haveta rub my face in it. Jeez!"

Krauser swigged back his chocolate milkshake and desperately wished that it was whiskey.

He was still longing for a proper drink when they got back to the motel. There was a bottle of Jim Beam stashed in his suitcase; never had it seemed so appealing.

But Krauser knew himself. Whenever he felt like this, this cruel relentless need to dive into a bottle, it wouldn't stop at one glass. He'd keep going until he was passed out or in a backroom playing Russian Roulette with the rest of life's losers. And then who would watch out for the rookie?

Leon was mumbling into the Major's shoulder as Krauser carried him over to one of the motel's hard single beds. He hadn't managed to stay awake for the full meal, poor kid.

When Krauser lowered him onto the mattress, he cracked open one blue eye. "Remember the last time you had to carry me home? That time I got so drunk back when you were training me? It was your birthday. The guys kept buying us shots." He smiled at the memory.

Krauser felt the vice around his heart loosen slightly. It was like they were back in the old days, before the blood and failure, before Spain and whatever the hell Wesker had done to Leon in the aftermath.

"I remember," Krauser grinned. "You puked on my boots."

"Did I? Ick!" Leon giggled, suddenly slipping below the surface again. Back into whatever role Wesker had forced on him. "Hey, I can't sleep like this! We gotta brush my teeth! And these are day-time clothes. Sleepin' in day-time clothes is a big no-no! There are rules."

It was disconcerting, the unexpected shift from normal Leon back to the one who talked about rules and routines with absolute certainty. Like they weren't established by that lunatic Wesker, the Daddy Dom from Hell. Like they were just the backbone of Leon's life now instead of a false scaffolding assembled from abuse and conditioning.

"Well, uh, you don't have any other clothes," Krauser started. "All your other stuff is..."

Burned up. Gone in the fire, he thought it but didn't say it.

"...you want to borrow something of mine?" he finished lamely.

The offer seemed to excite Leon. Once Krauser unzipped his suitcase, Leon scruntinized the contents, showing no interest in the weapons but plenty in the different shirts.

"These are all boring!" he complained. "Nothing fun on them. No pictures, no patterns. All of my t-shirts have pretty pictures on the front." The last part said with a certain smug pride.

"Uhhh, what about this one?" Krauser picked up an old t-shirt, one decorated with a detailed sketch of Harley Davidson and the words "Born To Ride." Where the hell had that come from? Oh yeah, an old girlfriend had bought it for him.

Leon perked up immediately. "Oooh. A bike." He quickly raised both arms. When Krauser didn't respond, the ex-agent waved them around so the soldier would get the hint.

It made something hot crawl in Krauser's gut. "Come on, Leon. You can undress yourself."

"No... m’ not 'llowed. The rules."

Krauser wasn't unfamiliar with psychological warfare. In theory, he knew how deeply a captor could burrow into someone's head. Deprogramming a victim meant you had to be gentle. He bit down the urge to give Leon a hard shake. Instead, he quietly, efficiently stripped off the ex-agent's clothes, first the hoodie and then the tracksuit pants until Leon was shivering in only his tight white briefs.

His body looked very different from his time in Spain or even from back when Krauser had trained him. There was still that lithe, greyhound grace but the muscle tone was largely gone, making him look a little soft, a little fragile. He was slender too, far slimmer than when they'd first met.

Christ, he looked like the star of a twink porno. 

Hastily, Krauser yanked the t-shirt over Leon's head. A little too hastily because Leon yelped in protest.

"Owww!" came his muffled complaint as Krauser managed to wrestle him into the shirt properly. "Not so rough! It huuuuuurts!"

"Sorry, sorry." Feeling like a caveman trying to handle a teacup, Krauser ruffled Leon's hair.

The agent threw both arms around him in a breathless hug. "S’okay. Was a mistake. You're not mean. Not like him."

"I fought you in Spain," Krauser said and then hated himself for it.

"I killed you there," answered Leon, sounding small and weary. Stranded between the cold agent and the giddy boy. "That makes us even." He clasped Krauser more firmly, plastering himself against the big man.

Krauser stood very still inside the circle of Leon's arms. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had hugged him. He couldn't even remember the last time anyone had touched him with anything approaching kindness. Even his occasional hook-ups and one-night stands were rough and impersonal, Krauser nothing more than a military fetish to men and women expecting him to play the brute.

But here was the rookie, radiant with forgiveness, holding Krauser like he was a person instead of a beast.

Sighing, he let himself sink into the hug.

Chapter Text

It took Leon five tries to tie his shoes before their big trip shopping trip. And even then he couldn't get it right. 

He treated it like an impossible mission, like he was going up something the size of a Gigante. Eyes squeezed in concentration while he sang some rhyme to himself:

"Bunny ears, Bunny ears, playing by a tree. Criss-crossed the tree, trying to catch me. Bunny ears, Bunny ears, jumped into the hole. Popped out the other side beautiful and bold."

Krauser, leaning against the wall and watching, felt an uncomfortable jolt when he recognized it from his own childhood, his mother crooning it to him quietly when she taught him how to be a big boy and tie his own shoelaces. He hadn’t thought about that in years. Maybe decades. And now here it was again, coming from the mouth of a grown man sitting hunched over like a kindergartener in time-out.

"I can't do it!" Leon sounded close to tears. "I shouldn't be wearing lace-ups anyway! Not if I have to do the laces myself. It's not fair!" The last part was close to a wail. 

He yanked his hands back like the sneakers had nipped him. His lids were puffy, his cheeks blotchy and red.

"Jesus Christ, fine!" Krauser knelt down and tied the laces fast and quick. Double-knots to stop them becoming undone when they were out. The last thing he wanted was to have to do this under curious, staring eyes. 

Leon just sat there with a sulky pout like Krauser had betrayed him by not helping sooner. Like it had been some kind of test he'd failed. 

"Why can't I wear my beary hoodie outside? Or any of the new stuff you got me?" the rookie asked, petulant now. As if it was somehow Krauser's fault that the kid couldn't handle a pair of sneakers. 

"That damn laundromat lost it all. That's why we're buying replacements. Besides, the walk will do you good." Krauser stood up, feeling his spine  click. Wouldn't that be the perfect end to this mad adventure? Throwing his back out tying Leon S. Kennedy's shoelaces. "Are you worried about the clothes I lent you? You look fine."

It was a lie. Krauser's lumberjack shirt and jeans swam on Leon's frame, the pants held up by a make-shift belt and rolled at the cuffs to stop them dragging. He looked like a middle-schooler playing dress up with the contents of Dad's wardrobe. And he knew it. 

For a moment, his brow furrowed like a tantrum was hovering. 

"Leon..." Krauser said, letting a note of warning slip through."....I said, you look fine."

With a deep breath, the rookie pushed back his sour mood. But he couldn't keep the sourness from his smile. 

"Jack, you're a darn liar."

Blinking in the burning sunlight, they crossed the street.

It was important that Leon kept practicing, kept walking on his own until it became second-nature again. That's why they'd left the van behind today.

Leon's motor skills had improved over time. When Krauser had checked his legs, there had been signs of moderate muscle atrophy but nothing irreversible. Wesker probably hadn't kept him completely immobile, just tied to a routine with limited mobility. The rookie had gone through some shakes and vomiting for about a week or so after his rescue. That suggested a pharmaceutical element to Wesker's control, something that had needed to be purged from the poor kid's system. 

Free of that maniac, Leon was getting stronger thanks to regular training under Krauser's watchful eye. But he still liked to lean on the soldier during their strolls. 

Clutching Krauser's arm, Leon chattered about the dreams he'd had the night before, some show he'd seen, how much he liked the bed-and-breakfast where they were staying now.  It was so much nicer than that stinky old motel. Didn't Jack think so?

"Yeah, it's okay," the soldier agreed, doing an automatic scan of the area. Checking for threats, the training so ingrained in him that it was habit. The streets were largely empty except for trash and a skinhead slouched against a nearby building as if he was holding the wall up. Fit guy, younger than Krauser and nearly as tall. The soldier frowned.

Leon was apologizing for this morning. "So I got all grumpy! It wasn't your fault. The shoe thing." 

Krauser softened immediately. "It's fine, rookie. I appreciate the apology. Takes a real man to say sorry." God knows, Krauser had always battled with that. Then an ugly thought struck him. "You know you're a man, right? Not like....small."

Leon hiccupped with laughter. "Yeah, Jack, I know. Da...he..sometimes told me that I was big. Wesker, I mean. Said however he treated me, I was still a grown-up. He'd remind me of that. Especially before we...ah...never mind. He didn't want a stand-in for a kid. Just someone soft." The rookie sighed.  "Someone to take care of. He said the rules kept me safe. I think they made him feel safe. Like if I was the soft one, he could be the strong one. The big man. I think..I think he was just lonely but he didn't know how to love anyone who might leave."

Krauser wasn't convinced. Wanting to be called "Daddy" was one thing. Not letting your partner tie their own shoelaces was something else completely. But what did Krauser know? The kinkiest he'd ever gotten was a boyfriend who wanted to pushed around a little in bed, a lady friend who wanted to be spanked. And all of that had been completely consensual. 

The skinhead glared at them as they passed, mouthing the the word "faggots." He seemed about to say more until Krauser's cold blue gaze hit him like a punch. It was petty but satisfying to see the man blanch white as bone.

The adrenaline hit Krauser like a shot of tequila. Followed by that old, all-too common desire to fight someone. Not just because of the slur. But because he wanted the relief that came from violence, the clear head that followed a good tussle. 

A gentle pull on his sleeve. 

"Is it far, J'ck? Don' wanna be bother but m' legs are sore," Leon said, dipping into sweet gibberish, the way he always did when he was tired. 

The soldier's rage peeled away like a wet shirt. 

A quick peek both ways showed that the street was empty except for the young tough. And Krauser would just love him to try start something. 

He scooped up Leon without much effort. He'd carried the rookie before, back during drills in the training, that one time when Leon had gotten knee-walking drunk. Back then, he'd been lean but solid, with a dancer's wiry strength. Now he was light. 

The rookie kicked his feet in delight at being - quite literally - swept off them.

He pressed his cheek against the Major's collarbone, murmuring something barely audible. Krauser caught only a few words - "beary hoodie,” “bunny ears,” and “comfy.” The rest blurred into little hums and happy sighs.

The homophobic asshole had melted away. Krauser carried Leon until the store came into view, barely feeling his weight at all.

"Pick what you want," Krauser announced, steering them toward the men’s section. "There are no wrong choices." He hesitated. "Well, nothing pink with bunnies on it or - I dunno - cartoons or something. Go on, have a poke around the racks, see what you want."

"What if my legs give out?" Leon said nervously. 

"Come on, rookie. I carried you all the way here. You can walk on your own for a while. Don't be silly." Krauser gave him a little push. "Go on now."

Leon didn’t pick much. A few jumpers in muted pastels. Tracksuit pants, mostly. One vest with a cartoon bat on it that Krauser pretended not to see. He took all the clothes without comment. When Krauser was loitering by the changing rooms, waiting for one to free up, Leon snuck away - only to reappear with an armful of questionable choices.

A hoodie with flopping rabbit ears. Leggings in candy shades. A t-shirt with a smiling frog and the words "Have A Hoppy Day." Billowing shirts like delicate rainbows.  Coral and baby-pink and peach. The jeans he clutched were clearly from the women’s section, complete with embroidered daisies on the turn-ups. Three tubes of lipgloss ranging from clear to subtle pink. 

“Leon. What the hell is all this?”

"You say I gotta make my own choices. You say that all the time," he whimpered. He hunched his shoulders, like a puppy waiting for the boot. 

“Look,” Krauser tried again. “I’m not trying to be a jerk, alright? But people are going to be looking at you. Out here in the real world. I’m trying to make sure no one thinks something’s wrong with you.”

“What if there is something wrong?” Leon whispered. Without warning, he dropped everything to the floor and buried his face in his hands. 

"Oh, hell," Krauser groaned. They were already getting looks. A cashier peered over from the checkout lane, radio in hand. The unwanted attention burned like a brand between Krauser's shoulder blades. "Okay. Okay. You want the frog shirt? Fine. You want the daisy pants. Fine, we'll buy them. But you don't get to do this. You don't get to shut down in the middle of the store. You hear me? Leon?"

A long, shuddering gasp, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. The rookie dropped his hands, those killer's hand, soft and tender now, their calluses long-gone.  "I hear you."

"Good. Now let's try these on."

There was more trouble in the changing rooms. 

“But you always help,” Leon lisped, all sugary-sweet. “You undress me at bedtime --"

People were starting to glance their way again. A mother with a stroller was pretending not to eavesdrop while craning her neck. Krauser could feel a slow, creeping heat climb the back of his neck. 

“Christ,” Krauser hissed under his breath, dragging Leon toward the changing stall. He didn’t follow him in. Just pulled the curtain closed and stood outside like a bodyguard. 

There was the rustling of fabric followed by Leon's voice, high and panicked. "Jack?"

Krauser sighed, already knowing where this was going. “Yeah?”

“I can’t… um. My zipper got stuck.”

The soldier pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear to God…” he complained, stepping inside. 

Leon was trembling in his sneakers and underpants, one arm clinging to the hem of Jack's shirt like it was a talisman, the other stuck halfway in the new hoodie. The zip was jammed, the collar tangled around his throat.  The rookie was pink with embarrassment or maybe his air supply was getting cut off. Krauser couldn't tell. 

He helped without a word.

Unzipped the hoodie. Smoothed it over Leon's narrow hips. Pulled the sleeves past his wrists so it was comfortable. He crouched to check the fit of the new jeans. Not too bad apart from the daisies. 

Standing, Krauser caught sight of  the dangling rabbit ears on the hood and sighed. 

“Thanks,” Leon breathed, studying him through the veil of his lashes. 

Krauser was aware of  how close they were in that small, tight space. The rookie's palm resting on his chest as if Leon needed the support to stay upright. They both knew that wasn't the real reason. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Krauser growled, pulling back. 

“Like what?”

“Like I’m... whatever he was to you. The whole....daddy deal."

A slow, sleepy blink of those big eyes. “But you said you're gonna take care of me. You promised, Jack."

“I know." The soldier took another step backwards, widening the space between them. "This is me taking care of you."

Instead of taking advantage, he added mentally. Wesker was more of a prick than anyone had suspected. 

"Oh." Leon stared down on his feet. Like someone had just spat on his crayon drawing and he wasn't sure why. Like he was hurt and figuring out a way to feel better. "Can I..."

"Yeah?"

"Can I get a fluffy bear? I saw some on the way in."

"Yeah," Krauser answered, relieved. "Sure, kid, you can get a bear."

Chapter Text

Krauser towel-dried Leon's hair briskly. It was still too light but the soldier could see the darker honey-blonde roots emerging. Wesker must have colored it at home or something.

"He ever take you out? Wesker, I mean?" The Major asked. He couldn't see how that would work. Surely someone would pick up Leon as a little off, the dynamic as bent. 

"Uh-huh," Leon replied sleepily. "To the salon, to the market. Everyone thought I was his sweetie-pie."

The term sounded rehearsed, a phrase Leon had been taught. And yet, Krauser could see it. Wesker, older and taller, all in black, a giggling Leon clinging to his arm. 

Krauser had visited gay bars now and then, when he was looking for a piece of ass or more often, when he just wanted to drink somewhere where the night wouldn't end in a bar-fight. He remembered the different kind of couples. Jocks together or two college girls in sensible jeans. But there was also a subculture. Men with shaved heads and tattoos, pretty boys draped in their laps. Women in motorcycle boots and their shy, lipsticked girlfriends. 

Sweetie-pie. Yeah, it fitted the rookie now. 

"Okay, time to get dressed." Krauser grabbed one of Leon's new shirts, one of the oversize ones that the rookie insisted were "sleepy shirts." Lilac and soft as new snow. Screenprinted with a pair of puppies. 

"Reach for the sky, partner," Krauser said, doing a cowboy impression.

Leon chuckled and raised both arms, letting the big man dress him in one smooth motion. The shirt fell loosely on the rookie's much slimmer, much softer frame, the neckline too wide and sloping off one shoulder. Smooth skin, the ridge of a pretty collar bone. Krauser reached instinctively to straighten it and then pulled him hand away. Instead, he busied himself grabbing tonight's underpants. Plain, gray, from a pack of six.

The soldier dropped to one knee. He always handled this part like a medic dressing a patient, quick, impersonal. Never letting his eyes or hands linger. 

But Leon didn't lift his foot. 

"I have sleepy shirts again now," he said like he was explaining something basic. "No undies with sleepy shirts. That's how it goes, silly."

Krauser’s face went hot.

The soldier hadn’t pictured it before but now he couldn’t stop seeing it - Leon cuddled up to Wesker in bed, the rookie wearing an over-sized shirt and nothing else, thighs soft and naked, the hem slipping higher with every shift of movement...

He shut the thought down so fast it gave him whiplash.

“Underpants are not negotiable,” Krauser husked. “You sleep in them. That’s not up for debate.”

“But they pinch,” Leon complained. He was always at his worst in the evening, grumpy and sleepy, switching from almost-functional Leon to one who fussed and whined. “I can’t sleep in them. They ride up and scratch. I don' wanna!"

Krauser felt the small, insistent nudge of a headache. He'd never suffered from them before. Broken bones, hang-overs, scars from knife fights, yes. But the pain behind his temples was something new. Sometimes talking to this Leon was like struggling through a thick marsh made of cotton candy. 

“There's nothing wrong with them," the soldier insisted. "They're cotton.”

“Still yuck,” Leon pouted, stepping into them reluctantly. “Why can’t I wear comfy ones if you’re gonna make me wear something at night?”

"Comfy? What that hell does the mean?" Krauser could feel the headache picking up, a steady drumbeat growing louder with each minute. 

Leon didn’t skip a beat. “Like those soft ones. The girl ones. The kind you get in pretty colors.”

Krauser's head throbbed. He couldn't do this, not right now. He couldn't deal with arguing about why he wasn't going to put the rookie  in panties. 

With a sneaking relief, the soldier saw that the wall clock said 7 pm. Leon had mentioned that Wesker always put him down around about then. It was one routine that the soldier was happy to still follow. 

"Bedtime," Krauser announced. 

 Thankfully the rookie didn't argue.

As usual, Leon wouldn't go to sleep unless Krauser sat next to him under the covers. They'd done that every bedtime since the first night together in the motel.

But the talk earlier had shocked Krauser awake, stirred up his sleeping libido.  He could feel the shape of the rookie through that damn shirt. The warmth of his side, the curve of his thigh. The underpants - thank God - were in place now, but they didn’t do much to reassure him. The shirt was still too short. Too thin. And Leon was too comfortable, cuddled tightly against Krauser, both of them watched by the damn fluffy toy bear. Krauser felt like it was judging him.

“You mad?” Leon murmured, already starting to drift toward sleep.

"No."

“Still thinking about the panties?"

Krauser could feel heat flood his cheeks. “Jesus, Leon.”

“I’m just saying,” Leon sighed. “Didn’t feel weird when I wore those. The scratchy ones feel like punishment.”

"You were wearing briefs that first night." The night after Krauser's violent rescue, when they'd driven away from the burning house, Krauser still wet with Wesker's blood, Leon still in the clothes chosen for him by a monster. 

"Yeah, he put me in them sometimes. Only when we went out or had company. Jus in case." The rookie's words were slurring. "Resta time, no. Resta the time, it was nothin' or the kind in pretty colors."

His eyelids fluttered. With a little sigh, he nestled against Krauser. Getting all nice and settled as if the soldier was going to stay here instead of sleep on the floor like he always did when they were in a place with one bed. 

"Good n'ght, Daddy," Leon whispered. And then he was out. 

Krauser didn’t move for twenty minutes. Didn’t breathe right. Just sat there with the rookie breathing against him, pretending he wasn’t aware of every point of contact, every moist exhale on his shoulder. He waited until the boy started to give little kitten snores and then managed to inch himself free. Slowly, as if defusing a bomb. 

He went into the bathroom and closed the door. Checked twice that he'd locked it behind him. 

The water was already running before he even knew he’d turned the faucet. White noise to drown it all out. 

Krauser's  hands shook as he undid his fatigues. 

He tried to think about other things. Old girlfriends. That one guy from Boot Camp. A woman he'd almost married in better times. Hell, even the rookie from when Krauser had first trained him. Anything but this version of Leon, wide-eyed and sweet as cream, with a voice like a lullaby:

“You’ll take care of me now… right?”

"Still thinking about the panties?"

"Daddy."

It wasn’t supposed to turn Krauser on.

Christ, it wasn’t.

His body didn’t care. It betrayed him, same way it always did when he was all wound up like this, tension and arousal twisted up together. That irressible need for release, even if it gutted him afterwards.

He finished fast, working his hand in rough jerks, trying to stay quiet, trying not to imagine Leon. But he was there. Glowing like a vision. That loose shirt falling off one shoulder. The sleepy little voice. Panties. 

Krauser came with a grunt, biting his own wrist to muffle the sound. When he was done, he couldn't meet his eyes in the mirror. 

The water kept still running, silver under the fluorescent light.

Chapter Text

Leon woke in the dark. And alone.

No Krauser. No Wesker. 

The blackness pressed in around him. He started to hyperventilate, each breath dragging, his lungs foggy and clogged despite the rate of his gasps. A shape moved from the foot of the bed.

Leon shrieked. 

"Hey, hey, rookie." A soldier's gruff tones. "It's me. Jack. I was asleep on the floor, same as always. Hey, did you think I ran out on you? That you were by yourself?"

No, Leon had thought that he was dead. Or locked in the dark place where Wesker had kept him at the beginning. Not a room but a state of mind, a prisoner in his own body, too drugged and slow to move from the bed. 

He'd been injured when Wesker had first taken him. Some minor mission gone wrong not long after Spain, the threat eliminated but Leon all torn up. Losing blood faster than he could call Hunnigan. 

He should have died that night, bleeding out for a mission that no one would remember. But Wesker had found him instead. 

He must have been watching Leon for a while, the agent realized later. Perhaps during Spain. Perhaps earlier. 

When Leon had woken, he was in a warm bed, his wounds stitched. At first, he'd thought he was in a hospital. He didn't recognize Wesker in the beginning, having only seen a headshot in one of the DSO files. By the time he put a name to the face, Wesker had him mildly addicted to some cocktail of drugs, a mixture used to subdue violent psychiatric patients. 

It dulled Leon's thoughts, burned away the edge of his anger. 

"You won't be able to get the same adrenal response," Wesker had told him, back when he still spoke to Leon like Leon was a person, not a doll. "Because you can't. I've essentially short-circuited your fight-and-flight response. Dampened your neuromuscular signals. You'll have difficulty walking even though your legs are fine." He patted Leon's head. "Fine for now, that is. We'll need to work on that."

Leon had tried to do something, anything, bite him. Wesker had sighed, faint and amused.

Additional drugs came later. Leon's thoughts grew more blurred. Especially after the times when Wesker would talk to him softly, hypnotically, telling him to go deeper, like a hypnotherapist trying to induce a trance in a patient. Leon would fight it but his body could barely move, his mind was underwater. Eventually, after several sessions, he started to slip under as soon as Wesker counted backwards. That was frightening because Leon hadn't been able to remember what Wesker would say to him while he was out.

The agent comforted himself that you couldn't be hypnotized against your will. But then he'd remembered the stories of immoral therapists, how they could induce false memories in patients, confusion. How during psychological warfare, certain drugs and techniques were used. And Leon had felt very confused in these times that followed.

More pills. Something for his nerves. Some kind of sedative. Things that caused memory disruptions. He couldn't walk without falling, although he was still strong then, still had his runner's thighs, his tightly muscled form built from sweat and training. 

But what he lacked was a body that obeyed him. 

Once he'd actually made it out of the bedroom and into the hallway by holding onto the walls but he kept slurring, his feet dragged. Wesker had found him sprawled onto the carpet, sobbing with frustration. He'd kissed Leon's tears away and returned him to bed. 

It wasn't only gentle caretaking and drugs. There were brutal punishments too. Thankfully, Leon couldn't recall too many of them. But his body did, some hidden part of his mind did, and what was conditioned into him lingered. 

He could remember being held down and something shoved into his mouth. Wesker's face regretful as he said, "Boys who speak out of turn need to be taught a lesson. Pretty boys who use ugly words get punished."

 The burn in Leon's  mouth was white-hot in its intensity. He'd tried to scream but his throat was on fire. 

There were other severe punishments but nothing had frightened him more than the finger. A girl's finger, freshly severed.

 Wesker had said it belonged to Sherry. "Every time you act out, baby boy, she gets punished. And she has nine more fingers. Then I start on her face."

Leon didn't know now if Wesker had been telling the truth, if he'd actually hurt Sherry or just taken the finger from some other unfortunate.  But back then, it had been enough to break the last barrier in Leon's head.

That was when he had stopped fighting. The beginning of his slow descent from agent to pretty toy. Because the price of his defiance had come at too high a price. And he hadn't been the one to pay it. 

He tried to tell Krauser this now, to explain it in the dark of their little rented room. But he didn't have the words. It was too big to get his mouth around. 

All he could do was cry and plead to talk to Sherry, to Claire, to Ada. To find out if they were okay.

"It's 3 am," Krauser said, worry painted all over his Action Man features. "You can't go calling people at that time in the morning. You don't even know their numbers."

But Leon did. He'd forgotten a lot of things during his time under Wesker but some things had remained in the back of his mind, fading but present. Now, ignited by panic, they exploded into clarity. Still crying, he gave Krauser the number for Claire's home telephone. He blocked on the one for Sherry's guardians. 

But Krauser said that was alright. If Claire was okay, she'd know about Sherry's status. 

Leon had to sit alone in the dark while Krauser went to make the call. The soldier  was too paranoid to trust mobile phones, too nervous of the government tracing a call and figuring out that the man who kidnapped the President's daughter was still alive. 

Leon held his fluffy bear, needing the comfort. He whimpered softly to himself until he heard the firm tread of Krauser's boots. 

The soldier locked the door before he spoke. "Claire didn't know who I was. I gave her a false name. But she was plenty worried about you. Relieved to know you're okay. She's fine. Sherry's fine too, according to her. Ada, I don't know about but I'll bet she's still out there, doing her thing. Wesker liked her, you know. Told me about her when he was taking the Plagas out of me post-Spain. He wouldn't hurt her."

"Uh-huh." Leon's eyelids were drooping. Try as he might, he couldn't keep them open. With the festering worry and guilt finally gone, with the knowledge that everyone who mattered was safe, he felt exhaustion pull him under. 

From a great distance, he heard his voice, his new funny voice - high and tinkling,  the one that Wesker had trained into him - apologizing. Krauser's deeper tones as the soldier said it was fine. 

Leon knew he was slipping away. Going under. Maybe he was falling asleep or maybe he was just tumbling into the headspace where everything was candy-colored and thinking clearly was hard. 

But it was fine. Krauser was with him. Krauser would bring him back when it was morning.

Leon let go and drifted.

Chapter Text

Since Spain, Krauser had always been on the move. No apartment. No real home. Just one job after another, nights spent in his van or a motel room while he moved from job to job. 

He didn't give too much of a shit about where he slept at night. But having Leon around changed that. 

They moved from the bed-and-breakfast into a small apartment, one that Krauser could rent month-to-month. The landlord raised his eyebrows when he saw Leon perched, pretty as a picture, in Krauser's van. 

"He's my roommate." Krauser rumbled. 

The old man looked at Krauser's scarred features than back to the prettyboy in the passenger seat. Leon made it worse by waving cheerfully when he caught them both looking at him. Krauser knew that it had been a mistake letting Leon pick his own clothes for the move.

Today's t-shirt was a pale yellow with a shining star on it. 

The old man took in the smiling rookie then let his gaze drift back to Krauser. Broad shoulders straining the seams of his shirt, the  fatigues, the combat boots. The scowl. 

A grin bloomed across the landlord's wrinkled face. 

"Huh. My daughter's girlfriend, she's got a  Harley and a crewcut," he said."Always opening doors for Katie, pulling her chair out at restaurants. More of a gentleman than a guy. Never thought my Katie would go for someone like that. She's such a girly-girl. But sometimes opposites attract, eh? Your boyfriend looks very sweet. Here's your keys."

There was a bath in the apartment. Leon ran his fingers around the porcelain rim like he was stroking a pet. 

"Oh, a proper tub! I don't have to sit on a stool in the shower while you stand outside. It's big-big, huh? The tub, I mean? We could both fit in it," Leon sing-songed, going up an octave.

It was normally a bad sign when he did that. A clue that Leon was slipping. Krauser paused in the middle of unpacking. 

"Kid...."

Leon went on, undeterred. "Wesker used to bath with me. He used to clean me all over, all my special places. He liked it when I washed the thing between his legs. Liked it a lot. He said it was bonding. We could do that, Jack. Bonding time."

The shock hit Krauser  like a hard right hook. Leon must have seen it in his face. 

"I want to," the rookie insisted, talking faster now, persuasively. "You could touch me wherever. Clean me all over. Ask me to touch you. I don't mind. It's you."

“Fuck, Leon,” he said thickly. “No. We’re not doing that."

“But… it’s okay. I said it’s okay. You always say I need to make my own choices. I can choose this. I've seen how you look at me sometimes. I know you like me like that. I like you too." Leon sounded a little frantic. “Jack, why aren't you listening to me?"

"You're tired. You're upset. It's been a big day." Krauser knew from experience that the words didn't matter - just the tone. Keep it simple and soothing. That usually worked whenever the rookie was in a bad place. "Why don't you have a little lie-down while I finish unpacking, okay?"

The rookie rubbed his eyes. "Don't do this. Please don't do this. Don't make me feel small when I'm tryna tell you something important."

"We'll talk about it later." Or hopefully never, Krauser thought to himself. "Go lie down."

"Jack...."

Krauser put an arm around the smaller man, guiding towards his bedroom. He'd made up the bed as soon as they'd arrived, just in case Leon wanted an afternoon nap. "Come on. It's got the blankets you like. The puffy duvot. See? All nice and comfy."

Crossly, the rookie shrugged off his arm. He refused to even look at Krauser as he climbed under the duvet. And when the soldier tried to kiss his forehead, Leon turned his face away.

Krauser had long ago figured out Leon's  rules, which ones could be bent or broken and which seemed to be written in stone.

Wesker had never forbidden Leon from brushing his own teeth. He just preferred to do it for him. With some coaxing, Krauser managed to convince Leon that handling it himself was fine. 

Shaving was too much for him, Leon regarding the razor blade with something like dread. Krauser got in the habit of giving the rookie a morning shave as soon as he'd scraped his own chin bare. 

Most worrying of all, Leon still refused to dress or undress himself. Even the mention of him trying set him off.

"Come on, rookie. You're being ridiculous," Krauser growled, arms crossed. 

Like a child playing copycat, Leon huffed and crossed his arms too. It would have been funny under other circumstances. "You know I can't, Jack. It's against the rules!"

"Screw the rules!" The soldier knew he should at least try to sound calm but he was tired. Looking after Leon every day was....not unpleasant. But it was a full-time job. "They're Wesker's rules. And he's dead. I shot him in the fucking head and set him on fire."

That was a mistake. Leon's breath caught. He made a small, hurt sound as a shiver passed through him. It was followed by another until the rookie was shaking like a wet puppy. His eyes were bright, sheened with tears. 

God, did he actually miss that psycho? Had Wesker gotten so deep into his mind that he'd managed to twist what should have been fear into something that passed for love?

"Hey!" Krauser put both hands on the smaller man's shoulders, trying to anchor him. "I....I'm sorry." Not for killing Wesker. He couldn't bring himself to say that. Besides, it'd be a lie. "For getting loud like that. I know you don't like it. Do you...do you miss your old life?"

Personally, the soldier didn't understand how anyone could miss that pastel-colored hell. But after a while, prisoners could learn to love the cage. Especially if they weren't treated like a prisoner. 

Because Wesker hadn't acted like a warden. At least that was what Krauser suspected. The bioterrorist had been more like a cult leader brainwashing a victim. The promise of harsh punishment if you failed. The bliss of approval and some kind of reward when you toed the line.

The image of Saddler, haggard, reptilian but still compelling, swam into focus. But Krauser hadn't been broken into Saddler's cult. He'd walked into it willingly. 

Whereas Leon....

The rookie sniffed softly. "I miss my stuff," he quivered. "My fancy clothes and board games and things. And Wesker...I miss Wesker....I miss Daddy...my Da...muh..." The last part was lost in jumble of sounds, all garbled together. His entire speech pattern was coming apart, unravelling into pre-verbal nonsense. 

Krauser didn't know much about handling this kind of grief. But he knew a lot about PTSD. He knew what it was like to get stumble down that dark path, taking wrong turns until you ended up back in memories best left alone. All you wanted was someone to hold you and tell you that it was okay.

Krauser pulled the rookie into his arms and walked them backwards until he was sitting on the sofa. With a little bit of adjustment, he had Leon on his lap, surprised at how natural it felt. 

The ex-agent buried his face in Krauser's shoulder and sobbed. Last time, Leon had broken down like this, it'd been beside Wesker's corpse and Krauser had slapped him, frantic to bring the agent back to himself so they could get moving. Now he just let Leon cry. 

It seemed to go forever. Like there was no end to the rookie's tears. Krauser didn't say much, just made soft shushing sounds and rocked him until the bawling gave way to gulps. 

"Was he uh...a good Daddy to you?"

"No," Leon whimpered. "He was a bad one. I don't wanna miss him!"

Krauser stroked Leon's hair, feeling a protectiveness that was almost savage in its intensity. Death had been too good for Wesker. "Did he hurt you?"

"All the time in the b-beginning. Then he talked about hurting other people, like Sherry and Claire, if I didn't behave. So I did. I wu-was scared of him...of what he'd do to them....even when I pushed it down, when I was happy, the fear was still there underneath. It was safer to go into my head, into the space he wanted me to be. That was the only tu-time I wasn't scared. And it made him happy. If he was happy, then he'd leave them alone." He sniffed loudly. "Sorry, I blubbed all over you."

 It was the longest speech Leon had made since they'd moved in. 

Exhausted, he let his head sink against Krauser's chest. The soldier didn't have the heart to say anything when Leon apologized again, mumbling "Sorry, Daddy." He just held the rookie until he fell asleep.

Chapter Text

After killing the target, Krauser  stopped by an independent bookstore, a little island surrounded by the usual chain stores. He spent a long time looking through the shelves, trying to find something that Leon could manage. Books to get him reading regularly again but nothing that would frustrate him or make him feel bad for what Wesker had trained out of him. 

A spill of color caught Krauser's eye and he found himself looking at a bright poster for some superhero. A good guy in bright spandex and a smile. The kind of hero who fought villains in robot suits and bad toupees. 

No zombies. No plagues. No mad scientists. 

Yeah, the rookie would like that.

"Rookie! I'm back. And I brought you some books." Krauser walked into the apartment with take-out and a carrier bag full of presents. 

Glowing, Leon bounced over to him with his usual greeting of a hug and smacking kiss on the cheek. "Books? For me?! Really? Oh, do they have pictures?

"Uh huh. There's some comics....sorry, graphic novels. That's what they're called now. They'll help get your reading back up to speed. And I got some art books. Here you go." Grinning, Krauser held up a glossy volume of superhero action. Square-jawed good guys punching evil on the chin. Followed by art book of illustrations from the Beatrix Potter books, the little rabbits in bonnets, the hedgehogs in Victorian dresses, each accompanied by a paragraph about the writer's life.

Leon was so entranced that he actually clapped his hands. "Wow! Just wow!"

Krauser was finding it easier to cope with this Leon. The rookie still had his bad days when he got lost in that misty pink headspace but more and more, it was like dealing with the version of Leon that Krauser had first trained. If that Leon had never encountered the horrors of Raccoon City in the first place. One of the world's natural innocents. 

Or maybe Krauser was just painting it that way so he wouldn't feel guilty about becoming so comfortable with their new normal. 

Waking Leon at 7 am. Eating breakfast together, metal utensils for Krauser, plastics one still for Leon, who remained too unreasonably scared of metal cutlery to use it. Dressing the rookie. Making sure he brushed his teeth properly (he tended to skip the mouthwash stage if he thought he could get away from it.) Spending the day together if Krauser didn't have a job to do. Leaving Leon alone with his board games and videos if he did. Over-seeing Leon's evening work-out and stretches, getting the kid to really push himself. Standing outside the bathroom door in case he slipped in the bath or shower and needed help. Then lights out for the ex-agent at 7 pm, leaving Krauser with the rest of the night to unwind. 

There was a kind of peace in the routine and Krauser knew that should worry him more than it did. 

Leon was sprawled across the rug, lying on his stomach like he was reading cartoons in the Sunday paper. Lost in the books. A little too lost.

"Leon, get your thumb out your mouth. We've spoken about this," Krauser snapped. 

He was willing to let a lot of things slide, especially in private, but this wasn't one of them. Besides, he was nervous that Leon would start doing it in public. The hoodies topped by cute animal ears and t-shirts with pictures or cartoons didn't attract that much attention outside. Not on the slimmer, softer Leon with the collar-length hair. People just assumed he was a little twink on the more femme side, Krauser guessed. Someone sweet and whimsical. But thumb-sucking was a no-go. 

The rookie gave him a bashful smile of apology. "Sorry, Jack. I forgot."

Krauser grunted, trying not to let himself be charmed by the smile. "It's alright. I'm here to remind you. That's my job. Now how about we start on that take-out before it gets cold?"

They ate pizza followed by vanilla ice cream. Leon had his in a cone. Once the supper was finished, they settled on the couch as usual. Krauser flipped through the channels, trying to find something they could watch together. 

"Oh, a horror!" Leon said, bright-eyed. "How about that?"

"No, you'll have nightmares," Krauser replied. Meaning he'd have nightmares. The possessed townsfolk in the film reminded him too much of the Spanish villagers. The soldier still felt guilty about them sometimes. They'd never asked to be dragged into Saddler's cause.

The rookie prodded Krauser's side, giggling "You big, silly scaredy cat. Don't worry, Jack. I'll protect you!"

Shit, now that Leon had seen through his ruse, the soldier was going to have to watch the movie after all. "Fine! Don't expect to sleep in my bed again if you wake up  crying," he grumbled.

Halfway through the film, Leon crawled into his lap. Nothing unusual about that. It was often how things went when they watched something together. Krauser shifted slightly to better accommodate the little guy. 

During a jump scare, the rookie wound his arms around Krauser's neck like a frightened teenage girl.

Krauser couldn't resist chuckling. "Told you! But you didn't want to listen."

"Mm-hmm." Leon nuzzled his neck. "I was bad. You wanna spank me?"

Krauser went very still. Everything felt a little strange, a little off. 

Leon was planting small, precise kisses on his throat now, that particular spot under his chin. Krauser could feel himself developing an undeniable problem. Leon felt it too, moving his hips a little to take advantage of the growing bulge.

"What the hell? Get off me,  rookie!" 

Flustered as he was, Krauser still made certain not to shove Leon away. He tried to carefully extract from himself from the clinging agent but it was like dealing with the world's cuddliest wrestling partner. 

"Nooo," Leon whined, holding tighter. "Lemme make you feel good. Daddy, please."

"Don't call me that!"

Leon let got so abruptly that he fell off the couch. When Krauser offered him his hand, the ex-agent refused to take it. His cheeks were stained a deep strawberry-red. He wasn't just embarrassed; he was humiliated.

Well done, Krauser told himself. You've gone and broken things without even trying. It was Spain all over again.

"Leon," he started, trying to turn his muddled thoughts and feelings into words. It was hard to think clearly when you still had a boner. "I....you're...it...wouldn't....wouldn't be right....you're...you're just a..."

Leon stepped back like he'd been slapped. "I'm thirty years old, Jack! No matter how I act sometimes. I can have sex with anyone I like."

"You sleep with a goddamn teddy bear!"

Leon's whole face crumpled like he'd just been told the truth about Santa Claus. He turned and ran from the living room. A few seconds later, Krauser heard the slamming of a bedroom door.

Chapter Text

"I'm gonna get some ice cream."

Krauser frowned. They were having omelets, light and fluffy, one of Leon's favorites, and the kid had barely touched his. It wasn't like Krauser dished him up big portions either. He'd worked out a meticulous eating plan, one that balanced healthy meals with fun ones, the entire thing designed to help Leon rebuild himself physically and put on muscle, not fat. Even if small desserts were the norm. 

The agent was half-way out his chair.

"Sit down and finish your supper first. No ice cream til you're done. Come, rookie, you know that." Krauser was surprised to see Leon actually hesitate.

 The rookie had been unsettled since the night when he'd tried to put the moves on Krauser. The memory of it still made Krauser shudder. He was too young to feel like a dirty old man, the kind of sicko pervert who took advantage of a sweetheart like Leon. 

But it wasn't the rookie's fault. That bastard Wesker had done a real number on his head. Made him think it was normal to get fresh with someone just because they were kind to you. Now here he was - staring Krauser down, refusing to eat.

The soldier hesitated, not sure if Leon's behavior was a good thing, a sign of growing independence. Or just a sign of confusion. His eyes strayed to Leon's plate. The kid couldn't have had more than a mouthful or two. At most.

"Leon...." Krauser didn't tell him to sit down. He didn't have to. His tone was enough.

The rookie dropped back into his seat and picked up his fork.

The stitches in Krauser's side were pulling funny. The target had managed to pull a blade on him. Luckily Krauser had broken the guy's neck before he'd be able to do any real damage but he'd still opened a gash along the soldier's side. 

That was the problem with doing hits instead of proper merc jobs. You couldn't wear too much gear, not without attracting attention in public. The soldier had stopped at the emergency room to get himself stitched up, spinning some bullshit about an attempted mugging. Lucky the staff on duty were too tired and overworked to insist he report it. 

Back home, Krauser felt a burning urge for a proper drink.  He got a beer out the fridge instead and wondered how his life had turned into this. Killing men for money, not even pretending to be a soldier anymore.

At least they're bad men, he comforted himself. Today's target had been a real piece of work, rounding up the homeless and teenage runaways from bus stops, getting them addicted to hard drugs and then making them work street corners. Krauser had been thinking of poor little Leon, of how he'd tear apart anyone who tried to do that to his rookie, when he'd snapped the target's neck.

Leon watched Krauser drink the beer, the slow ripple of the soldier's throat as he swallowed. 

"Hey," he said suddenly. "Can I have one?"

"One what?" Krauser wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling a little better.

"Beer."

The Major actually considered it for a moment. It was the first time Leon had asked for something like that. Something grown-up. But memories of the rookie's drinking problem rose in the back of his mind. 

They'd kept in touch after Leon had graduated from trainee to full-agent, painted the town red a few times. Krauser liked to get wasted on occasion, sure. But Leon drank like he was hoping to not wake up the next day. Or ever. 

Krauser shook his head. "Nope. Not a good idea."

"Jack," Leon whined. "Gimme a beer. It's just one beer!" Pouting, he stomped his foot.

"Doesn't stop at one, kid. I know you. Had a bit of a booze problem back in the day, didn't you?"

Leon's mouth went all sulky, the way it did before he had one of his melt-downs. "That was years ago. I haven't had a drink since Spain."

Like that was an accomplishment. The only reason Leon hadn't been drowning himself in booze was because he hadn't had the option. 

“Still counts,” Krauser explained. “You get one beer and it turns into three. Then it turns into you not eating, not sleeping, sneaking off to the liquor store when I'm out working. Remember when you tried to visit the park on your own? Got lost, didn't you? Took me hours to find you, all curled-up and crying in an alleyway. Now imagine if that happened while you were black-out drunk? There's some mean people out there, rookie. Lot of would-be Weskers. You're not getting hurt again. Not on my watch."

“So I’m not allowed a beer in my own home? Where it's safe? For real? It's not fair, Jack!" Leon's voice was rising. "You can do whatever you want, drink, leave the apartment by yourself. But not me! You don't get to treat me this way!" Leon kicked the fridge hard enough to dent it. 

Great. Not quite a full-blown meltdown but getting there.  Just what Krauser needed after his bad day.

"You want me to put you in your room for a time-out?" he snarled, trying to keep his temper. "That what you want?"

The rookie fell quiet immediately. 

"Yeah. Didn't think so. I knew letting you stay up past 8 was a mistake. You're always get cranky when you're overtired."

"I'm not sleepy," Leon said quickly. "Don't wanna go to bed yet."

Krauser chucked his half-empty beer in the bin. He'd lost the taste for it. "You gonna behave?"

The agent gave a sullen half-nod. He didn't look like Krauser's sweet little rookie right then. He looked like the man who'd killed him in Spain. 

Krauser felt a rising nausea. It all came back in an explosion of sound and sensation. The Plagas howling in Krauser's blood like a pack of starving wolves, Leon's voice, regretful but firm: "Someone's got to put you down." 

The clean sweep of his blade, the sensation of flesh giving way to metal, more intimate than a kiss. 

Krauser hunched over the sink and vomited.

They didn't talk much. An old procedural was playing on the tv. A rerun. Krauser already knew who the killer was. 

Leon kept sneaking looks at him from the other end of the couch. Still shaken by seeing Krauser lose it like that, puking his guts up in the middle of their kitchen the other day. By the end of it, he'd been too weak to stand.  Would have passed out in a pool of vomit if Leon hadn't been there, arms around him, half-dragging him to bed. 

The shame of it still burned. He was meant to be the one looking after the kid. He glanced at Leon and caught his returning stare. Deep and searching like the ex-agent was trying to see past Krauser's scars and cold eyes, see the soft places that he hid inside. 

The rookie  shifted. Scooted a little closer. Then a little more. Krauser didn’t move, barely even breathed, watching the slow approach out of the corner of his eye. It had been weeks since Leon had sat this close. 

When Leon’s thigh brushed his, Krauser cleared his throat.

“What,” he said, keeping it light, “you wanna sit closer again? You remember what happened last time, right? With the kissing?”

Nothing from Leon.

“I meant it when I said that wasn’t okay,” Krauser added, glancing at the screen again. 

Leon nodded.

Krauser turned to look at him directly. “You trying something tonight?”

“Nu-uh.”

It was soft. Familiar. That same syrupy, sugar-light tone Leon used when things were easy. When he was tired. When Krauser put him into bed early or ran a brush through his hair or made him jelly after a bad day. 

Krauser relaxed, weeks of tension draining away. “Alright then,” he said, patting his lap. “Come on.”

Leon climbed over without hesitation, curling into the space like they fitted together. His back against Krauser’s chest, arms folded up, head resting just under his jaw. The soft tickle of his hair.  Krauser settled a hand lightly against Leon’s side. His other arm came up, draping across his chest.

“There we go,” the soldier murmured. “See? This is nice.”

And it was. Too nice.

Krauser had gotten used to this over time - this role, this rhythm. Leon leaning on him, needing him. Wanting things simple and soft and safe. And Krauser, well… he hadn’t had someone to take care of in a long time. Hadn't had anyone. 

Feeling Leon in his arms, soft and trusting, filled an emptiness that didn't have a name. It made Krauser feel powerful again. Not in the same way as holding a gun or the weight of a blade in his hand but with a quiet, contented power, one that made him forget the humiliation of collapsing to his knees on the kitchen floor and crying. 

“You enjoy this now,” Leon said a little sharply. “Don’t you?”

“What’re you talking about?” Krauser asked, wary.

“This,” Leon said. “Taking care of me. Being the one in charge. Being the big man. You like it."

Krauser’s mouth went dry. “You...you  asked me to take care of you,” he stuttered. “Back at the beginning.”

The rookie stiffened in his arms. “And now you’re gonna do it forever? Is that the plan?”

"You get lost crossing the street. You have a panic attack when you try to dress yourself." Krauser felt like he was choking. "You need me, Leon."

"Sure." It was the old Leon speaking now, the one with the killer's hands and hard, cynical tone. The bitterness that was always bubbling underneath. "But what happens when I don't?"

Chapter Text

Leon wasn’t supposed to be awake yet.

He blinked at the soft pale haze of morning bleeding through the curtains. The kitty clock on his nightstand read 6:12 AM. That had never happened before. He always woke up when Krauser did. Or more accurately, when Krauser gently roused him at 7 on the dot, sometimes with a hand on his shoulder, sometimes with that warm, coaxing voice Leon always responded to without thinking. But today? He’d beaten the routine.

And it felt great.

His body felt light, humming with good health. Slipping out from under the covers, Leon padded across the cool floor, oversized t-shirt hanging to mid-thigh. The foxes on the front had started to peel a little from too many washes, but he liked them. 

There had been foxes on the edge of the place where he'd lived with Wesker. Whenever Leon had a bad day there, he'd sit on the porch and watch them playing. They could go wherever they wanted. Sometimes he'd imagine himself  running with them, escaping into the dark forest. But his legs didn't work right back then. Wesker had seen to that.

Now though, he could walk on his own. Even run. Krauser took him to the park three times a week and made him run laps, timing him on a funny little stop watch.

He tiptoed down the hall and peeked into Krauser’s room.

Still asleep. Good.

Leon grinned as he padded to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. He’d surprise Krauser with breakfast.  A real one. Something greasy and rich. Leon bit his lip, imagining the expression on the other man's face when he woke up to find the meal already cooked and steaming on the kitchen table. An apology for Leon's recent moodiness. 

Eggs. Bacon. Bread. Leon set the ingredients on the counter like weapons laid out before a mission. He used to make stuff like this all the time. In his bachelor's apartment during the downtime between missions. A little morning sizzle, bacon,  a couple fried eggs, sausages. What the British called a fry-up. 

He turned the stove on. Pan down. Bacon first.

But the pan got too hot too fast. The bacon curled up and spat. Leon flinched, fumbling the tongs. Was he even meant to use tongs for this? He couldn't remember. 

The kitchen filled with black gusts of smoke. He ran to open a window but it stuck.  His hands were shaking. The toast wouldn't pop. It smelled like it was scorching but refused to eject. 

Panic clawed at his throat. He poured more oil onto the bacon, hoping that would help, like  throwing water over a growling dog. There was a woosh and suddenly the pan was on fire. Leon started to cry. 

And then Krauser was there.

He moved soldier-fast. Hand on the pan, stove off in a second, window wide, smoke waved away. The toaster unplugged. Once the fire was out, his arms were around Leon, holding him close. 

"Shhh, it's okay. I'm here."

Shame and relief fought inside Leon. Relief won and he curled up against the Major, not saying anything when Krauser lifted him off his feet like he weighed no more than a kitten. Pressing his face against Krauser's hard chest, Leon felt something shift inside. He wanted to stay like this forever. But he couldn't. Not if he expected to ever be seen as a normal guy again. 

"Jack," he said, doing his best to sound steady. "I'm fine. Put me down."

Relunctantly, Krauser lowered him to the floor. He gave Leon's hair a little rumple to show he wasn't mad. It made Leon feel safe. It made him feel about 2 inches tall. 

The soldier cleared away  the mess efficiently, whistling as if trying to put them both at ease. The same tune he sometime sang to Leon whenever it was a bad night and Leon woke from a nightmare.

Hearing it now made the ex-agent feel all squirmy. Like he was being force-fed a strawberry milkshake. 

"I just wanted to do something for you, Jack," he explained, dropping his voice, trying to sound deeper. In control. "To surprise you. And to make up for acting kind of shi..shi...icky lately."

“Sure. I get it, kid," Krauser smiled. Like Leon was being adorable. “That's real nice of you. But what if you hurt yourself?"

“It’s just breakfast,” Leon said, louder. “Not a grenade. I’ve killed BOWs, you know. I would have handled the fire but you came in and just took over."

Knowing it was untrue, unfair but saying it anyway before he could lock down the words. 

Krauser's jaw set in that stubborn, protective line Leon knew so well. “You don’t cook alone, rookie. Not until you're ready for it.  You want to make breakfast, you tell me and we make it together."

Make it together. Sure. They had done that once or twice. Leon cracking the eggs into the bowl while Krauser smiled and said he was doing great. A good boy. 

Condescending prick, thought Leon even if he couldn't get the words out. Not yet. 

 “You treat me like I’m seven,” he spat. “Even Wesker didn’t do that.”

Krauser looked hurt. "Oh, that's real fair. All I do is take care of you."

Leon wanted to say that he didn't need anyone to take care of him. That he wanted Krauser to see him as a man instead of some kind of clumsy man-child. That he wanted to be able to make them breakfast because it felt like the first step to becoming a real person again. That he loved Jack and wanted to do something small for him because all Leon could manage right now was something small. 

Jack wouldn't accept his kisses so Leon had tried to offer him this instead. But he'd made a mess of it. Of course he had.

Leon wanted to say all that but what came out instead was: “You’re mean! I hate you! I wish you'd died in Spain!"

And it sounded stupid. It sounded cruel. A child’s insult but with a nasty edge. It wasn’t what he wanted to say at all. But his face was hot and his chest hurt and now Krauser was moving again - coming toward him - and Leon panicked.

Krauser reached down, gathering him into his arms. “Come on,” he said with that infuriating patience. “You need a minute.”

Leon bucked hard.

“No! No - don’t do this to me!” His fists beat against Krauser’s chest. But it was like hitting a brick wall.  “Put me down! I’m not a kid - I’m not - stop - ”

But Krauser held him tighter, murmuring calming things that didn't register. Leon squirmed. Kicked. One of his failing fists caught Krauser hard enough to make his nose bleed. A slow trickle of red. Another hit opened a small cut above the brow. The soldier just set his face and kept walking. Corridor walls blurred as Krauser carried him through the apartment like a misbehaving toddler.

“I hate you!” Leon screamed again, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I hate you - I hate you - I hate you - ! I wish you were dead!” He twisted and bit Krauser's hand, clamping down until he tasted blood. 

Krauser’s grip didn’t loosen. He wasn’t angry. Just... resolute. Like this was the only way he knew how to keep things safe.

Leon thrashed until the anger seeped out of him. The sobs came next. Furious and humiliating, pouring out from the broken place inside. Krauser laid him on the bed as gently as ever.

“Yeah, have a bit of a cry if you need it,” he said kindly. “Get it out your system. You’ll feel better.”

Leon curled into a ball, still sobbing. 

“I’ll call you when breakfast’s ready,” Krauser promised, stroking his brow. “A proper breakfast.”

He left the ex-agent alone with his tears. 

Leon stared at the wall, stomach still aching and hot. It was supposed to be his morning. His small win. But all it had done was prove how far he still had to go. 

The clock with the kitten ears ticked away on his bedside table. His teddy bear stared at him with button eyes. Leon turned it to face the wall.

Chapter Text

Leon's legs were long and bare and too damn pretty. 

They were toned again, thanks to Krauser enforcing a strict exercise regime. But without hair, they reminded him of something you'd find on female athletes, the sculpted muscle enhancing the length rather than detracting from it. 

The rookie had mentioned that Wesker used to take him to "a lady with a zappy machine", whatever that meant. Krauser guessed electrolysis of some kind. Permanent body hair removal would explain the hairless calves and thighs, the chest without any fluff on it, the smooth arms. 

Leon's dick without so much as a patch of pubic hair above it. 

Krauser shook the image from his head. He didn't need to think about the rookie's junk at this moment. Even though he saw it far too often, every morning and evening when he dressed or undressed the ex-agent. 

Now Leon was wearing a soft, slipping shirt in lavender, loose enough to droop off one shoulder, and barely long enough to hit mid-thigh. His toenails shone under a coat of clear nail polish. It made his feet, slim and elegantly shaped, look almost erotic in his strappy silver sandals. Unisex. He'd gotten them in the guy's department, something Krauser still couldn't process. Not too long ago, guy's clothes meant three shades of gray and three kinds of shoes - formal ones for meetings and funerals, sneakers if you wanted to work-out and boots. 

But the world was changing. 

The soldier sighed at the thought. He ran a critical eye over Leon, taking in the slight shimmer of lip gloss, the soft way the agent had brushed his hair so it fell half into his face. Those sleek, lightly muscled thighs on display. Bare legs were fine at home but not for an outing. 

Krauser could just imagine other guys at the mall - the way they'd check Leon out, those heated stares. It gave the soldier an uncomfortable burning feeling in his gut.

"Go put on your jeans. The daisy ones you like," he snapped.

Infuriatingly, Leon just raised a mocking eyebrow at him. The Major felt his blood throb in his temples. Lately Leon had taken to acting out, ignoring Krauser's advice and schedules, wearing whatever the hell he wanted. Doing his morning stretches in sheer panties and nothing else. He'd picked up a pack of women's underwear, skimpy and practically indecent, on their last shopping trip. Even though Krauser had given him the stink-eye at the time.

It was like dealing with an eighteen-year-old girl determined to give her old man a heart-attack. And Krauser had always hated teenagers. 

Krauser put on his patented drill sergeant glare. That normally worked. "Rookie," he growled, turning the word itself into a warning. 

Leon laughed at him. Honest-to-God laughed. The sound was quick and fluid, charming. Or would have been if Krauser hadn't caught the mockery behind it. 

For a moment, he felt a surge of emotion so powerful that he actually thought he might red out. It wasn't anger or even the tension that came with frustration. It was closer to what he'd felt in the battlefield or bedroom, that singing high when you knew you were about to spill blood or seed.

Before he could stop himself, he'd grabbed Leon's shoulder, not sure what he intended to do. Put the kid in his room for a time-out? Pick him up and carry him there whether Leon wanted to go or not?

The memory of the last time Krauser had done that -  carried a struggling Leon - burst into his mind. He was sure that it had been for the best. The rookie had been close to hysterical, even before Krauser had picked him up. Some quiet time alone had been just what he'd needed.

And you liked it....manhandling him...feeling his breath on your face...the way he bucked and squirmed in your grip...his face close to yours...

Krauser pushed down the traitorous inner voice. No, he'd just done what was necessary. That was all. So what if he'd had to go jack off in the bathroom afterwards? 

He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten laid. There wasn't time, not between jobs and looking after Leon. And of course, this new rebellious Leon didn't help. Bouncing around the too-small apartment in panties and nothing else, slipping into Krauser's bed after every bad dream. Rocking his hips against Krauser's bulge whenever he sat on the soldier's lap during movie night. 

Krauser had called him out on that once or twice and just gotten a naughty half-smile in response. 

He was picturing that smile when he let his fingers slip from Leon's shoulder and close around his wrist. Not hard - he'd die before hurting his little rookie - but with enough firmness to make Leon grin more widely. 

"Oh? You finally remembered that you're a man, Jack? Not some dickless nanny?" smirked the ex-agent, those glossy lips stretching into an expression the reminded Krauser of Ada Wong. 

"Don't push me, kid," the Major snarled. The pulse in his temple seemed to have moved to his groin and he silently cursed himself. "I ain't in the mood. And you've been like this for weeks. Weeks!"

Leon kissed him. 

It wasn't like that one time on the couch, Leon soft in his arms, nuzzling butterfly kisses along Krauser's jawline. This kiss was hot and angry and alive, the rookie's mouth moving under his own, a sharp edge of a questing tongue. 

Krauser's blood was up or he wouldn't have kissed back. Wouldn't have thrust his own tongue into Leon's mouth and bitten that pouting lower lip. Leon moaned, pushing against the bigger man, slotting their groins together so that Krauser could feel the hard shape of his erection, straining under the silky fabric of those panties. 

Leon fumbled with Krauser's belt, loosening it enough to get a hand down his pants. The soldier felt that same hand curl around his cock, clenching and unclenching in a demanding rhythm before starting to jerk him off, slowly at first and then with growing certainty. No finesse to it and a little rough, just the way Krauser had always preferred his handjobs. 

He breathed hard through his nose and let it happen.

Chapter Text

Krauser woke with Leon in his arms, the same as every morning for the last week. 

For a few seconds, it was almost reassuring. The feeling of the rookie, light as a fairy, in Krauser's embrace, the morning sun streaming onto their faces. Then the soldier shifted slightly and caught sight of the teddy bear, its stitched smile and smiling eyes a shock like always. The rookie wouldn't settle without it, even though he had Krauser as a night-time cuddle buddy these days.

Frowning, the soldier carefully extracted himself from the younger man. It wasn't easy. Leon had somehow managed to tangle their legs together while they slept. A small moan of complaint when Krauser started to move away - "Daddy, stay!" - followed by the silky length of Leon's back pressing more firmly against the soldier's chest. The swell of his ass pushing up against Krauser's morning wood. 

For a second, the soldier was almost tempted to...

But Leon was snoring softly again, eyelashes sweeping those perfect cheeks, his breathing deepening as he clasped his bear harder. 

Krauser watched him for a few more minutes before getting up to start his morning work-out.

There was a point where the body rewarded you for hurting it. When you ran too fast or lifted too much and your system spilled endorphins and other chemicals into your bloodstream, giving you that weird work-out high. 

But that wasn't what Krauser wanted. He didn't deserve to feel good. He just wanted the pain.

Another 10 reps. His arms ached from too much weight lifted too fast. He knew that he'd been at it too long, that his form was starting to get sloppy, but he didn't care. He pushed through another set, feeling the muscles bunch and burn, knowing why people cut themselves in the privacy of bathrooms. Why they drank until they blacked out in a bad place with bad men, aware of how it would end. 

Krauser had lost friends and fellow soldiers that way. Guys who'd used bad decisions to do what they couldn't, to bring down that final curtain.

He'd even had one or two of bad moments himself after Operation Javier. When it seemed like he'd lost everything - his career, his path in life, his identity as a soldier - and the future in front of him was bleak and empty. 

It had been despair that had driven him to Spain, hoping to find meaning in Lord Saddler's cause. Or at least a death that mattered. 

Despair. Not this biting self-hatred that lived in the pit of his stomach now. He put down the weights and started on the boxing bag, the one he'd set up in the corner of their living room. A neat area where he exercised and made the rookie work-out every day, ignoring the younger man's complaints when the training got too tough. "The corner of H-double-hockey-sticks", that was what Leon called the space. Because it was the closest the poor guy could come to saying "Hell", thanks to Wesker and his conditioning.  

Krauser hit the canvas once or twice, finding his flow, before he really went to work. But the smack of the bag against his fists couldn't drive away the sick feeling inside or the images in his head. 

Leon straddling his lap, naked. Rubbing their stiff lengths together, both of them panting. 

Krauser landed a hard right. 

Krauser's hand in Leon's hair, pushing his face into the pillow while the boy breathily begged to be fucked and Krauser took a perverse pleasure in saying no.

A left hook followed by an uppercut. 

The rookie kissing him in the buttery kitchen light, gasping when Krauser grabbed his leaking cock through his panties and started to tease until Leon was half-crying in tortured pleasure, pleading "Daddy, let me cum, please..."

A flurry of punches. Krauser's  knuckles were bleeding now. He couldn't remember when that had happened.

"Jack?" A little voice, trembling and sweet. "I woke up an' you weren't there. You mad at me?"

Leon was watching him, round-eyed, his glance traveling from Krauser's bare chest to his dripping knuckles. Despite his curls mussed up and shining, the rookie still managed to look pristine. 

"Kid..." Krauser started, knowing what he had to say but not knowing how to say it. How to find the words to right things, to set the pattern back to what it used to be. When he'd looked after Leon instead of taking advantage of him. 

The rookie must have known something was up, caught the tone of Krauser's voice, because the blood drained from his face. In one quick movement, he practically threw himself forward, forcing Krauser to catch him on instinct. 

"No, no, no, no, no!" babbled Leon, burying his face in the older man's neck, managing to talk and weep and lick the sweat there all at once. "Don't say it. Don't even think it. Nu-uh! I want this, Jack. You're not like him. Wesker. I want this so bad, Jack. I want you!"

Krauser, stupidly, felt like crying too. Instead, he braced himself. "Leon, you know that this isn't right..."

"No, please! Why? Why isn't it right?" The rookie wailed, all the traces of his newer defiant self washed away in a salty flood. "Please. I love you. Please! I'll be good! Why are you doing this, Daddy? My tummy feels sick. Why are you hurting me?

Christ, Krauser couldn't bear it. He should have pushed the kid away, should have explained why the whole thing was wrong in low, measured tones. 

But how could he? With the rookie sobbing and saying that his heart was breaking? It made Krauser's chest clench in an agonizing spasm. When Leon clung to him and begged, it was impossible for the Major to say the words that he should. 

Instead. he lifted the younger man off his feet and kissed him. Felt a shudder pass through Leon's body and knew it was relief, not desire. Relief that this mad fling wasn't going to end, relief that Krauser was willing to sell away his principles because he couldn't bear to see the tears beading his little rookie's cheeks. 

The boxing bag swung in slow circles before coming to a rest.