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zanykingmentality · 2 months

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do you want to be with somebody like me | leon kennedy x reader

SUMMARY: you've lost your friend at the bar. TAGS: alcohol, profanity / explicit language, first meetings, some humor, meet-cute, unresolved romantic tension, hints at depression LENGTH: 3.6k

[AO3]

Someone is singing awful karaoke. Bye, bye, Miss American Pie, he’s singing, way off-tempo, and he doesn’t know any of the rest of the words, even though every few lines he insists he has the song memorized. Your friend is off somewhere, doing something—you thought she was getting another drink, but when you’d followed her through the crowd she was nowhere to be found.

So now you’re camped at the bar, running your fingers over the sticky wood of the bartop, unsure if you should get another drink or keep looking. You decide the best course of action is to stay in one place, so your friend can find you, and hope she didn’t also think the same thing.

The bartender in front of you’s got his lips twisted into a frown. He’s watching the guy on the tiny stage at the front of the room, belting notes that are nowhere near the real ones. You imagine this is his favorite song, and he’s livid to hear such a blasphemous rendition of it. The crowd is going wild. You—well, you would also be going wild, if you could find your slippery friend, because at your core you love deeply terrible things. Instead, you turn to watch while still leaning on your elbows over the bar, taking up space that people are clamoring to get into. Because you’re a nuisance like that.

A man sits at the bar next to you, and he runs a hand down his face. He’s nursing something on the rocks, in one of those nice glasses you always see mafia bosses drinking from on TV. It looks like crystal, even though it can’t be, because this isn’t one of those upscale bars that would shell out for nice glasses. He glances over at you and your eyes meet. On a whim, you mouth along to the song, This will be the day that I die.

The line repeats, and he mouths it back.

The guy on stage is falling over the mic, tripping over the friends crowded around him. It’s probably his birthday. He’s probably drunk out of his mind and hoping to get lucky tonight. You scan the crowd for your friend and can’t find her, again.

The guy in front of you follows your gaze and puts a fist to his mouth. He leans toward you.

“You a fan of this kind of stuff?” he asks you.

“No,” you answer immediately. You press your fingers to your mouth, wiping away the hint of a smile that had been there. God. You love bad singing.

You do not, however, love losing your friend in a karaoke bar full of drunk twenty-somethings with no impulse control. As a sort-of drunk twenty-something yourself, you’re all too familiar with the way your brains will latch onto anything. Your friend can handle herself, sure, but can you?

“Looking for someone?” the guy asks again.

“Yeah,” you say, and you have to lean in to be heard over the horrendous singing. How fucking long is this song? “My friend. You seen her?”

“Probably not,” he says. “I’ve been right here.”

“She’s like this tall, and she’s wearing all blue. Dark hair. You haven’t seen her?”

“No,” the guy says, “but I’ll help you look, if you want.”

You’ve half a mind to slam your head against the bartop, but you do not do that—in part because getting kicked out would greatly lower your chances of finding your friend, and would otherwise be totally humiliating. Nice of this guy to offer to help—in your experience, most guys would implore you to stay here. Which is a slippery slope to come back home with me, a guy you don’t know at all, and you are not really interested in getting murdered tonight. Point being that—at least this guy is asking to help. At least that’s something new.

“That’s okay,” you say, because as much as you may want to, you do not believe the best in people.

The guy gets up from his seat. It is immediately filled behind him.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “Might be easier to find her from my vantage point.”

…He is taller than you, you suppose. You scowl, but you don’t really mean it.

“Okay,” you say. “Thanks.”

The guy stretches a hand out to you. “I’m Leon.”

You give him your name in return with a shake. Like you’re business partners, not two random people meeting in a club.

The two of you push through the crowd. The guy on the stage is finally wrapping up his butchered version of “American Pie,” which you are exceptionally excited for. No act can top his, you think. You will forever be in search of something as terrible as his pitchy, off-tune rendition of a classic song. Leon cranes his neck, looking for your friend, and you’re forced to watch the muscles in his chest contract and expand as he breathes. Must he wear a shirt so tight? Goddamn. Not that you’re checking him out or anything.

He leans down to breathe into your ear, “I don’t see her.”

You try, very hard, not to shiver. Weird.

Like, you can admit to yourself that he’s attractive, even in the dim lighting. You have eyes. But you also don’t know him, which means you should very much be on your guard. You keep reminding yourself of that, and yet…

There’s this look in his eye that makes you want to believe in him. You hate that. You hate when people are good, and nice, and kind—it’s so much harder to find people like that. They make you want. They make you hope.

“Damn,” you say. The two of you make your way to the back wall. You almost get swept away by the crowd as they part for the end of the song, and the guy on the stage is bowing and screaming something about college football. Someone shoves into your space, and Leon holds his arm out in front of you to push them away.

“Oh, wait,” Leon says, and he squints into the opposite corner of the bar. “Is that her?”

You stand on your tiptoes to peer over the crowd, but you can barely see. You make out a flash of blue in the corner booth, and you say, “Maybe?”

Leon leans down, and you repeat yourself. He’s very close.

You can not be falling in love with strangers again.

The crowd does not move for the two of you, but someone else gets up on stage—they’re singing a Kelly Clarkson song, and you wish them luck for all the belting parts. You and Leon shove through to the opposite corner of the room, where—lo and behold—your friend is leaning toward some guy sitting in the booth next to her, a guy you think you recognize, vaguely, from somewhere.

“Elsie!” You grip your friend’s shoulder in a vice-like grip. She whirls around to look at you, and says your name with a brilliant smile.

“Hey!” She puts her hand over yours and turns back to the guy in front of you. “You remember Daniel!”

No, you do not remember Daniel.

“Oh, yeah,” Daniel says. “We met at the racquet club.”

You do not go to the fucking racquet club. Who do you look like? Someone who can afford membership to the racquet club?

“The time I brought you with me,” your friend tries to remind you, nudging your side. You feel like you’re going insane. You have never been to the racquet club.

“I remember seeing you guys and thinking I had to talk to you,” Daniel says, staring at your friend. She avoids his gaze.

“Who’s that?” Elsie asks, nodding at Leon.

“Oh.” You turn back to Leon. “Thanks for helping me, Leon.”

He nods, his eyes never straying from Elsie and Daniel. Like he’s sizing them up or something. Assessing threat levels. Elsie pulls your arm, forcing your head down next to hers, and whisper-yells way too loud in your ear, “He’s hot.”

You know.

Elsie scoots over on the booth and pats the now-open seat next to her. “Leon, why don’t you sit?”

“Elsie,” you hiss. She meets your gaze with fake-innocence. Leon looks at you, then Elsie and Daniel, then you again, like he’s confused. He swallows; you watch the movement of his throat. The music is too loud, and the singing is just mediocre—not bad enough to be good. And it’s too hot. The press of bodies and sweat and alcohol closes in around you.

If Leon sits, there will be no space in the booth for you. At the other table, this really old guy in full safari gear sits and stares at the floor. You don’t think he’s moved in hours, maybe years. Daniel has an unreadable expression on his face. Lights dance across your faces. A spike of irritation at your friend stabs through your stomach.

“No, thanks,” Leon says. You look at him sidelong. He’s looking at you.

Elsie frowns for a moment, then decides, “We need more drinks!” She hauls Daniel to his feet. To you, she says, “Hey, so you’ll be okay on your own, yeah?”

You look between her and Daniel. “No, not really,” you say.

“I’ll meet back up with you outside later,” Elsie says. “Let’s go!”

“Wait—” you start to say, but she and Daniel have disappeared into the crowd. The Kelly Clarkson song is over, and the DJ’s put on some weird EDM abomination you can’t imagine anyone dancing, drinking, or talking to.

You look at Leon again, and he cocks his head.

“Sorry about that,” you say. “I guess I’ll just… head outside.”

“Want company?” he asks. At first, you don’t hear him, so you get on tiptoe to get closer to his mouth. He repeats himself.

“Sure,” you say. Because why not. You can only stomach so much betrayal in one day, the dramatic in you decrees. Why not.

Leon follows you out through the entrance, onto the balcony. The bar is situated on the second floor—the first floor, coincidentally, is dedicated to some other bar that you’ve never heard of. To be fair, you hadn’t heard of this one before either, before Elsie had called this afternoon and told you she needs to get drunk and make out with a stranger tonight. You suppose this is not an uncommon feeling for her, if the amount of times she’s complained to you about her experiences with men are anything to go on.

You rest your elbows on the railing of the balcony. It’s made of black metal; in the dark, it looks like there’s nothing under you. Leon stands next to you, mirroring your stance.

It’s not that high up at all, but the cool night breeze paired with the near-midnight sky makes you feel like you’re a speck in a much larger city than this, like you’re just one of many people escaping to a balcony from a crowded room. Through the open door, you hear the music shift abruptly to “Mamma Mia” by ABBA. You watch Leon nod along to the beat, and sudden affection thrums under your skin. That small movement is enough, you think, to get a read on him.

Because at first glance, Leon looks like someone you’d be scared of. He’s got a permanent scowl and furrowed eyebrows and a chiseled jaw, which is already a recipe for intimidation. It’s hard to tell if the reason your heart is pounding is because of fear or attraction. So the image of him—this handsome, dangerous stranger—bopping along to ABBA’s Swedish pop is so terribly cute that you can’t help but love him.

“What?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“You’re staring.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Your eyes trace the curve of his jaw before you pointedly look away.

“What?”

You should say something. Shouldn’t you? Make friendly conversation. He’s keeping you company, after all, when you would otherwise be staring at the sky feeling sorry for yourself.

“Tell me about you, Leon,” you say.

“There’s nothing interesting.”

You hum in acknowledgement. “Wow. So secretive.”

“There’s just not much to say about me.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

Leon scowls. He looks like a pouting puppy.

So, rather than prying further, you start talking. It’s not something you have a lot of experience with, just rambling without end. You talk about a clue in the New York Times crossword that you hated. You tell him about how you met Elsie, and how you have never belonged anywhere, not once. About the time in college when you stayed up all night to watch the sunrise and how maybe that’s why you keep living.

He looks at you when you say that, a strange understanding in his eyes. Like someone who’s seen the sunrise for the first time and gets it now, too. You want to squish his cheeks between your palms.

“You,” he says, “have a lot of thoughts.”

“Don’t you?”

“I guess.”

You wonder what goes on behind those eyes. What kinds of things does Leon think about? What does he do for fun? You’re so curious, but you can’t ask—he’s drawn a line, and as much as you want to, you can’t cross it.

“You’re shivering,” Leon says.

Huh. You are.

Leon’s jacket falls around your shoulders before you can insist you don’t need it. Once you have it, you don’t want to let it go. It’s a nice damn jacket, with fur lining and big pockets. You hold it close around yourself.

“Thanks,” you say. Guilt pricks at you—now he’ll be cold.

Like he can read your mind, Leon says, “I run warm.”

This, somehow, is surprising to you. But also, it’s not. You suppose you hadn’t thought about it—not that you’d had time to. You’d only met him thirty minutes ago.

“So, Leon,” you say, “what brings you to the bar tonight?”

“A drink,” he says simply.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. “You know, that’s a surprisingly rare answer.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Most people I know go out to party, or to get laid.”

“Oh. Well.” He doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that. You wouldn’t either, if you were him. Maybe you shouldn’t have said it. You suppose the people you know are the worst kinds of bar-goers. The kind who never know where to stop. A beat later, he says, “Is that why you’re here?”

You forgot that you count as people too. “No,” you say. “I was here playing wingman for Elsie. My friend. Supposedly.”

“Supposedly,” he echoes.

You watch him, then, the way his lips are set together and his jaw isn’t clenched, per se, but hardened, the lines of it stark. The way his gaze darts to you when he notices you staring, then quickly away. He’s sizing you up still. Trying to figure you out. There’s an insurmountable wall of unfamiliarity that neither of you seem properly equipped to traverse.

“I wasn’t very good at it,” you say. “Playing wingman. If that wasn’t obvious.”

“It was pretty obvious,” Leon says. “So you’re anti-social, and you like crosswords. What else?”

Your face feels warm, right up to the tips of your ears. You chalk this up to the extra blood flowing to the parts that need desperately to stay warm, even though it’s not that cold out. He says it all huskily, like he’s confiding a secret in you. Like you are his hidden-away gem. He’s got big hands, you notice.

There’s not much else to say, you suppose, but you search anyway. You tell him about the things you like, the little doodles at the corners of your planner, the keychains dangling from your bag. The places you’ve lived. He listens like he’s never heard anything more interesting, hooded eyes and the beginnings of a smile pulling at his lips.

He doesn’t seem the type to smile often. You’re not sure what you did to make it happen, but you want to do it again. You want to see a real smile.

“You have a nice voice,” he says suddenly. You flush. Is he trying to make you explode? Spontaneous combustion isn’t off the table here.

“You do too,” you say, unsteady.

He laughs at that—you think. It’s barely there, a quick exhale and a rumble in his chest you can’t really hear. “I didn’t think I did.”

“Well, you do,” you say, and because you are an embarrassment to your family name, you add, “Plus, you’re attractive.”

Leon’s eyes widen minutely. He opens his mouth to say something. Nothing comes out.

“Sorry.”

“No,” he manages. “That’s okay.” He presses a palm over the bottom half of his face, obscuring his mouth, fingers splayed across his cheek. He’s flustered. He’s flustered. What the fuck did you do to him? You broke him.

You grip the railing of the balcony and try not to feel so many types of ways.

“I’m, uh,” Leon starts again, then stops. He swallows, and you watch the hunted-animal movement of his throat. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Oh,” you say. He’s glad? Okay. That’s new. You clasp your hands, let go, re-clasp them. You think about his big hands. What do you say to that? “Well. I’m glad.”

Leon seems to be satisfied with this answer. He tilts his head back and looks up to the sky, the starless expanse above saturated with light pollution. His chest expands with a deep breath in. You’re tempted to press your palm to the center of his chest, just to feel the movement. God, how dare he be attractive.

“I haven’t been relaxed like this in a long time,” he says. You shiver. “What, still cold?”

“No,” you reply, “your jacket is really warm.”

“Would be warmer if you used the sleeves.”

“Oh, you got jokes, huh?”

“And if I do?”

You blink at him. “If you do?”

“What are you gonna do about it?”

This, somehow, delights you. He’s got jokes. You’ve got banter. It’s the closest you’ve felt to another person in a long time. You think of Elsie, probably sucking face in the bar proper, and you’re reminded that it’s okay not to want that—to want this, instead, learned easiness—or something like that. Maybe you’re just being hypocritical. After all, you don’t really know Leon.

But that’s okay too, isn’t it?

You’re not really making sense.

“Not much for me to do about that,” you say.

“You could laugh.”

You let out a half-hearted, obviously fake laugh.

“Ouch.”

“Oh, did that hurt?”

“So much. I’m wounded.”

“Get better jokes, then. I’m waiting.”

Leon’s face scrunches up in thought, like he’s shuffling through joke ideas in his head and not liking any of them. “You can’t put me on the spot like that.”

“Mm. Sounds like an excuse.”

“Hey.”

You’re about to say something else—something you hadn’t thought through, as always, but that you hope was funny enough—when Elsie stumbles out of the bar. Her heels clang against the metal of the balcony. You and Leon both turn to look: her lipstick’s smeared across her mouth and her eyeliner is smudged.

“Didn’t go well?” you ask.

She greets you with a cheeky grin, at odds with the state of her. “It was fucking fantastic,” she says. “I’ll never see him again.”

“Let’s hope not,” you quip. “Daniel's a good kisser? He goes to the fucking racquet club.”

“It’s a perfectly nice place to hang out.”

You make a face.

“I’m being serious. And anyway, I didn’t kiss Daniel.”

Elsie wobbles over to stand next to you at the railing. Leon tenses minutely.

“Who then?” you ask.

“I don’t know. Some guy. Don’t remember his name.”

“Sure. Fair enough,” you say. Elsie leans her head on your shoulder. “Think it’s time we go home.”

“Ugh. I don’t want to.”

“And yet, you came out here anyway.” You wind your arm around Elsie, who is a disaster in very different ways than you, but you’re all she’s got and vice versa. Leon’s jacket shifts around you, and you clutch it to you with your other hand. “We should get going.”

“Fiiine,” Elsie whines.

You release her and shrug Leon’s jacket off. Immediately, your arms erupt in gooseflesh, missing its warmth. It takes all of your willpower to hold it out to him. “Thanks for keeping me company, Leon.”

“Sure,” he says. He takes his wallet out of his back pocket and flips it open. “You got a pen?”

“For what?” You pat down your nonexistent pockets. You do not have a pen.

“Oh, found one.” He scribbles something on the back of a receipt, then takes his jacket from you. You blink and he’s swinging it back over your shoulders. Elsie retches behind you.

“What—”

“Keep it,” Leon says, “until we see each other again.”

“Huh—”

He takes the receipt and gently pushes it into the chest pocket of the jacket. “Get home safe.”

“Leon—” He’s already left, retreating back into the bar with a little skip in his step.

How rude of him to keep interrupting you. You wind your arms through the sleeves and are immensely, all-consumingly grateful.

“Home,” Elsie says.

“Geez, you’re so impatient.”

When you get home, you tuck Elsie into your bed and lay out a blanket on the couch for yourself. It’s then that you take the receipt out from the pocket of Leon’s jacket. It’s all crumpled up, and from a few months ago—a purchase of ABBA vinyls. This makes you smile.

On the other side, Leon’s scribbled his number, his name, and a Call me in cursive. Cursive. You’re obsessed.

You fall asleep, clutching the receipt in your fist, “American Pie” echoing in your head.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #resident evil fanfiction #resident evil #leon s kennedy #roma's writing #leon is so cute.... he's like an angry cat #re4 leon

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