Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He remembers the way he’d struggle against him, the smirk on his captor’s face sliding into a scowl.

Caught in a battle to maintain his pride, or at least his dignity, Leon had been less than cooperative. He refused anything offered to him, wordlessly glaring at the mush served in a silicon spoon. He had trained for this, gone weeks at a time with bare necessities under the cover of darkness, coated in grime and bruises across every inch of his skin. Scarred trackmarks around his bicep and neck, marks across his wrists from the long hours restrained, nails that never grew back quite right after being torn off so many times.

They’d beaten the snark out of him eventually, but not the defiance, the cold stare boring into the eyes of his captors. He knew better than to stay quiet, knew that his smart mouth was both a burden and a blessing. It was all a balancing act, levelled between encouraging either harsher punishments or an impatient, accidental death from an infuriated captor.

But now? Now he hid his trembling hands behind his back, curling them in the fabric of his shirt and wishing he could disappear.

“You don’t want my food?” The man had said with a sneer, “Then I’ll see you starved.”

He’d grown to remember that moment, the wasted food on the floor, the spoon clattering onto the tiles. It wasn’t worth the bitemark he’d made on Wesker’s fingers, nor the harsh slap that left his ears ringing.

Leon rested his cheek against the wall, numb to the sensation, and wished he could feel that sting again. All he had now was that lazily swinging bulb, naked as it hung above and harshly lit the tiny space with a harsh light. It only made the space more white, devoid of anything but his own breaths and the glaring buzz of the LED.

“You don’t want my love?” Wesker had growled through gritted teeth, “Then I’ll show you my hatred.”

The threat was far from empty, and the room he’d taken for granted was swiftly lost to him. Soft, cottony blankets and pillowy, cloud-like cushions; the memories haunted his attempts at sleep. Now he couldn’t even unfold his legs before his feet hit the door, latched from the outside, every click of the lock like an alarm bell as it rang through the silence.

He’s plagued by the what-ifs of it all, when that soft voice turned sharp and harsh, and told him he’d live to regret it. He hadn’t heard another voice in a long time, not since the last time he’d held his breath until his vision was blurry just to feel the pain in his chest. He practiced on the bowl of water he received on occasion, dunking his entire face in until the water trickled into his lungs and burned as he sputtered and coughed.

He started getting a cup after that, pushed in with a silent shove alongside the overcooked rice. He was desperate enough to lick the tasteless grains sticking to his fingers off some days, or even try to break skin.

“You don’t want my home?” Wesker had said coldly, “Then I’ll take you to Hell.”

He thought he saw Claire sometimes, feverishly throwing glances around as though she could ever have been real. He’d hear Sherry’s voice, that same recording they’d played over and over throughout the years. In the beginning, he’d pushed too much, asked for stupid things like letters or sending Christmas gifts. He didn’t notice the ire, his superiors growing testy as their favourite little tool grew a little too confident, and stayed just as needy.

It was his fault. He hadn’t celebrated a single holiday since that day in the office, called to an empty office to wait just to find that plain package with his name on it.

He remembers opening it with cold sweat running down his back, the way his fingers trembled as he slid the contents into his opposite palm. The way his stomach dropped when he saw the tape recorder, labelled with a single phrase that made his heart skip a beat.

‘Sherry sends her love.’

He’d nearly dropped it, ready to accept that she was dead before he even heard it. He didn’t have the strength to live through that, already mentally forming a plan as he pressed play. As he waited to hear her screams, her desperate pleas of his name as she succumbed, helpless and alone.

He doesn’t remember what she’d said to this day, just the noises, doubling over to vomit in the trashcan, heaving out breaths through his own strangled sobs. Calmly, a familiar man walked inside, plucked the recorder from the carpeted floor, and placed a hand on his back. He drew soothing circles into Leon’s back, and leaned down to whisper to him.

“She’s not dead.”

The sickening touch crept upwards, patting his shoulder like a father might congratulate his son. Frozen in place, Leon’s eyes wandered towards the figure, his entire body stiffening as he caught their gaze. It spoke the words Leon had been afraid to hear, the ones left unsaid, the threat implied but unstated: “Not yet.”

No, this wasn’t Hell. Leon had already been there many times before, but it resembled it beautifully. Something inside him was snuffed out when he heard that audio again, louder and more vicious than it had ever been before. He tried covering his ears, speaking over it, even just begging it to go away, and when those failed, he grew ambitious.

The first hit was jarring, not quite hard enough to quiet his thoughts, but enough to dull his senses a bit. The second was a bit better, but it left him nearly unconscious, slowly sliding down the wall as vertigo took hold. He missed his third and fourth despite the short distance, his vision sliding around as his head spun. By the fifth he felt a wound open, weeping warm liquid that trailed through his scalp and down his neck.

The red was a beautiful contrast against the white, white walls, and he blinked through his daze, admiring it for a long moment. Maybe, if he was lucky, his whole head would break open like a watermelon, coating the entire room in that perfect shade of rust. The taste was salty on his tongue, sticky on his cheeks, and the fuzz made it hard to think about anything more than his journey to unconsciousness.Still, he was firmly set on his pursuit, rearing back to hopefully shatter his skull, anything to make it stop.

The final straw drawn through a baited breath, held between chapped lips and gritted teeth. The latch clicked ominously, unheard over the static, and it's only when the hand rushes forward to secure his neck that he realises the door has swung open, and a figure is beside him.

Blinking blearily, Leon spots the familiar black outfit of his captor, the leather of his gloves held fast against the nape of his neck. It doesn't hurt, he can't feel anything but the ringing pain in his temples. and any fear has long since bled into the background. Marred by the damages, his brain struggles to comprehend exactly where it went wrong, a frustrated sound tumbling out of his dry throat with a desperate cough, the still-warm blood on his lip speckling the walls like paint.

He doesn't feel the weightlessness of being lifted up, just belatedly blinks at the ground that's somehow gotten very far away. The concrete of the basement is a cold, slate grey leading into finished walls and naked, wooden stairs that arch upwards like a dollhouse's. They creak under their collective weights, the boards naturally giving into the urge to creak and complain, and Leon almost misses them when the door swings closed and leaves the basement in darkness. It's a well-hidden room, easily concealed behind the multiple shelves and storage containers lining what seems to be a laundry room. Leon can't tell, the world is tilted on a brand new axis and he can't possibly keep up as it spins faster and faster.

Hardwood, carpet, tile floors like a room he saw a very long time ago. Rushing water under his palm, held aloft by someone else's hand, not quite hot enough to feel beneath the chilling static coating his body like mycelium. He blinks and he's suddenly lying in it, water trailing higher and higher as he sinks back against the tile wall, flinching when he lays his wound on the hard surface. A hand coaxes his face to the side, another pulling away a long curtain of hair with a whispered swear. The touches stop, and Leon blinks again, and is alone.

He tries to move his hands, feeling far away from his body, but finally finds them beneath the surface, cold and unbound even as they lay in the heated water. His pale legs covered with bruises, scratches, and even bite marks, his own reflection staring back with dead eyes laden with dark circles. His face scrunches up when he sees it, mirrored by the pool, and he finds he can't recognise what's staring back. If it were his own face, maybe he could stick it back on, but he remembers shattering his old one... He raises a hand carefully, watching the face ripple and warp with the water, and prods at it with a trembling finger.

Huh, his hair is so much longer now... It reminds him of someone, bold blue eyes and a frightened stare, chattering teeth as they lay beneath a hotel bed's comforter and wait together for the pain to stop. The face distorts again, a droplet of water trailing down until it falls into the centre and everything blurs together like paste. He blinks at it owlishly, hunched over and still trapped in that torrid silence, and watches as the figure opens their mouth to scream.

He has to do it now, he can't hear her again, not for hours and hours just like before...!

He can't. He can't.

He doesn't hear the bandages hit the bath mat, too absorbed in his inner turmoil, just feels the arms wrap around his torso like a vice. Utterly stunned by the touch, he stops short, and two firm hands pull him out from under the surface of the water. He feels the urge to beg, afraid of when the embrace would turn violent, but can do nothing more than shake, eyes blurring with tears for the first time in a very, very long time. A strangled sob breaks free, and it's the final nail in the coffin, the last barrier left before he throws his head back and against the arms holding him close and shatters.

-

He whimpered like a sad dog, groaning softly when warm water irritated the bruises and open wounds on his skin. They wept in place of his eyes, dirtying the water until it was dyed a soft pink.

Wesker rested a hand on his head, watching his eyes blink languidly with feverish delusions. He enjoyed the glazed energy of his gaze, the absent stare as he sat quietly and obediently despite his discomfort.

Still, something was missing.

Adoration. Trust. The absence of fear. Everything he’d wanted to give him from the start.

He grasped Leon’s chin with a gentle hand, examining him with a thoughtful gaze. Tired and sick, the boy whined, calling out wordlessly for someone he knew.

A miscalculation, but nothing he couldn’t fix.

It was hours before his plan slotted into place, Leon safe and dry, tucked under the covers of the king-sized bed. He sat nearby, laptop settled on the comforter, his other hand gently smoothing down Leon’s unruly bangs. The younger man whined, but chased the touch like a sunflower following the sunset.

This time tomorrow, everything would be in place.

Chapter Text

Leon could feel the fatigue in his bones when he woke, slowly blinking away the crust from his eyes and squinting against the faint light. The sunlight was snuffed by curtains, the beams just barely bleeding through the crack between them and shining onto his tired eyes. His body was heavy, buried beneath a cornflower-blue comforter and a silky-soft sheet. Yawning languidly, he shifted, squinting in confusion as he registered the unfamiliar feeling of something pillowed between his arms.

Drawing the cover down with an aching shoulder, he blinked at the sight that laid before him, a terry-cloth teddy bear with button eyes staring back at him. It felt familiar, and he knew its name without a single doubt, and yet he was sure he’d never seen it before. With shaky fingers, he prods at its textured ear, the bumps of minky fabric following his touch.

The cracked door on the other side of the room creaked open, and he cursed his carelessness, his body tensing up as he anticipated what lay on the other side. Light spilled in from the hall, and he couldn’t help but look away, the displeasure crept up his throat in a small sound.

Soft footsteps padded in, quieted by the carpet underfoot, and stopped at his bedside. A gentle hand laid atop the covers, warm even beneath the layers.

“Hey, Lee…” She murmured, “How’s my little boy?”

Huh?

She leaned over him, and he could feel her breath on his skin, leaving goosebumps behind. A hand burrowed beneath his messy bangs, pressing against his forehead for a long moment, the other drawing the blanket back over his shoulders and up to his chin.

“Hm, still warm…” She noted, pulling away. She retreated quietly, just as slowly as she’d come, the door slowly creaking shut until the light bled away. He blinked his eyes open, watching a sea of glow-in-the-dark stars come to life beneath the darkness.

He could hear the woman call for someone, barely inaudible to his covered ears.

His head is swimming, but he knows that voice. Hears it in his dreams in screams and whimpers, black-coloured veins trailing along their skin.

“You did this?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did this.”

He wants to call out to her, but his tongue feels like lead in his mouth. Nothing hurts anymore, but he feels stuffed full of cotton. A doll in a house, laying limp atop the miniature mattress. Tucked in by careful hands, his heartbeat slow despite the unease.

By the time he hears the door again, he’s burrowed deeper into one of the pillows, curled up as best as his heavy body could manage.

“Sleepy baby…” Ashley croons, setting something atop the bedside table. She shakes him, gently coaxing him awake, “That’s it.”

He groans in protest, and hears her laugh, “Oh, I know. I’m such a meanie for waking you up.”

“Just a little longer…” she murmurs, uncapping whatever she’d brought with her and pouring it into a medicine cup. He expects her to bully him into taking it right then, but is caught off guard when she continues humming along, messing with something else instead.

“There we are…!” Ashley sighs, seemingly satisfied, “Now don’t bite me, okay, baby?”

Even with her warning, he doesn’t expect the fingers prodding at his lips, nudging open his mouth with a hand on his jaw. Something slips between his teeth, and he instinctively bites down, albeit gently thanks to the lingering weakness in his body. Her fingers thumb at the pressure points around his jaw, pressing down until it goes slack in her hands.

She tsks, then shakes her head with an indulgent smile, “That’s alright. It wasn’t my finger, this time.”

He sputters as liquid floods into his mouth, coughing and sputtering at the taste of artificial strawberry.

“I know, I know,” she says, smiling, “You want some water?”

She takes his still-open mouth as a yes, guiding some sort of silicone piece into his mouth. He sucks at it like a straw, humming with satisfaction as it cools the ache in his dry throat. He can feel her hand holding the bottle aloft, the mouthpiece feeding it slowly but surely until it’s gone.

His head feels like its swimming, as syrupy sweet as the medicine, he blinks but everything just blends together in a swell of colours. Brighter than before, like a sunbleached toy.

“Ley…” He calls, reaching out with a shaking hand towards her face.

She makes a high-pitched sound, immediately wrapping her hand around his own, it feels smaller in her grip. He can see her more clearly now, those green eyes staring back while his own pool with tears. The heat of her palm on his skin, smooth but textured, fingers intertwined with his own- Real, real, real.

Her smile is familiar, a warmth he’d seen before, edged with desperation and relief as black veins receded from her cheeks. It isn’t like that now, just pleasant and soft like the rest of her, staring back at him as though they were the only two people in the world.

He feels the bed dip, the way she edges onto it until they’re pressed together, lifted by her arm so he can lay against her side, hand idly rubbing his bare arm like a promise. A featherlight touch to his hair, the press of her lips against his bangs with low, sugar sweet whispers. She’s glowing, a halo of lamp light framing the familiar swoop of her bangs, ethereal in an almost biblical sense from where she sits beside him.

He tries to speak, something nonsensical slipping out instead of a question, there was an absent buzz in his teeth and his lips felt numb. She adjusts her grip in response, holding him close so she can subtly rock back and forth in a steady rhythm. He struggles, instinct telling him to fight the hold, but it feels like it takes all his energy just to edge away, a frown pulling at his lips and crinkling his nose.

“What’s wrong?” She asked idly, something in her tone making him think she didn’t expect an answer, “You’re so fussy all of a sudden.”

Then, as if struck by a sudden realisation, she perks up, “Oh, I know what you want!”

“My mistake…” She placates, reaching over him to locate something else on the bed and, without any hesitation, pops it into his mouth, “There we are.”

His eyes widen, and he spits the offending object out on reflex. It tumbles down his shirt in a sticky mess, hanging idly by what looks like a lanyard clipped to his collar. Soft to the touch and patterned with stuffed bears, the plastic clip clinging tightly to the fabric of his shirt, the other end looped around-

Ashley stuffs it back in his mouth, holding gently but firmly until he awkwardly seals his mouth around it. The realisation dawns on him, it’s a pacifier, large enough for an adult mouth, and seemingly decorated with something. He reaches for it to check, and she catches his hand, a silent threat as he runs his fingers across the shield. He doesn’t pull it out, just lays his fingers across the surface, silently exploring.

“Good boy!” Ashley chirps, gently tapping him on the nose. It leaves him befuddled, which she seems amused by.

A subtle knock echoes in the quiet room, muffled only by Ashley’s breathing from where she’s still pressed close. It had knocked him into a quiet trance, the rhythm steady and even to match the warmth she radiates, but he startles when he hears someone enter.

“All is well?” Leon freezes as a familiar presence makes itself known.

“We’re fine,” she replies, not even sparing them a glance, “He was stubborn with his medicine, but that’s nothing new.”

“Hardly,” they reply, drawing closer until their shadow lingers over her, snuffing out the light with a tall frame and broad shoulders. He looks ready to devour her whole, lingering just inches away from her back, lying in wait like a patient predator.

He steps to the side, and Leon’s worst fears are confirmed.

“So lucid,” Wesker purrs, “What a treat.”

Leon feels like cold water has just been dumped on his back, muffled whine loudly alerting the room to his anguish. Ashley pulls a face, turning back to smack Wesker on the arm.

He doesn’t even flinch, “And just what made you think that was allowed, Ms. Graham?”

Leon is shaking.

“Look at him!” Ashley insists, “You’re scaring him!”

“I’m just standing here,” Wesker replies, seemingly humouring her.

“And? You’re like Mister ‘Doom and Gloom’ over there! Turn the light on if you’re going to loom in here.”

Uroboros unfurls from his arm, and Leon hears the click of the switch as the overhead lights come on, “Satisfied, Ms. Graham?”

“Not until you call me Ashley, Doctor.” She huffed, looking away.

“I prefer an air of formality. We’re hardly more than associates, Ms. Graham.”

“Prick,” she spits back, “His fever broke, if you even care.”

“Of course it did,” Wesker decidedly states, “There was never any doubt.”

“What, because you handcrafted it from ancient flowers in Africa?” Ashley shoots back with a hand on her hip, “It’s benadryl-” She grabs the bottle from the nightstand, squinting at it for a moment, “Not even benadryl, it’s generic!”

“It’s diphenhydramine. The brand hardly matters-”

“And we got it from a gas station-”

“It was perfectly serviceable-”

“Covered in dust-”

“The expiry date hasn’t elapsed-”

“And the clerk gave it to me for free because I ‘looked rough.’”

“You did.”

“Thanks to you! She thought I was a hooker!” Ashley whisper-yelled, “Couldn’t even recognise the former president’s missing daughter because I was covered in filth and bartering for antihistamines in a backwater convenience store!”

“You made a minimum wage employee feel like a true hero.”

“God, you’re such a jackass,” she said with a reluctant laugh, “Can you behave long enough to move him, or what?”

“I believe that question is best served to our little elephant in the room,” he replied smugly, taking a step forward just to watch Leon tense up.

She shoots him a look, “Mhm, and whose fault is that?”

Wesker sends back a glare, “Just keep him occupied.”

Her hands find Leon’s cheek, idly patting until she catches his gaze, “Hey, baby… Be good for Mama, okay?”

What-?

He’s abruptly wrapped up tightly with the comforter, bundled by steady hands that tuck in his weaker limbs like how he imagines a mummy is prepared. He’s plucked from Ashley’s arms in moments, pressed against what feels like a solid wall; panic begins to bubble over like boiling water.

“Hey,” He turns towards her voice, “Hey. I’m right here. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

She follows them as they walk, matching Wesker’s admittedly slow pace to keep a hand on Leon’s blanket-covered shoulder, always within reach.

They pass by a staircase, and he remembers the basement steps, his own chattering teeth, the tacky blood coating the back of his neck and stubbornly remaining beneath his fingernails. 

Just her screams, no begging, no pleading, just the screams.

Remembers the ivory walls and resting his head on his folded knees until everything ached. 

And one, devastating call, choked and wet as it rang out.

Even as the wooden flight disappears from sight, he can’t forget what it meant, can’t erase the itch sown beneath his skin.

His name, sobbed out between shallow breaths, as quiet as a prayer.

A pain that grows so steadily it’s hard to even notice when it burns, a frog boiling in a pot but too afraid of the flames to jump out.

“She’s not dead,” he’d said, “Not yet. But I bet she wishes she was.”

Feeling his body gently meet the ground, he realises just how panicked he’d been, how soothed he is by being able to reach a hand out and feel the fibers of the rug. It’s as soft as a pillow, a baby-blue canvas coloured with shades of the sunset. Clouds made of fluffy yarn pop out of the picture, and the sun looks visibly tired as it sets, a happy moon rising in the distant corner, surrounded by spongy stars.

Unfinished towers of wooden blocks lie abandoned on the rug’s surface, toy trains and cars lay silently on their sides, and various puzzles with large, tactile pieces are left half-completed. It feels like a room frozen in time, silent except for the whir of gears as a projector light slowly rotates, coating the ceiling in a myriad of planets, shooting stars, and rocketships.

He turns to investigate further, bracing a hand on the ground to keep himself steady, only to meet the eyes of Wesker. He stands by the door, slowly slipping it closed with a nearly inaudible sound, trapping them both in this strange little world. Leon can’t help but stare, watching as he slowly slips his hand free of the knob, as his hand climbs into his hair to soothe his temples and slide the sunglasses off of his face. As if approaching a wounded animal, he approaches slowly, crouching down to meet Leon on the ground as he stares at him with wide eyes.

“Hello there, Leon.”

“...Ashley?” He asks carefully, lisping as he works around the pacifier.

“I requested Ms. Graham to leave us alone for a moment,” he clarifies, “She’s just downstairs.”

Leon nods slowly, otherwise as still as a statue.

Wesker sighs, “I’d like it if you listened to me for a moment.”

As if he had a choice.

“Good,” he adds, as though Leon had agreed, “For a period of around seven weeks you’ve been ill. Concerningly so.”

Leon’s eyes go wide. Was he really asleep for that long?

“It had come to my attention that you’re more…fragile than I had anticipated,” he explains slowly, as if reluctant (but surely not remorseful, right?), “Ms. Graham was intended to be used as leverage, as I’m sure you’ve surmised.”

He has, with the exception of Sherry, she was the only person he cared for that was within reach.

“However,” Wesker smiles, it’s disturbing somehow, “With the exception of our previous altercation, she’s quite satisfied with the idea of taking on your care.”

Leon feels the pacifier drop from his mouth, the tug on the lanyard clutching his collar, but can’t do anything more than stare with disbelief.

Wesker smirks in response, and stands as if to loom over him, “Ah, so you are listening.”

“...How?” Is all he manages, as if he could fit every question in that one little word.

“Her care for you is its own weakness,” he answers simply, “With that in mind, this is how things are going to work from now on: Myself and Ms. Graham will spend every hour of the day with you, and you will cooperate.”

He shoots Wesker a thunderous glare.

“We will feed you, bathe you, care for you, and you will learn to enjoy it. Leave, and I’ll simply have no use for Ms. Graham anymore, will I?” Like a smug cat licking the blood from its claws, Wesker lays out his situation to the mouse before him.

“She’s quite convinced that this is what’s best for you,” he adds, as if to add salt to the fatal wound, “She will not assist you, nor agree to leave with you.”

Leon shakes his head, as if to say, ‘She’s nothing like you.’

But Wesker just keeps smiling, the expression enough to make Leon’s skin crawl. He pulls out a vial, bubblegum-pink liquid swimming inside.

“I’m quite certain you’ve been informed about P30. Don’t look so worried, this little compound is merely its cousin.”

His gaze shifts to it, pride swelling into his words, “You’re not an easy one to tame. Perhaps that’s what drew my interest in the first place…” He shakes his head, “No matter. I have you now.”

“...What’s it do?” Leon slurs out, hating himself for taking the bait, but desperate to know as a familiar strawberry aftertaste brings him ever close to the urge to hurl.

“It’s quite simple,” Wesker replies easily, showing him the vial like he was a dog being shown a treat, “And I do mean simple. The recipient will experience shifts in mood, some cognitive impairment, and, in essence, receive a high dose of oxytocin, serotonin, and prolactin. No more than the average SSRI would do, I assure you.”

‘I assure you,’ he says, with that smile that screams ‘I know something that you don’t.’

“I’m sure you’d enjoy my telling you about the side effects,” he casually remarks with a wave of his hand, “That it will slowly turn you into a bio-organic weapon of mass destruction, or some other form of nonsense.”

Wesker turns to him, stopping his tirade to shoot him a devastatingly serious look, “But that would be a lie.”

Then what the fuck was the point?

“You’ll be happier, healthier, it’s quite the boon,” Wesker assures, “There isn’t a particularly high risk of addiction either. As long as you’re more intelligent than the average junkie.”

Where’s the catch? He’s on the edge of his metaphorical seat, fingers still feeling between the seams of the carpet’s fibers, as if trying to get a literal grasp on his situation.

“All that I ask for,” he pauses, tilting his head, “Is your reliance. The rest will come in time.”

Leon couldn’t even begin to understand what that meant, what the machinations of a megalomaniac could look like.

“...Why?” Leon asked quietly, arms still wrapped around the plush bear, “Why this?”

But Wesker just smiles.

“You’ll learn in time,” He repeated like a vow, stooping down once again to lay a gentle, yet possessive hand on Leon’s cheek, “Daddy knows best.”