Chapter Text
It takes four months after Los Illuminados for Ada to show herself to Leon. Breaking free from a man like Wesker is no easy feat.
She’s been ghosts and smoke, a flicker in the darkness, never quite revealing herself, always one step ahead of danger. She quite likes the excitement of being detached, the freedom to pick and choose as she pleases. Perhaps that’s what drove her to closing her eyes to the promise of a welcome back after the events that happened in Spain — or perhaps there was some deeper thing pushing her to her limit that made her break apart.
Whatever it is, it makes her a target.
It’s a fun game of catch for a while — until, of course, Wesker grows bored and focuses his efforts until something more worthwhile. Or perhaps he’s just lying low, waiting for Ada to slip up and give away her location before seeking revenge on her. Whatever it is, she isn’t too worried now.
If she were to hide in a hole every time someone wanted her dead, she’d never see the sunlight. What is life without a little death warrant anyway?
Tonight, in the heart of a city that never sleeps, reeking of urine and smoke and the faint scent of being alive, she lets her guard down just enough. The bar of her choice is a little jazz bar — the sound of saxophone spills into the streets as she nears the place, already enveloping her in a sense of satisfaction. She chose this place to be entertained, if she’s frank.
There’s a chance Leon won’t even show up — perhaps he hasn’t found the message or he has no intentions of catching up with an old friend — and she can’t nurse her drink alone in the quiet now, can she?
Ada steps inside the jazz bar, the door creaking softly behind her, shutting out the harsh city noises and wrapping her in a dim, hazy cocoon of smoke and amber light. The air is thick with nostalgia — the clink of glasses, low murmurs, and that haunting saxophone weaving through the room like a whispered memory.
She scans the crowd with casual detachment. The truth of the matter is, she doesn’t expect him to be there quite yet. She had written 1800 hour on her note — a little military code to humor him — and it’s still five minutes to six. But there Leon is — perhaps more nervous than she is — sitting in a quiet corner, a drink already in front of him.
He looks just like he did all those months ago — his mouth in a tight line, his eyes hollowed out and his posture unwelcoming. Despite the animosity that clearly is keeping any party interested away, Ada smiles at the thought. It’s nice to know such consistency can exist in the world in the shape of Leon S. Kennedy. He’s the picture of an angsty, tortured man.
Perhaps he even writes some sad boy poetry.
The thought makes her smile deepen as she slips into the seat across from him. He doesn’t look up from his drink. Oh, he insults her.
Leon’s voice is low, edged with that same sharp sarcasm she remembers too well. “Took you long enough to show up.” His eyes, shadowed and wary, finally lift from the glass and pin her with a look that’s equal parts accusation and relief.
“You’re early,” Ada shrugs, leaning closer. “It’s not my fault you were too impatient to see me, Leon.”
“You wish,” he scoffs.
“Oh, admit it,” Ada presses on, leaning closer over the table. “You’ve missed me.”
Leon doesn’t dignify that with an answer though Ada already knows the truth from the flash of his eyes. A truth that brings relief and unease at the same time — Leon did miss her though he’d never admit it. She is equally stubborn, though. Even in her quiet moments she can never allow herself to imagine missing him.
It’ll be too humiliating.
“What can I get you, miss?” the waitress interrupts before either of them can throw another jab and she looks up at the young girl.
“What is he having?” she asks, pointing at Leon with a nod.
“Whiskey neat,” the girl replies. “Would you like the same thing?”
“Oh, god, no,” Ada shakes her head. “Your taste in drinks is just like an old man’s, by the way,” she says to Leon before turning to look at the girl once more. “I’ll have a Rye Manhattan — thank you.” The waitress nods before walking back to the bar, leaving them alone. “Well, where were we?”
“How about the part where you’ve raised from the dead?”
“Risen,” Ada corrects, “I have risen from the dead.”
Leon smirks, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sure, risen. Like a bad sequel nobody asked for. Thanks for the grammar lesson, by the way.”
Ada’s eyes flash with amusement. “You’re angry with me,” she sighs. “Why is that, Leon?”
He leans forward, voice dropping low enough that only she can hear over the jazz. He doesn’t answer her question. Instead, he pushes the words out — Ada can see the struggle. “Four months. That’s a long time to keep someone guessing.”
“What guesses have you ventured, Leon?”
“I thought you were supposed to answer the questions, not just throw them back into my face?” Leon huffs out his breath, frustrated. “Though, I suppose you haven’t changed either.”
“Haven’t I?”
“Ugh,” he rolls his eyes.
Leon’s eye roll is almost theatrical, but there’s nothing lighthearted about the tension sitting between them. The saxophone wails in the background — lazy, mournful — and Ada lets the moment stretch, studying the faint lines etched deeper into his face since Spain. Four months, and he wears them like a badge he never asked for.
“You know,” Leon says finally, swirling the whiskey in his glass, “most people would at least send a text. Or an email. Something that doesn’t involve disappearing into thin air.” He scoffs, ridiculing, as he adds, “No, scratch that — most people wouldn’t go six years letting someone think they’re dead.”
Ada tilts her head, the faintest smirk curling her lips. “I’m not ‘most people.’”
“That’s the problem,” Leon mutters. Perhaps it is. Maybe putting that note in the back of the key-chain like a sentimental teenager was stupid — meeting him here only adding to the insanity of it all. But they’re here now.
“How is your little lamb?” she asks.
“Ashley?” Leon frowns. “That’s why you asked to meet? Because you want to see how Ashley’s doing?”
“I was only trying to pretend like I’m interested in your mission,” Ada shrugs. The truth is, she couldn’t give less of a shit about the President’s daughter even if she tried. She seemed important to Leon so she thought perhaps opening with that would dull his anger but it seems to have only fueled it. It’s alright — Ada has never been scared of his anger.
“She’s fine,” Leon mutters at the end, begrudgingly. “A bit shaken — but fine.”
“Riveting,” Ada smirks. Her drink arrives. She takes a sip from it before looking at Leon who is now pouting. “God, just ask your questions, rookie — I can see them turning in your head.”
Leon exhales slowly, setting his glass down with a soft clink. His fingers linger on the rim like he’s weighing every possible way this conversation could go before finally locking eyes with her.
“Fine. Where the hell have you been?” His voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the hum of the bar like a scalpel. “Don’t give me some poetic, ‘here and there’ crap either. I mean — really. Four months, Ada. After everything in Spain, you just vanish.”
Ada swirls her drink lazily, the cherry bobbing with the motion. “And if I told you exactly where I’ve been, would it change anything?”
“Maybe,” Leon says. “At least I wouldn’t have to keep filling in the blanks myself.”
She tilts her head, watching him. “You’re good at filling in blanks, Leon. You always were.”
“That’s not a compliment,” he fires back.
“I know.” Her lips curve into that infuriatingly calm smile. “But if you must know… I was busy not getting killed. Which, as you can imagine, takes up a lot of time.” Something flickers in his expression — something she can’t quite name. It makes her uneasy. “Oh, don’t look like that, Leon — it’s very common in our profession to evade death. You should know.”
He doesn’t say anything. “Where were you in the past six years, then?”
“Oh, here and there,” she smirks. Annoying Leon is quickly becoming an outworldly entertainment for her. And it’s so easy, too.
“You’re insufferable,” Leon scoffs. “If you weren’t going to answer my questions, what the hell are we even doing here?”
“Maybe if you were asking better questions, rookie.”
“Don’t call me that,” he spits the words, annoyed.
“You know for someone who claims to have changed, you are still asking way too many questions.”
“And you’re still dodging every answer.”
“I answered your first question, didn’t I?” Ada purrs, licking her lower lip. “Don’t I get a question?”
Leon’s jaw works as if he’s chewing over whether giving her that courtesy is worth the trouble. Finally, he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms.
“Fine. You get one.”
Ada smiles like a cat who’s just been handed the keys to the canary cage. “Only one? That’s hardly fair.”
“You’re lucky you’re getting that,” Leon says flatly.
She pretends to think for a moment, swirling her Manhattan as if the answer might rise from the amber depths. Then she looks him dead in the eye. “Do you trust me?”
Something clicks in his jaw — she doesn’t know if it’s a flash of anger, annoyance or simply confusion. Leon doesn’t move — for a few seconds, he doesn’t so much as blink. Ada sees the muscles in his arms straining, she suspects she can even see his heart pushing and pounding itself against his ribcage. He doesn’t say anything. The jazz hums on, people laugh at the bar, but here at their table the air turns razor-thin. “See? Not so easy to answer questions now, is it?”
“How did you survive Raccoon City?” Leon ignores her jab — and her question — and jumps right into his next inquiry. Oh, Leon — he never learns.
“Is it important how I survived or that I survived it?” Ada sighs, swirling her drink around her glass before taking another sip. “Think of better questions, handsome or I’ll just start getting bored.”
“What do you want me to ask, Ada?” he sighs in frustration, shaking his head. “Even my questions are unworthy now? Like I was? You go six years without contacting me, letting me think you’re dead and then you show up and steal — like always and what am I supposed to have? The right questions?” His anger is a thing of its own — alive and solid. A presence looming between them. To him, it seems, this isn’t a game. His rage is tangible as he adds, “Fine. Here is a question for you, Ada. What did you do with the Amber? Is that good enough for you?”
“It’s been taken care of,” Ada clicks her tongue.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t see an outbreak, do you, Agent Kennedy?” she can’t help the cold tone — she can’t help that sometimes, she gets angry at him, too. She doesn’t know what she expected when she showed up — or when she thought to set up a meeting like this — but it wasn’t this. Angry and crooked and wrong. “That’s what it means — it’s been taken care of.”
It seems to put Leon in his place — perhaps it’s the bite that her words have or the icy answer she has for him. Whatever it is, Ada is grateful for the fact that he settles down and takes a sip of drink, finishing it in one final swig. “Why did you want to meet me?” he asks at last.
Ada points at the waitress to bring him another drink.
Why, indeed? Did she miss him? She couldn’t possibly. It’s been a long time since she’d rid herself of such sentimentalities. She doesn’t miss people — she doesn’t grow attached enough to miss somebody. Perhaps she was curious — perhaps it was a small mercy she was willing to show; a gesture of benevolence.
Perhaps it was just because she wanted to see him.
But Ada has never been the one to offer the truth to anyone. “I knew you’d have questions,” she shrugs. “I thought it was only common courtesy to give you the chance to get them out.”
“How well you’ve been answering them, too,” Leon rolls his eyes.
“Is that sarcasm, rookie?” Ada smirks as the young girl from earlier gives Leon his old-man drink. He thanks her quietly.
“Why did you let me think you were dead for six year?” Leon asks, apparently having no intentions of letting this go. Ada sighs.
“You’re nothing if not insistent,” she shakes her head, finishing her own drink. She shouldn’t have one more — she doesn’t want to lose her edge, after all.
“You’re nothing if not slippery.”
“What good would it do you if you knew I was alive?” Ada asks, the edge of annoyance sneaking into her tone. Why can’t he live well-enough alone?
Leon doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw works, his fingers tightening on the glass until the faint scrape of skin against condensation is the loudest sound between them. He’s not looking at her, not exactly — more like he’s studying the space between her eyes, as though the right angle might finally reveal whatever truth she keeps locked away, like he can see into her brain, seeing the dangerous thoughts circling there. She has to fight not to fidget despite everything.
“It would’ve mattered,” he says finally, voice low, rough. “You think it wouldn’t, but it would’ve. At least I’d have known you were out there. That I didn’t just—” He stops himself, swallows the rest of it.
Ada tilts her head, watching him the way a cat might watch a bird too far away to catch. “Didn’t just what?”
Leon’s lips twitch like he’s going to bite back again, but something about her tone must cut deeper than he expected. “Didn’t just lose everyone. That I did not fail to save anyone.”
For the briefest moment, Ada’s composure cracks. Not enough for him to see — she’s too careful for that — but enough that she feels the weight in her chest shift. That same heaviness that had dragged her here tonight in the first place. She smooths it over with a smile, one so faint it’s almost convincing.
“You’re making fun of me,” Leon shakes his head. “I know that it’s stupid. You don’t have to throw it in my face. I know that you think it’s — fuck, it just would’ve mattered, alright?” Ada can lean into that — she can shield herself by going off what he’s saying, using his own words to escape from having to answer him. But the look on his face — the flush of embarrassment and the admission.
Fuck, maybe he is rubbing off on her.
“I didn’t tell you because I thought that would be safer for you,” she finds the words are out of her before she can even taste them, mull them over, construct them in better ways. “I thought you had forgotten about me — and Raccoon City. I didn’t see how digging up skeletons would do you any good.” It’s as honest an answer as she can give him — the closest she can come to the words that are lodged in her chest — the admission he wants to hear.
It’s up to him to decide whether it’s enough or not.
Leon’s gaze lingers on her for a beat too long, the noise of the bar swelling around them like static. Ada doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just lets the tension stretch taut between them until she can almost hear it hum.
For a second, she thinks he might say something real. Something dangerous.
Instead, he leans back in his chair and huffs out a breath that could almost be a laugh. “Safer for me. Right. That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it?”
She doesn’t know the tinge she feels in her chest is annoyance or something bruised deeper — whatever it is, it doesn’t leave a good taste in her mouth. Her eyes flicker to the empty glass in front of herself, wishing she could forego her rule for just one more sip of alcohol. Simply to occupy herself, really. How can a meeting you have planned leave you so deeply unsatisfied? She doesn’t want to be there. She’s so bored with this entire ordeal, entirely too unhappy with how Leon is acting.
“Well,” she sighs, flicking her eyes back up so they bore in Leon’s face. “Consider this your catch-up, rookie.” She stands, taking a couple of bucks from her wallet and putting them on the table. “The drinks are on me.”
She walks out.
Leon doesn’t ask her to stay. He doesn’t stop her, doesn’t call her name when she turns toward the door. But she feels him watching, the weight of it following her out into the city. His gaze and the masterful saxophone melody.
—
She has to admit that being a free agent provides more fun except that now she has to book her flights herself and the hotel rooms don’t just spring up — she has to reserve those in advance, too.
It’s nice because it gives her a chance to choose her own view.
Today, she has all of Lisbon to enjoy.
A job well-done means a card she can use freely and she must admit, she is very good at getting things done. So she allows herself to indulge.
The hotel balcony is narrow, the kind meant for smoking a quick cigarette rather than lingering, but she leans against the railing anyway, hair loose, glass of red balanced in one hand. Lisbon at dusk is a watercolor — rooftops in shades of terracotta, the river bleeding gold under the last of the sun.
She lets herself enjoy it for all of ten minutes before the itch sets in. It’s a thing of the past — one that she has grown accustomed to. She can’t stay still — if there is not something occupying her every waking moment, she grows restless. Some nights, she can get it under control — she can sneak under a comfortable blanket and allow herself to enjoy the quieter moments of life.
Some nights, she cannot.
She suspects tonight is the latter. She already misses the adrenaline rush of the job coursing through her veins and the air of the hotel seems to stay still.
And it’s her birthday. It’s never good to stay in one place on one’s birthday now, is it?
It’s part of her list — the date. List of things that she remembers from her life before the wars — before The Organization and backstabbing and spying. From when she was a little girl.
- She was born on November 13th, 1974.
She doesn’t know why she remembers the date so clearly. She likes to think it’s because every year, her family would throw her a party. Something small — something that symbolized something for their small clan. For their eyes only.
Perhaps her mother would bake a cake — a vanilla sponge cake with strawberry jam filling and a chocolate glaze and she would argue that she likes sour things better and she’d laugh and promise her that next year, the filling shall be sour cherry. She’d ask her to keep the chocolate, though. She enjoys the taste of cacao. Perhaps her father would get a gift — a small hairpin that he could afford, or a tee-shirt imported from overseas that he paid a hefty price for because it’s her birthday. Maybe they had traditions — they would sing her the birthday song and rock her in their arms. Perhaps they played a record on the gramophone and moved to it, dancing around their living room.
She hopes that she remembers because of those memories buried in her subconscious, somewhere deep and unreachable, that make the memory of the day shine bright, not forgotten even when everything else is.
Or maybe today is not her birthday at all but a date that bears no significance and the importance of it — the way it shines through in her mind — comes only from wishful thinking. Whatever it is — choice or the truth — she celebrates this day as the day she was born.
Back when she was younger and still in training, she would sneak into the kitchen and find an unattended cupcake and she would light a match and put it on the cake and blow it. When Alina came into her life, they’d celebrate together — hold each other's hands as she whispered, “happy birthday to you, Meilin, happy birthday to you,” in her ears in her soft, sing-song-like voice and she’d blow the match. When she was old enough to be able to afford a cake and candles, she got herself a vanilla sponge cake with strawberry jam filling and chocolate buttercream. She’d put one candle on it and she’d blow it.
In the recent years, there’s been instances that she’s let the day pass her by — a mission getting in the way or simply the fact that she’s lost track of the days, missing November entirely. That’s how she missed her thirtieth birthday — she lost track of days and by the time she realized, the birthday had passed her by.
It’s a shame, too — they say your thirtieth is supposed to be special.
Nevertheless, she can make her thirty-first special. She’s high on success — a young, attractive woman of thirty one in one of the most beautiful places in the world, able to get anything the world has to offer.
So she gets out of the hotel robes, puts on a red dress, a lipstick matching it and walks out. “Indo a algum lugar, senhorita?” the friendly old man in the reception asks as she gives him her room key.
“Sim,” she smiles at him and for some reason, she adds, “é meu aniversário.”
He smiles. “Ah, feliz aniversário, senhorita.”
“Obrigado,” she replies, walking out.
The city wraps itself around her as she steps into the Lisbon night — cool air scented with salt and street food, distant music weaving from a nearby plaza where late-night dancers still move to fado.
Ada walks without purpose, letting the cobblestones guide her through the quiet pulse of the old city. The red dress brushes softly against her skin, the color a silent declaration against the darkening sky. She fixes her coat, wrapping it tighter around herself to keep the cool air of November in Lisbon away
She knows better than to expect fireworks or confetti. No one will call her tonight or remember the day but herself. And somehow, that feels fitting. That’s the way it ought to be — it’s the way she likes it.
A gentle breeze lifts stray strands of her hair as she pauses on a small bridge overlooking the river. Lights twinkle in the water like scattered stars — fragile, fleeting.
She wonders what she should do.
She can go dancing — find an unsuspecting partner that will twirl her around the room and whisper sweet nothings and dirty flirtations into her ear. After, if she felt like it, she could take them back to her room or follow them to their house. Even a dark corner, an empty alley would suffice. She would let them touch her but only in the ways that she pleases and she’ll forever remember them as the stranger Lisbon offered her as a birthday present.
Or she can lounge at one of the restaurants — light up a cigarette and let it burn to ashes as she eats a delicacy. Tell the waiter that it’s her birthday so they would sing her ‘happy birthday’ and somewhere deep inside pity the girl in the red that has no date. But she would laugh them off and tell them that she’s waiting for her husband. Any moment now, he’ll show up — it’s just that he’s getting a surprise ready and he’ told her to wait in this place. After fifteen minutes and a drink, she’ll throw herself on the arm of an unsuspecting, attractive young man and tell him to keep walking. A block away, she’ll thank him and send him on his way with a kiss. Maybe he won’t let her go — maybe he’ll take her out to eat and they’ll have some fun.
Another option would be the flea market. The charming little place just two streets away where old ladies and gentlemen bring home-made street food and antiques that they can no longer keep paired with useful, lovely souvenirs from the city and sell them to tourists and locals alike. She can get some bifanas and indulge in some sweet treats after. She can purchase a candle and blow it without any cakes.
She can stay here, too — look at the sky all night long and get lost in the reflections of the stars on the still water and shiver once in a while as the cold breeze pokes through the warmth her jacket offers.
She decides to go with the third option. It’s less deceitful — more fitting for a date that’s a beacon of the past.
The flea market is alive with soft murmurs and the clinking of old china, the mingled smells of fried dough and fresh herbs curling through the crisp November air. Strings of fairy lights drape between stalls, casting a golden haze over piles of worn leather books, delicate porcelain figurines, and faded photographs that somehow feel like echoes of forgotten lives.
Ada walks slowly, fingers grazing the edges of postcards and trinkets, feeling the rough textures beneath her touch. An old man sells candles in glass jars — fragrant with lavender and cinnamon — and she pauses, picking up a small, pale yellow one. She turns it over in her hands, the glass cool and smooth, then smiles faintly. The man notices her lingering attention, the way she eyes the rest of the display.
The candles are beautiful — colors and scents she didn’t imagine existed before. Aromas that carry the weight of the city’s history — of the man selling them. “Uma vela para você, senhorita?” the man asks, pointing to the candle she’s still holding. She imagines a red candle would be more, fitting, no? Matching her dress and all. But before she can reply, the man goes on. “Sabe, minha esposa fez essa vela, senhorita. Ela adora fazer velas. Acho que seu marido também gostaria muito dessa. O amarelo tem cheiro de margarida. Minha esposa cultivava margaridas em nosso jardim e ela se inspirou.”
She doesn’t bother telling him that she doesn’t have a husband — that tonight is her birthday and she’s alone. Instead, she lets herself enjoy the chatter of a man that’s clearly so in love with his wife that he uses any chance to mention her. “E esse aqui?” she asks, picking up a red candle.
“Rosas, senhorita!” the man smiles.
“Eu vou levar os dois,” she says, handing the man the candles as she takes out her wallet, paying him with exact change, putting the candles he hands him in her bag.
“Tenha uma boa noite, senhorita,” he tips his hat after counting the money, slipping it into his pocket, and moves on to the next tourist, welcoming them with broken English. Ada moves on.
The smell of food lingers in the air, so inviting that Ada finds herself gravitating towards a food stall a few steps forward. The owner is an old lady with wrinkles around her mouth, under her eyes, etched deeply in her forehead.
For a second, she wonders what she’ll do when she turns her age — if she manages to turn her age. Would she still be selling information for survival? Surely not — by then, her joints will lose the ability to swing from building to building, her fingers will grip a gun no longer. She’ll be rendered useless to the people that pay her. Maybe then, she’ll start a food stall like her.
Ada steps closer to the stall. The old woman’s hands move deftly, folding savory pastries and arranging small plates of food with a practiced grace. Steam rises from a pot nearby, curling like ghosts in the cold air.
The scent of freshly fried dough and herbs wraps around Ada like a faint promise. The woman looks up, her eyes sharp beneath the hood of her coat.
“Boa noite, senhorita. Quer provar algo?” she asks, voice rough but kind.
Ada nods. “Sim, por favor. Algo típico.”
The woman smiles and hands her a small paper cone filled with bifanas — tender pork sandwiches, seasoned and spiced, tucked into soft rolls.
Ada bites into one, the salty richness filling her senses. For a moment, the hard edges of her life soften. Here, among these simple pleasures and the warmth of the old woman’s presence, she is not a shadow, a spy, a ghost. She is just a woman savoring her birthday.
The woman watches her with something like curiosity, or perhaps recognition. “Você está sozinha esta noite?” she asks gently.
Ada considers answering honestly. She is alone most nights. Instead, she shakes her head with a small smile. “Não, esperando alguém.”
“Ele é um idiota se te faz esperar,” she says, wiggling her eyebrow like she’s letting Ada in on a secret. It makes her laugh. “você não vai comprar nada para ele?”
“Ele é um idiota, ele merece comida deliciosa, senhora?” she plays along, laughing softly, the sound light and a little fragile in the cool night air. The old woman smiles warmly, as if sharing a quiet understanding that transcends words. Ada folds the last bite of bifana into her mouth, savoring the moment before adding, “Talvez eu traga algo para ele amanhã.”
“Estarei esperando por você e sua amiga, senhorita,” she beams at her.
Ada thanks her before paying and moving on. She walks around until the hours slip by, standing to chat with some sellers that seem grateful that someone is indulging them enough to listen to them, some of them seem crossed that she’s not buying anything so she purchases a small item — a box of matches, a small sweet treat, a compact mirror.
Eventually, even the market gets wary of staying open.
The strings of fairy lights begin to flicker, casting softer, wavering glows over the emptying stalls. The murmur of voices fades into whispers, then silence. Ada feels the pull of the night, the gentle reminder that time doesn’t pause for birthdays or regrets.
She pulls her coat tighter around herself, the cool November air biting at her exposed neck despite the warmth in her chest. The red dress, once a bold statement, now feels like a quiet promise made just to herself.
Her fingers close around the small paper bag with the candles inside. She wonders briefly where she’ll light them — in the hotel room? On the balcony overlooking the river? Or maybe in some quiet corner of the city, somewhere no one will see but the stars. She glances at her watch. 23:47.
Soon, her birthday will be over and the candles will lose their meaning.
It’s an impulsive thought when she turns to the couple that are passing her by — two boys holding each other’s arms tenderly, leaning into each other while one them whispers something that makes the other laugh. “Com licença, você tem um isqueiro?” she asks. They boys stop, exchanging confused look before one of them hums, reaching into his pocket and pulls out a lighter.
“Obrigado,” she smiles, accepting the lighter and pulling out the red candle — she thinks, amused, that the yellow one ought to be for her ‘husband’ — and lighting it. “Muito obrigado,” she hands him the lighter back.
“De nada,” the boy waves her off before leaning into his boyfriend once more, walking away.
She looks at the lit candle in front of her, the fire flickering in the darkness. It’s warm — like a small beating heart. She doesn’t believe in wishes anymore — in someone that looks out for you and hears your pleas. She doesn’t much entertain the idea of wishing before blowing out the candle but the city is alive and well and it’s making her a bit sentimental.
She closes her eyes, trying to look for a wish.
Ada’s breath forms a mist in the chill air as she holds the candle steady, the small flame trembling in the night breeze. She lets her thoughts drift, untethered — memories and hopes tangled together like the cobblestones beneath her feet.
She has no wishes. She has too many of them. Both at the same time — wishes that she won’t speak into life, won’t even let her own mind dwell on. Wishes that even a magic candle can’t grant — wishes that transcend this life and perhaps the next. To her logical mind, she has no wishes. Anything she can achieve in this life, she already has.
In another life, perhaps she would’ve wished for a family. For a husband that the sellers wouldn’t stop to mention, for a partner like the one the boy was leaning into, for a wife and the ability to cook for her. In another life, perhaps she would’ve wished for the success of a company she was the head of, or the success of a book she had written. In another life, perhaps she would’ve wished for a quick recovery for her old father who was in the hospital or that her mother’s flight would land safely in the airport for her to pick up. In another life, perhaps she would’ve wished for a picket fence, a ranch, kids. In this life, she can have none of the above.
So instead, she wishes to reach the age of the old lady. And that by then, she’d have a reason to live. A small life — or a big one.
She opens her eyes, the flame still flickering, and smiles faintly. No grand declarations, no desperate pleas — just the steady glow of a candle in the night.
She lets the flame burn for a few more seconds, then carefully closes it with a gentle pinch of her fingers. The light disappears, but the warmth remains.
Ada slips the candle back into its glass jar and tucks it safely in her bag alongside the yellow one.
The city hums around her — quiet now, patient, waiting.
Bigger than her and everything she’s ever known.
—
Thanksgiving has never held anything special for her. To be frank, she’s never celebrated it. This Thanksgiving brings her to Washington DC. She’s just wrapped up a hand-off and her flight doesn’t depart until early hours of the morning and the hotels are booked and busy. Or that’s what she tells herself — a good enough excuse that gives her reason to wander toward the street she knows all too well by now.
Leon won’t be home, she tells herself, he has friends to celebrate with. Connections, a root.
So she takes the route she’s taken only two times before this and still is familiar. Perhaps it’s simply the fact that she has no one else that she knows — truly has known for an extended period of time — that she always finds herself gravitating towards Leon over and over again. Or perhaps it’s something buried far beneath that she doesn’t want to dig up.
Whatever it is, climbing up the side of his building doesn’t take much effort. His lights are off, the curtains drawn. Perhaps he’s travelling for the Thanksgiving weekend — watching the NFL game with friends somewhere. She never quite figured out how American football works — the touchdowns and the scoring is all very confusing so it’s for the better that she doesn’t much care for Thanksgiving and the games they play on.
Picking up his lock is easy as ever but there’s another latch added — perhaps it’s his caution now that he knows Ada is alive. If that’s the case, he’s naive to think that it can keep her away. Inside, the house is still — empty — just like all the other times she’s walked through the threshold of the window. The cactus is now bigger and to her surprise, another pot is added next to it — small and bearing a similar looking plant.
“Hey,” she greets the pots. “Did you miss me? You found a friend, huh?” The cactus stares back at her but the breeze that blows through the window she’s left open behind her makes its thorns move slightly and she chooses to take that as ‘yes’ — to both questions.
Ada steps further inside, the faint scent of dust and lingering warmth from sunlight filtering through the drawn curtains wrapping around the quiet space. She opens the fridge. The six-pack is still there — or rather a new one has replaced it, another brand Leon must be trying out — but this time, there are some protein options in it — chicken breast and steak. She sees fruit — are those apples? — and yogurt. Someone must’ve gone shopping, she thinks with a smirk, letting it close again.
She walks into the living room. It’s much the same — doesn’t Leon get bored? If it were her place, she’d change the decorations at least twice a year — perhaps exchanged the grey couch with a light brown or a cream one, put a couple of apartment plants in the corner closer to the window, and swapped that goddamn ugly ‘artwork’ (and she’s using that term loosely) with a real artist’s work.
Still, despite the unflattering look of the apartment, the couch seems comfortable. And Leon won’t be home tonight, she doesn’t think.
Ada slides down onto the grey couch, the fabric cool against her skin. The faint hum of the city outside sneaks in through the open window, mixing with the subtle creaks and sighs of the old building settling into the night. She pulls her jacket tighter around her. The apartment is too quiet, too still. And the remote controller is close — she just has to reach for it and turn on the television and indulge in something she hasn’t done in years: watching tv.
She does because it’s not like Leon will run surveillance on his apartment and later discover her fingerprints all over the place. She’ll find something to indulge in for a few hours and then she’ll have to leave for the airport anyway. No harm, no foul. It also helps that the camera above his television has been removed — maybe it was planted there by the government and not Leon or maybe he’s decided that adding a puny second lock warrants dropping the cameras.
She flips through the channels until she finds a re-run of MASH.
She’s never seen an episode before though she’s heard that it’s very popular. She settles in for an episode. And then another. By the third episode, her stomach is growling and her mind reminds her that she hasn’t had dinner or lunch that day. Her breakfast was a bagel and black coffee. So it’s only natural that she needs to eat something.
Her eyes flicker to the kitchen involuntarily. She’s being reckless, she knows that. Her thoughts are reckless. She shouldn’t make herself comfortable in Leon’s apartment — she doesn’t belong there. She shouldn’t allow him to know that she was ever here — a ghost in his space, that’s all she has to be.
But what’s the worst that can happen? He already knows that she’s alive so it wouldn’t blow her cover. He would perhaps reinforce the locks but no lock has ever kept Ada from a place. He’ll change apartments? Now, that seems farfetched. He’d never bother with that much effort simply because Ada had managed to sneak into his apartment now, would he?
He would. Perhaps. He hates her.
But that’s a problem for future Leon — and future Ada.
Right now, she’s starving and it would be so easy to order some food. Or roam his cupboards to find something.
She doesn’t know how to cook so she forgoes anything that begs for preparation. That rules out his instant ramen collection — rather impressive, different and honestly concerning if that’s how much instant noodles he’s having — and the things in his fridge. It’s after a little looking around that she locates a bag of chips and a good brand of wine. She pours herself some, taking the bag of the chips to the couch.
She’s missed the plot of the episode but she still watches it through before flipping the channels and this time, settling on a paid channel — he pays for his channels? How can a public servant afford such extravagant endeavors? — and watching an old Japanese horror movie. Somewhere in between jumpscares and the explanations, her eyes get heavy.
Perhaps it’s the wine or the fact that she’s been up since five in the morning and hasn’t slept properly in… god, she doesn’t even know. Perhaps it’s the warmth of the couch and that for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel unsafe in the four walls of an apartment that’s not hers. Whatever it is, her eyes start to drift and it gets more difficult to open them each time she blinks.
Until she doesn’t.
Until she lets sleep devour her whole, the faint sound of screaming on the television.
That’s not how they scream, she thinks faintly before surrendering, I’ve heard them scream.
—
She startles awake, her heart beating in her mouth, the visions in her head so clear. In her nightmare, she was young — back in that field she remembers faintly from her childhood, the tall grass whispering secrets to the wind, the sun low on the horizon like a bleeding wound. She could hear the screams — sharp, ragged, desperate — but this time they weren’t on the television. They were inside her, echoing through the hollow spaces she’d tried so hard to forget.
For a moment, Ada lies still, sweat cooling on her skin, breath shallow and quick. The faint sound of the television running in the background slowly swims into her conscious. She’s not at some hotel down the road. Fuck — fuck. What time is it? She grabs for her phone, flipping it open to see 3:57 on it. Fuck.
She forces herself to sit on the couch, not quite remembering last night. The empty bag of chips is on the ground, the television showing a movie she doesn’t quite recognize. Fumbling for the remote controller, she turns it off.
Ada breathes out slowly, the knot of panic in her chest loosening just a little. She runs a hand through her hair, her fingers catching on damp strands. She’s overstayed her welcome — she never meant to fall asleep let alone be startled awake by a nightmare in Leon’s apartment. It’s not her place — she wanted to abuse some wine and take advantage of a bag of chips he wouldn’t miss.
This is… too domestic, for some reason. The sort of intimacy they have never agreed to share. Even if Leon is unaware it’s even happening.
She rubs her face, pressing the heel of her palm against her eyes. A few weak eyelashes cling to her skin when she looks down again. She wipes them on her pants, standing up. She washes the glass of wine, dries it and puts it back in the cabinet. The bag of chips is shoved into the trashcan next. The cactus hasn’t been watered if the dry soil is any indication but she hasn’t stooped to that level of sentimentality as to water it. It would be a too obvious give-away.
“I’m sorry,” she apologises nonetheless. “I’m sure you’ll endure that, too.” Cacti are stubborn plants — they don’t die. They survive even on the littlest amount of water and even after they look dead, they still rise if someone cares enough to resuscitate them. She’s glad Leon has them — perhaps they will remind him to take care of himself even if her words don’t.
She glances back one last time before she slips out through the windowsill. Everything looks as it did when she walked in. No one else will know she was here. No footprints left behind, no whispers in the dust. Only the faint scent of wine and a bag of chips that he thinks he’s misplaced or eaten and can’t seem to remember.
She closes the window quietly, locking it behind her, and disappears down the fire escape just as the city begins to stir awake.
Leon won’t come home to anything more than an empty apartment and a slightly askew remote controller on the table against his couch — something that he probably won’t even notice.
———
Leon is the kind of guy that lives for the overtime or so his colleagues think. So on Thanksgiving when everyone tries to slip away quickly and abandon the DSO in favor of their warm houses and welcoming friends, he accepts their work loads — “you’re a god sent, Leon,” some say while handing their files. “My hero,” some others say as they put on their jackets. He’s neither a ‘god sent’ nor a ‘hero’. He’s just… well, fucked-up. Traumatized is what his government-issued therapist calls him — suffering from PTSD.
Whatever he is, he stays behind until two in the morning to finish up their paperworks, and file the complaints away. Some day — when he needs a vacation or two to get drunk and forget about his miserable life — he’ll call in a chit and use the fact that he covered for them on Thanksgiving. Like he has covered for a bunch of them on Christmas Eve — and then was sent home by Hunnigen, with strict order to not come back until after New Year.
He spent that Christmas getting drunk and watching Home Alone except that he only focused on the drink and not the shenanigans. Back when he was younger, his mother used to drag him to church for Christmas — when everyone was having warm family dinners and shared Christmas traditions, they were… rooting for Jesus, he guesses? He never learned much of the prayers — he just acted like he prayed, all solemn, pressing his hands together as he looked up at… God?
When he’s finally assured that there is no more work to be done — much to his chagrin — he packs his shit (which means he makes sure his wallet is still in his pocket next to his gun and his keys are in his jacket and walks out the DSO building. The streets are quiet and his bike is neatly parked where he put it that morning.
It’s his favorite part of the day — riding back to his apartment when the streets are nearly empty and the wind whooshes through his hair.
The corridor outside his apartment smells faintly of fried turkey and cinnamon, ghosts of the festivities he didn’t attend. Leon juggles the keys in his hand, his shoulders stiff from hours hunched over a desk. The second latch clicks open, and he pushes the door inward quietly out of habit.
He’s halfway to dropping his jacket when he freezes.
The TV flickers dimly in the corner, casting pale light over the grey couch. Someone’s in his house and he doesn’t fucking remember inviting guests over to a party he wasn’t attending. His hand slowly reaches for his gun, his movements becoming stealth almost like a habit — a mask he can easily slip on and snap into; zombie killing mode.
He takes off his boots carefully, making sure that he doesn’t make a sound as he moves into the living room and the couch comes into his vision. On it, a person is sprawled. Not just any person.
Ada.
The recognition is instant — like his brain knows her before his eyes even locate her. She looks the same as he last saw her in that jazz bar except that now Ada is there — sprawled on her side, hair mussed, one arm draped over the cushion, the other still loosely holding a now-empty wine glass. An opened bag of chips sits abandoned on the coffee table, crumbs dusting the upholstery. Her chest rises and falls in the slow rhythm of deep, unguarded sleep. In his apartment. On his couch. In front of his television.
He looks around — the door was locked when he came in so unless she has locked it behind herself, he doesn’t think that it was her opening. A soft breeze travels past him and his eyes snap to the kitchen. The window that he’s certain he had closed and locked is now open, his curtains moving each time the air outside does.
Leon’s jaw tightens.
He doesn’t move at first — years of fieldwork have taught him that stillness can be the sharpest weapon. He just stands there, letting the ambient noise of the city filter in through that cracked window, the faint metallic tang of cold night air mixing with the ghost of Ada’s perfume.
She didn’t just break in. She settled in. That’s the part that gets him — not the trespassing, not the brazen ease of it, but the quiet confidence in her posture. As if she knew she could. As if she’s done it before.
Leon steps toward the window first, checking the latch. It’s been neatly tampered with — no splintered wood, no sloppy pry marks. Surgical. Typical Ada.
He doesn’t close it, locking it back up so that it would be evident that he’s been the witness to her break-in. Instead, he carefully walks back to his living room, nearing the couch with the same carefulness that he does monsters he doesn’t want to disturb. She looks… younger when she’s asleep. Like the girl he met seven years ago under Raccoon City — the one he trusted.
Well, to be precise, the one that broke his trust.
But she doesn’t look peaceful — her guard isn’t down even in her sleep. For a second, Leon thinks that maybe she’s playing him; maybe it’s an act. Perhaps—
Fuck. Has she snooped in his room? Is that why she’s here? To sneak around his room and find some dirty little secret that he’s keeping? He doesn’t have many of them but knowing Ada, she’ll make something up on her own just to mess with him.
He walks to the bedroom. The lock he installed months ago is still in place. No scratch marks, no tampered latch. Whatever she came here for, it wasn’t to dig through his private things. That shouldn’t mean anything to him, but somehow it does.
He turns back to look at her. The logical thing would be to wake her up — to make her sit there and explain to him the reason she’s here. To be angry with her for sneaking in, for intruding on his life and his privacy, to being so cruel as to trespass into his life whenever she pleases. To ask her why she keeps slipping into his life like this — uninvited, unannounced, and impossible to turn away.
But he doesn’t find it in himself to do that — whatever rage he had inside has vanished. In its place is… exhaustion.
So instead of doing that, he picks up his jacket and his boots and walks to his own room. He unlocks the door, slips inside wordlessly and throws his jacket on the floor. He should do his routine — take off his clothes and take a shower and then sleep. But he can’t — instead of doing that, he sits on the ground, leaning against the door, listening.
He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. For her to wake up and do whatever she came here to do? What if she came to do what she’s doing? Watch TV and eat chips and steal his wine?
The thought makes himself chuckle — it’s the type of conclusion his old self would draw. Unassuming and naive. Ada Wong always has an ulterior motive — a force unknown to him that drives her to do things.
He lets his head fall back against the door with a muted thud. The sound is dull, swallowed by the thick quiet of his apartment. He stares at the ceiling, tracing the faint spiderweb of cracks he’s been meaning to fix for months. Ada’s perfume still lingers faintly in the air even from here, threading through the wood and paint as if it’s seeped into the place itself.
He closes his eyes, listening for movement. For the shuffle of feet. The faint click of a glass being set down. For the sound of her voice — sharp, cool, maybe a little mocking — cutting through the dark to let him know she’s awake.
Nothing.
The TV in the other room hums on, low and steady. A sitcom laugh track filters through the walls, and for a second, the absurdity of it presses against him. Ada Wong, international spy and professional disaster, sprawled out on his couch with a bag of chips, leaving the TV on like she’s just another insomniac neighbor killing time.
His mind keeps turning over the same useless questions. Why here? Why now? If she wanted something, she could’ve found a dozen cleaner, quieter ways to get it. If she wanted him, she would’ve knocked — no, she wouldn’t have knocked. She never knocks.
He’s halfway through telling himself he doesn’t care when his body betrays him, standing on its own. His feet make almost no sound as he unlocks the door again, opening it just enough to look back into the living room.
She hasn’t moved. The glass still dangles loosely from her fingers, the wine stains inside dried to a dark, sticky smear. The TV’s light paints her in flickers, illuminating the faint shadows under her eyes.
Leon realizes, with an uncomfortable twist in his gut, that she’s not faking it. She’s not lying in wait. Ada Wong — for reasons he can’t begin to guess — came here to sleep.
And maybe, just maybe, she came here because it was the only place she thought she could.
He shuts the door again, more quietly this time. His back finds the wall, and he sinks down until he’s sitting on the floor again. The old instincts scream at him to stay sharp, to keep one hand near his gun, to be ready for whatever she’s really here for.
But another part of him — the part that’s bone-deep tired, the part that’s sick of everyone’s angles and masks — just lets her stay. For as long as she wants.
Did she stay because he thought he wouldn’t come home? Because she thought he’d be out celebrating the holiday? Did she come here because she was lonely? Because she was thinking of him?
The same question she asked him all those months ago echoes in his head, this time directed at her — did she miss him?
Because even as she said the words with a teasing smirk, he knew that they were true. He missed her — all those months ago and now. Even as she is in his apartment, merely feet away from him, he misses her.
If he had been out celebrating and wouldn’t have come home in the middle of the night to find her, would he be able to tell that she’d been here at all? Probably not. She doesn’t leave a trace behind — ever. She vanishes in a way that you doubt she even was real — unsure of the fact that you didn’t make her up in your mind. But he wasn’t out celebrating — and he’s seen her.
And she’s beautiful.
God, he’s a fool. He’s a goddamn, fucking fool.
He scrubs a hand over his face, the rough drag of his palm grounding him. There’s no scenario in which this is smart — letting her stay, letting her into his space, into the quiet parts of his night. But some part of him — the same stubborn, reckless part that’s survived things he shouldn’t have — is done fighting it.
He leans his head back again, eyes half-lidded, letting the distant murmur of the TV and the soft cadence of her breathing fill the apartment. It’s… unsettling how easy it is to picture this as normal. To imagine her as someone who just shows up after a long day, drops her shoes by the door, and crashes on his couch because she’s safe here.
The thought digs into him in a way no bullet ever could.
He hates her — he’s told her as much back then. Not in so many words but that must’ve been her take-away to have stayed away all this while. But no, Ada Wong doesn’t have any respect for anyone’s words and feelings, least of all his. She stayed away because she wanted to not because she was hurt by him. He never had the ability to hurt her. Leon is the fool whose every whim hung onto her, a lap dog waiting to see what she ordered.
But if that’s the case, why is she here now? Even the most pessimistic part of Leon — the part that’s roaring his head now and screaming at him to not be fooled by her again — can’t justify the action, the way she’s lingered behind, asleep like she feels… protected here. Like she trusts him.
Do you trust me? She asked all those months ago and he didn’t give an answer. He didn’t have one back then — still doesn’t. He trusts her to save his life — to rescue him if he’s on the verge of dying because it’s something she’s done time and time again. But would she do the same if he got in the way of her mission? If saving him would mean failing?
It’s a question whose answer he doesn’t want to find out.
He wonders now that if that was the right question she was referring to that night — if he should’ve asked ‘do you trust me?’ like she had. He wonders if her answer would’ve been ‘yes’.
Something shifts behind his door. A movement. He can hear her ragged breaths through the door. He dares crack it open — soundless and just enough to fit one eyes, to carry the quiet noises she makes.
She’s panting like she’s just been jolted awake from a nightmare. So she has those, too — even Ada doesn’t seem to be immune to nightmares. That makes Leon feel better about his own. He wonders what the nightmare could’ve been about — about Raccoon City like his nightmares are? About Los Illuminados? Or perhaps she’s seen worse things. Things that Leon can’t imagine — things that are haunting her.
It takes a beat or two but then he hears her moving before he sees her. She walks through the apartment, her heels making it clear where she is.
He sees her wash her glass of wine, shove the packet of chips into his trashcan, seemingly deep enough that he wouldn’t notice it missing. The thought brings a smile to his lips — the way at last their roles have switched and now Leon knows something that she doesn’t. She lingers for a second, letting her eyes scan the whole apartment.
Leon holds his breath, praying that her eyes won’t snap his way — or perhaps begging God that it does. When she turns to leave, he doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
“I’m sorry, I know that you’ll endure that, too,” she says, her voice melodic, lacking the rough edge he’s usually used to. For a moment, he thinks she’s talking to him — that somehow, she knows that she’s being watched. But then she doesn’t come back to confront him or address him and in a matter of seconds, the window clicks, once again locked.
Only then does he allow himself to let out the breath he was holding and stand up, fully opening his bedroom door.
He walks to the kitchen. The lock is back in its place like it hadn’t even been tampered with. He makes a mental note to change it. Or perhaps to remove it altogether so next time, she’d have no trouble walking in.
Next time? God, he’s such a sap. There won’t be a next time. Probably not.
He looks at Marty and Barty — two friends sitting on his windowsill next to each other, both of them looking at Leon like they’re judging him. “What?” he asks the cacti, “I am not the one who broke into her house here, okay? I don’t even know where she lives.”
Leon leans against the counter, eyes drifting to the open city beyond the glass. The streetlights below smear orange across the wet pavement, catching on the slow drift of steam rising from a grate. Somewhere far off, a siren wails — too faint to tell if it’s fire, police, or ambulance. He tries to focus on that instead of the fact that the apartment feels… emptier now.
He glances back at the couch. The blanket is still folded over the armrest, untouched. She didn’t try to make herself comfortable — of course she didn’t. Ada never stays long enough anywhere to need comfort.
His boots are still by the door where he left them earlier, before he’d gone all covert-ops in his own apartment. His jacket’s crumpled on the bedroom floor. He should pick them up, do something normal, but his body won’t follow through. Instead, he drifts back toward the couch like a moth testing the edges of a flame.
There’s no warmth left where she’d been lying, but he sits anyway, elbows on his knees. The chips are gone, the glass is washed, the window’s locked. If not for the faint trace of her perfume — still clinging stubbornly to the air — he could almost convince himself he’d imagined it.
Almost.
Leon rubs his thumb along the seam of his jeans, restless. He tries to decide if he’s angry. He should be. Anyone else breaking into his place would’ve been face-down on the carpet before they could touch the remote. But Ada’s different. She always has been. She steps over boundaries like they’re cracks in a sidewalk, never even looking down.
And the worst part? He lets her. Every time.
He sighs, leaning back until his head rests against the couch cushion. His eyes land on the blank patch of ceiling above the TV. He’d meant to hang something there — photos, maybe, or a clock. But time moves strangely in this apartment. Days blur until he’s not sure if it’s been weeks or months since he last thought about it.
She’d looked tired. Really tired. Not the kind you fake to throw someone off, but the kind that creeps into your bones when you’re too used to running. He knows that kind.
Maybe that’s why she came.
His gaze shifts to the window, the same one she slipped through twice tonight. The lock clicks in his memory, the way her voice had when she left. I’m sorry, I know that you’ll endure that, too.
Endure what?
Leon lets the question hang there, unanswered. He knows better than to chase it. Ada never says anything without three layers of meaning, and peeling them back just gets you cut.
He looks at the remote controller, the only thing that’s been held by her on this side of the couch. You saw that, right? He wants to ask it but even he’s not crazy enough to be talking to inanimate objects. You know, unless they’re cacti. He looks down to his feet, still in his socks. Maybe he should turn on the TV and see—
Something catches his eye before he can finish the thought. A yellow thing peeking through. He bends further to pick it up. It’s a candle — small and unsuspecting, smelling of… daisies. It’s not his — or something that he recognizes. It must’ve fallen from her pocket earlier — or at some point in the night. Maybe before he had come home.
Maybe it’s something she’ll come back for — something important. Though he doubts that’ll be the case. If it’s left behind, then it wasn’t important behind. He sighs, turning it over in his hands. There’s something carved on it in a language he doesn’t understand. Not from here, then.
He can throw it out — pretend like it never existed in the first place. He can shove it in a drawer in the kitchen and forget it ever came to pass. Instead of either of those things, he puts on the honey table, the only splash of color in his apartment. For when the electricity goes out, he tells himself, it’ll be more convenient there. Never mind the fact that he always has a flashlight on himself or that the electricity very rarely goes out in Washington.
It’s a lie that’s almost convincing enough — good enough for him.
A yawn escapes him — the sleepless night finally catching up with him. Thank God he’s off duty tomorrow — small mercies and all. He stands up but instead of walking straight to his bedroom, he pulls the blanket from the armrest and lays it over the couch, smoothing it flat. Stupid. Pointless. But maybe if she ever comes back — no, when she comes back — she won’t have to sleep without it.
He catches himself then, jaw tightening. “You’re an idiot, Kennedy,” he mutters.
The cacti still sit on the sill, silent little judges. He flicks the side of Barty’s pot on his way to the bedroom. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I’m making her a key.”
Not yet, anyway.
Leon closes his door but doesn’t lock it this time.