Chapter Text
Leon sat on the edge of a gargoyle that looked far too brooding to be OSHA-compliant.
He took a long drag from a flask of cheap bourbon, the liquid burning a path down his throat that matched the literal burns still stinging under his tactical gear. At fifty-one, he had expected his “most recent mission” to end in a debriefing room or a grave—not a rooftop in a city that looked like Chicago had a goth phase.
He looked down at his hands. They were still steady, despite the massive explosion that should have vaporised him during that final showdown just hours ago. The blast wave had felt less like fire and more like a folding of reality.
Leon ran a hand through his hair—still blonde, though the silver at his temples was winning the war. From a rookie cop in a town that burned to the ground, to a federal agent who had seen every biological horror the world could cook up, he had earned his retirement ten times over.
“Great,” he muttered. “I finally finish the job, the credits should be rolling and instead, I get a sequel in a different dimension. Talk about a lack of creative vision.” He looked up as a giant bat-shaped signal pierced the smoggy clouds.
“And apparently, this place has a theme. Fantastic.”
Leon leaned back against the cold stone, his thumb scrolling through a smartphone that was technically a piece of ghost-tech now. He had spent the first hour after the “incident” using a DSO-encrypted bypass to ping any server he could find.
No Raccoon City. No BSAA. No mentions of the Ashcroft family.
He felt worried for Grace. The girl had her mother Alyssa’s nose for news and her father’s—well, whoever he was—knack for trouble. Alyssa had survived the 1998 Raccoon outbreak as a reporter for the Raccoon Press, dodging zombies in the streets and Leon had promised to keep an eye on her daughter during their most recent mission.
The clock on a nearby bank tower struck midnight.
The heavy silence was shattered by a rhythmic pop-pop-pop of gunfire three blocks over. Leon stood up. He’d already read the online forums about the “Bat-Man.” The locals called it a one-man war, but the articles Leon found suggested a literal cult of personality.
“Working alone, wears a mask, hates guns... sounds like a headache,” Leon muttered, checking his own silver Ghost. Earlier, he’d spent the money on a bottle of bourbon and a cheap jacket to cover his gear. It felt like a bad noir movie, and he was the aging lead. “If this is the ‘Requiem’ for my career, they could have at least picked a place with better weather.”
The bourbon was doing its job.
Leon felt light, almost untethered. He wandered the perimeter of the roof, the cheap jacket he’d bought fluttering in the wind. He found himself smiling—a rare, genuine thing. It was peaceful here. No sirens for bio-hazards, no frantic calls from Hunnigan. Just the city. He turned in a slow circle, admiring the skyline, feeling the hum of the whiskey in his veins.
“Finally... a break,” he chuckled, stepping backward without looking.
His foot found empty air.
He didn’t even have time to curse before a dark shape detached itself from the shadows. An arm wrapped firmly around his midsection, pulling him flush against a suit that felt like high-grade military plating.
Leon gasped, his heart hammering against his ribs as he was stabilized.
“Drinking while perched on a ledge is a quick way to end a life,” the Batman rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. He didn’t let go, his hand steady and warm against Leon’s side. “You should be more careful. The drop from here is fatal.”
Leon leaned back slightly, his eyes tracing the silhouette.
Up close, the “Bat” was breathtakingly huge. He was taller, broader and smelled of peppermint and rain. Well, Leon had faced down Tyrants and survived the most recent mission’s hellfire, but he still felt like a kitten being scruffed by a tiger.
“You’re... really tall,” Leon muttered, his gaze falling to the sheer drop below them. He realised his life was currently resting in this man’s hands. He wanted to offer a witty retort or a thank you, but the alcohol made his tongue heavy. “Batman?”
A faint, barely-there curve touched the corner of the Batman’s mouth.
Leon felt a flush that had nothing to do with the bourbon.
God, I am an idiot, he thought. I am literally staring at the urban legend like a tourist. The Dark Knight didn’t let go immediately, but instead, he used his grip on Leon’s waist to steer him firmly toward the centre of the roof, away from the lethal drop.
The warmth of the man’s hand seeped through Leon’s jacket, steady and grounding.
“I am,” the Bat said. “And last I checked, the GCPD does not issue tactical gear to people who spend their Friday nights falling off buildings. You seem a bit over-equipped for a casual drinker.” He paused, his head tilting in a way that felt almost teasing.
Leon bristled, his ego stinging. He tried to puff out his chest, but his eyes betrayed him, traveling over the sheer expanse of the Batman’s shoulders.
He had always been proud of his own build, thinking he had aged like a vintage bottle of scotch, but this guy was a goddamn fortress. He was clearly younger, but the raw, disciplined power in his frame was undeniable.
How wide are those shoulders? Is that even biologically possible?
Leon wondered, his gaze lingering on the dark chest-plate.
“Are you finished with the inspection?” Batman asked dryly, his voice vibrating with amusement.
Leon jumped, his heart skipping a beat. He immediately slapped a hand over his own mouth, his eyes wide as he realised that he had been caught staring. “I’m not—I don’t—It’s the alcohol!” he blurted out behind his palm. Then, his balance betrayed him again. He swayed forward, and Batman’s other hand came up, steadying him by the shoulder.
Now, Leon was effectively bracketed by the Dark Knight. “I feel... I feel like an idiot,” he mumbled. “Drinking on a roof. Getting caught by the local mascot. It’s pathetic.”
Batman hummed. “Everyone has their reasons for wanting to disappear for a night,” he said, his tone surprisingly soft, almost comforting. “A bad day at the office? A falling out with the higher-ups?”
Leon let out a sharp, wet snort of laughter. “Something like that. Only the office was a biological slaughterhouse and the higher-ups are usually the ones trying to turn the world into a petri dish.” He looked up, his blue eyes glassy as they searched the Bat’s cowl. “You cannot help with that. Unless you have a time machine in that belt.”
“If your company is violating bio-safety protocols, I can ensure the right people see your evidence,” Batman stated, his grip tightening as Leon swayed. “You do not have to be a victim of a corporate cover-up. Gotham has protections for people who speak out.”
Leon let out a dry, wheezing chuckle. “Protections? That’s a good one.”
He looked down at his expensive, slightly scorched suit jacket.
“Do I look like a whistle-blower to you?”
Internally, Leon thanked whatever cosmic force—or sadistic player—had decided to put him in this sleek, expensive suit instead of his usual tactical gear. He certainly was no James Bond, and at fifty-one, he felt more like a “playable character” being forced into a stealth mission he had not signed up for, but at least he looked the part of a disgruntled executive.
He waved a dismissive hand, nearly hitting the Bat’s cowl. “Don’t worry about it, big guy. Just a vivid imagination fuelled by too many late nights and bad rye. I’m just a guy who saw too many slides in a dark room. Nothing for a superhero to lose sleep over.”
“A vivid imagination,” Batman repeated, his voice dry. He didn’t let go of Leon’s biceps, his thumbs brushing against the expensive fabric of the suit. “Is that what we are calling it when a man is halfway to the pavement?”
“I was assessing the view,” Leon retorted, his tongue tripping over the syllables. “And besides, I don’t die easily. I’ve survived being impaled, blown up and chased by a giant porcelain statue. If I fell off this roof, my luck would probably just have me land on a passing truck filled with pillows.”
He huffed, looking up at the Bat’s sculpted face.
“I’m a survivor. It’s what I do.”
Batman hummed again, his tone almost indulgent, like he was humouring a particularly stubborn toddler. “I’m sure your luck is legendary. But let’s not test it on my watch. I’m giving you a ride home.”
The cool air of the stairwell hit Leon, and for a second, he felt a flicker of sobriety return. Batman’s hand was a steady weight on his shoulder, guiding him downward with an efficiency that made Leon grit his teeth. “I don’t need a chauffeur,” Leon grunted, trying to sidestep. “My place is just around the corner. I planned to walk. Clear the head, you know? Fresh air is a sedative.”
“Gotham’s ‘fresh air’ is mostly industrial exhaust and crime,” Batman countered, his voice echoing in the concrete shaft. “And ‘around the corner’ is four blocks of Penguin-controlled territory. You’re a target in that suit.”
Leon let out a sharp, annoyed breath. “Why do you even care? Do you do this for every drunk you find?” He went to take a sharp turn on the landing, but his heel caught the edge of a concrete step. Here we go again, he thought bitterly, already bracing for the impact of his own stupidity. But the floor never hit. Instead, he was swept back into a pair of massive, armoured arms.
Batman looked down at him, his cowl centimetres away. “Are you alright?”
The proximity was intoxicating.
Leon looked at the Bat’s mouth—that firm, sculpted jaw—and felt a sudden, dizzying urge to lean in and see if the man tasted like the cold Gotham wind. Batman’s hand moved slightly on his waist, a grounding pressure that made Leon’s heart race. It was the alcohol, he told himself. Or maybe it was just the first time in years someone had held him this gently while he was falling apart.