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It’s the only photo of him Krauser has. It takes him back to those first days at boot camp every time he looks at it, training the new recruits for STRATCOM, that pretty little boy with the stupid floppy hair he’d insisted on keeping, those big blue eyes, that delicate mouth. The lean muscle of his body, the strength of those soft hands, the way he’d looked at everyone, fierce and defiant and terrified and refusing to show it. 21 and fresh out of some police academy or other, a tolerable shot, useless with a knife, chin up, teeth gritted, following orders, running, climbing, lifting, fighting. Khaki t-shirt sticking to his skin, soaked with sweat. So young. So scared. So brave.
Leon Scott Kennedy has blossomed since the last time Krauser saw him. He’s filled out, lost the last of the baby fat from his cheeks; his palms are striped with callouses. His voice is lower, rougher, his gaze level, cool and calculating. Krauser remembers the feeling of that sleek body under his hands, remembers training him in knife work and hand-to-hand, remembers Leon bucking under him, pinned to the mat. (“Tap out, rookie,” he’d growled, praying the young man wouldn’t notice his growing hard-on.)
It took him a long time to admit it to himself. The thing is, Jack Krauser isn’t a goddamn fag. He fucking isn’t. But Kennedy… (He thinks of that young man on his knees at his feet, those pretty blue eyes fixed on his, undoing his fly with hasty fingers, pulling him out of his briefs. “I want you, Major. Please, let me…” Thinks of lying in his bunk back at boot camp, jerking off to the thought of it, coming like a shot night after night imagining those soft lips wrapped around his cock. Fucking Christ.)
Does wanting a blowjob make him gay? Does wanting to fuck someone? In his head, Leon’s a screamer, bent over his cot and all but sobbing into the pillow as Krauser takes him, tight, so fucking tight around his shaft as he thrusts into him, hard, again and again. Those muscular legs spread, his shoulders heaving, sweat gleaming on his skin as he gasps and begs – or having him on his back, Leon’s legs wrapped around Krauser’s waist as he fucks him, the rise and fall of Leon’s chest, his spine arched, head tilted, eyes squeezed shut or wild on Krauser’s face, hands fisted in the sheets, fucking wailing, “Major – oh fuck, Major, please, please – ” Cum all over his chest and belly, his cock wrapped in Krauser’s fist, shuddering helplessly as he pumps his load into him, “Take it, rookie,” and he does, oh god, he does.
For the millionth time, Krauser decides it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that he’s half-hard in his pants just thinking about it – it doesn’t matter that the only thing on his mind since he saw who’d come to rescue the girl has been, well, this. He hadn’t known, when he kidnapped Ashley Graham, who would come for her. He certainly hadn’t expected Leon Kennedy. But here he is, his pretty little rookie, pretending to be all grown up and trying so hard to save her. He’s on the island at last, ripping his way through the damn ganados the same way he has been all day – Salazar was no match for him; neither were the giants. Even Méndez couldn’t take him down. No, Leon’s coming, with that same fierce determination he brought to boot camp, to every lesson, every run, every climb, every sparring match. Every mission since then. Krauser remembers it so well, Leon pinned beneath him and still struggling, teeth clenched, breathing hard. Not giving up. Never giving up, no matter what.
He knew, the moment he saw him again, that it would come to this. Krauser knew it would be him and Leon, in the end. He got to work as soon as he made it back to the island, rigging traps, setting explosives. Laying down a gauntlet for the rookie to run, marking out a path for himself to follow, to watch over him, thinking of him the whole time, those strong hands, that lean, well-muscled body. How is it possible that the boy’s gotten more beautiful since he last saw him? He’d already been perfect. (Krauser shuts his eyes and pictures Leon on top of him, kneeling on his cot, golden in the lantern light, riding his dick, eyes shut, mouth open, gasping for breath as Krauser fills him again and again. One of Leon’s hands braced on his chest, the other wrapped around his own cock, stroking himself steadily as Krauser grips his thighs, urging him up and down, up and down, that little hole tight, tight, tight around him – )
There’s no time to jerk off. Leon’s coming. But he can’t help but see it in his mind’s eye, the two of them finishing together, Leon spilling over his knuckles and down across Krauser’s chest and abs, and Krauser filling him up with cum, pumping deep into him as Leon rolls his hips seductively, milking him for every drop. He wants his fingers digging hard into his boy’s thighs, wants him to lean down, slow and soft and so, so needy, and bend his head to kiss him.
(“Jack,” Leon whispers, breathlessly.
“Leon,” he murmurs in reply, his fingers twining through that way-too-fucking-long brown hair, cupping the back of his head, drawing him down for another kiss, another taste of him.)
But there’s no goddamn time. The trap is laid; the fuse is lit. Krauser has places to be. Soon, he’ll have his hands on Leon again. He can almost fucking feel it. The table in front of him is strewn with his shit, papers and bullets and the tape recorder he left for his boy to find once he gets here, the message all ready, rewound and waiting. Krauser looks at the cot he’s imagined fucking Leon on too many times to count, looks around at the tent filled with his things, all laid out for the rookie to sort through, looks down at his empty hands, waiting, waiting to touch him again.
He’s never let anyone this close before, never let anyone dig through his life, his stuff, never let anyone see him like this, least of all Leon. The boy never came to him, not during boot camp, not during training afterwards, not during any of their missions together – never got on his knees and begged for his cock the way he should have, the way he deserved to. Fury and resentment and raw, unmitigated need boil in Krauser’s belly, the way they always do when he follows this train of thought – does Leon think he’s too good for him? Is that it? But it doesn’t matter now. He’ll be here soon enough.
Krauser digs in his pocket and pulls out the photo, turning it over in his hands. That light brown hair hanging down over his brow, his bright blue eyes, those chubby cheeks, that soft, stubborn mouth, the cleft in his chin. The tattered remains of a Raccoon City Police uniform. A beautiful little boy, so delectable that Krauser can almost taste him. There’s one thing he still hasn’t left for Leon, one truth he’s kept hidden. Krauser picks up a pen and sets the photo on the table, bending over it to scrawl two words across Leon’s chest.
I’M WAITING.
And then he drops the pen carelessly among the file folders and bullet casings, and turns on his heel, and walks away.
Leon’s not surprised to find the camp. He’s tired and bruised and pissed off, but not surprised. All this time fighting monsters, and he gets a little break now, he supposes. Gets to dig through Krauser’s shit as a reward or something. The Major always had a couple screws loose, especially after Operation Javier; it’s a little weird that he has all these files sitting out for Leon to find, but not surprising. The tape recording is particularly obnoxious, but also particularly on-brand. (“You did well to make it this far, rookie.” Leon rolls his eyes.)
He’s turning to leave when he notices it: something shiny amidst the old papers and loose bullets, the lantern light glancing off the edge of a photograph. He pauses. Most of Krauser’s things aren’t particularly interesting – clothes, gear, food and supplies, the table, the chairs, the bed – unmade, for a change. (Is Krauser finally letting go of that military mentality now that he’s not working for the US government anymore? He always used to make his bed up so perfectly, so precisely, but the sheets and blankets here have been left tossed back, all messy. Leon wonders idly if he’s still got DADT on the brain too, or if he’s letting go of that yet. Probably not. Krauser always was a deeply closeted homophobe. Fucking asshole.) But here’s a photo, of all things; the play of the light reveals something written on it, something Leon can’t quite read. He turns back to the table and picks it up, and his blood runs fucking cold at what he sees.
It’s him. It’s fucking Leon, 21 years old, in that damn RPD uniform, Ada’s bandage still on his shoulder – he remembers when this photo was taken. He and Claire and Sherry had found a military camp just outside Raccoon City and had asked for help, and the three of them had been photographed and shoved into quarantine; it was practically a mugshot. And Krauser has a copy? Where did he get it? Why does he have it? The edges of the photo are soft and fuzzy, worn with handling, the corners bent, as though it’s been carried everywhere with someone for a long time – years, maybe. There’s a message scribbled across his chest: I’M WAITING, written in red ink. Leon would recognize Krauser’s handwriting anywhere.
Goddamn, he thinks, staring down at himself. Rationality begins to reassert itself through the shock as he stands there. Krauser must have gotten the photo out of some file or other, and kept it; he’s always had a thing for Leon, ever since boot camp back in ‘99. It had been such a fucking hassle, dealing with him back then – the bullying, the borderline sexual harassment – all that during training, which would have been bad enough on its own. Being bi and stealth at boot camp would’ve sucked plenty without a closeted CO who clearly wanted to fuck him and picked on him because of it, but hey. Work with what you got, right? (Leon remembers sitting alone on his bunk with his head in his hands after Krauser got done chewing him out over some piece of bullshit or other – he doesn’t know what anymore. They all run together in his memory. A footfall startled him out of his thoughts; he looked up to find another recruit – Schwab, he thinks his name was – watching him a little skeptically.
“Krauser, huh?” he said.
“Yeah,” Leon muttered.
“Uh huh.”
“You heard all that.”
“Yeah. Think you’re gonna suck his dick?” Schwab asked, raising an eyebrow.
“What? No,” Leon said, startled and a little nauseated at the thought of it.
“You sure? He might lay off if you do.”
“No,” Leon said flatly.)
Krauser never was particularly subtle; it was no shock that some of the other recruits had noticed. Leon’s a little surprised the Major’s superiors hadn’t, frankly. That whole conversation had been a DADT violation, and the idea of fucking Krauser still turns his stomach, even years later. The guy’s gotta be ten or fifteen years Leon’s senior, he’s a gigantic asshole, a massive closet case, and he’s just not his type when you get right down to it. Four solid points against him, and any one of them would have been enough on its own. Leon’s not fucking interested – never has been. Never will be. Ugh. He refuses to think about the way Krauser used to touch him during hand-to-hand training, (trailing fingers lingering a little too long, the way he’d start to get a boner sometimes down on the mat together, Leon’s skin crawling as he fought to get away,) shoves the memories aside with a grimace. What a goddamn creep.
Things had gotten better after boot camp. He’d still had to work with Krauser occasionally, training or missions from time to time, but it was more manageable once he wasn’t a new recruit anymore. The Major still called him ‘rookie’, still hassled him, still liked sparring with him way too much; his eyes still lingered on Leon whenever they were around each other, cold and assessing and somehow still hot with unwelcome desire. But there had been more distance between them; Leon had had more control. He’d been able to stand up for himself, been able to say no, to walk away. And they’d gone long stretches without seeing each other – years, sometimes. It was a massive improvement. It’s been ages since Leon last saw Krauser; he’d sort of hoped he might never see the guy again, until today, of course.
His first thought upon seeing the Major again had been, Are you fucking kidding me? Of all the people to turn up here, in the middle of nowhere in Spain, working for this goddamn cult – it had to be Leon’s former CO, a man who’d wanted him so bad it had become his own personal little nightmare. Fucking typical. But he’d put all that aside to focus on his mission; Leon’s bad memories and Krauser’s creepiness didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Ashley. But here, now, standing in Krauser’s tent with this goddamn photo in his hand, it all comes rushing back. Things are slotting into place in Leon’s head, one after the other: first, that Krauser wanted him so much more than he’d ever realized. Second, that he still wants him. Third, that all of this – the traps, the rockets, the ridiculous monologue – it’s all special. It’s all for Leon. The tape recording and the photo just clinched it. It’s all for him. Christ.
It had always seemed like Krauser wanted him, and resented him for it. Leon had never been sure if it was that he hated him for being attractive, for making Krauser want him somehow, or if he’d just resented the fact that Leon had never come onto him the way Krauser clearly wished he would. It doesn’t really matter in the end, he guesses. Krauser’s trying to kill him regardless. He’s always expressed his desire for Leon by trying to hurt him – bullying him at boot camp, constantly trying to spar with him, harassing him even out on missions together – and now they’re on opposite sides of this ugly little war, and he’s somewhere out there with a machine gun and a knife and a rocket launcher, waiting. Waiting for Leon to come to him and end things, one way or the other, just like the photo says.
Leon looks down at it. I’M WAITING. God, he’d been so young, and Krauser had been, what, 34? 36? And constantly undressing him with his eyes, finding excuses to touch him, hassling him, yelling at him, a 21-year-old kid fresh out of the hell that was Raccoon City, the gunshot wound in his shoulder barely healed, with no choice but to knuckle under and fucking deal with it the same way he’d dealt with everything else those last few months had thrown at him. Did he find this photo when Leon was still in boot camp, or was it afterwards? How long has he kept it on him? Is this what he wants – the memory of this fresh-faced boy on his knees for him or whatever? God. Leon shudders, and then decides he doesn’t care.
It doesn’t matter – none of it matters. Leon’s here to save Ashley, and Krauser’s in his goddamn way. He’s going to kill him and get Ashley back, and then Krauser will be dead, and Leon will never have to think about him again, which will be a nice bonus. What the Major’s after, what he wants from Leon, what he’s always wanted – it’s not fucking important. His pathetic closeted mentality, his military thinking, his total failure to be anything but a bully and an asshole and a creep… Part of Leon can’t help but wonder if Jack Krauser could have been a real mentor and a decent CO if he had just come out, but he’s not here to deal in hypotheticals. The guy is working for Los Iluminados. He’s a kidnapper, a traitor, and a murderer, and Leon is going to end him. Nothing else is important anymore. The reality of that thought settles over him, solid and steadying. Leon drops the photo on the table, cocks his gun, and goes.