Leon remembers the knife. Better to say reminded of it when he feels the metal warmed by their bodies as they press together.
It isn't safe, but Krauser doesn't feel safe either, and maybe he hasn't been for a lot longer than the years between them, that never stopped Leon from trying every appeal he could to reason with him. Leaves him with the sharp edge in his fist, dragged out from between them. The only reason it doesn't score a pair of red lines between them is its keen edge gummed up by plant sap and dirt. It's still in his fist when Leon's arm wraps up under Krauser's, butt against the other side of his shoulder, its blade pointed against the dirt.
The years since a traumatized rookie cop ended up in a trainee's greens hardened him, shaped him into someone who could be Krauser's mirror. Someone who could be thrown again and again into the horror of bioterror and endure, in the end he lived up to the potential his mentor had seen in him, he did what had to be done. Took it all, the fear, the pain, the betrayal, the grief and without even giving himself a minute to look at the gore-slick mess of it, buried it for the sake of the mission.
Leon doesn't have to imagine how it's festered because to keep them from shaking, his fingers are fisted so tightly around his platinum hair Leon's knuckles ache, his lungs and his eyes burn with the poisonous sting of everything pouring out of the figurative tear this is ripping open. He tastes salt instead of nicotine when he licks into Krauser's mouth, squeezes shut his eyes until stars burst behind his eyelids and cleaves to the thing he'd been relying on since he got here to blunt off the sharpest edges. Pleasure promises to give him relief, Krauser was good for it — and pain — and on more than a few occasions it came intertwined, like they are.
There's a conclusion so natural he doesn't question it.
His shoulders jerk up with his mouth reluctant to break free, wet shining between them, lips resolving to tightly smother the agony on his face. There are no guarantees that Leon's fingers haven't come away without a strand or two of Krauser's hair tangled in them when they fan out over his chest. He stabs the knife into the ground, reaches up behind him and claws off his shirt and waistcoat in an overhead yank and a violent shove into the ground beside him, reaches for buttons or laces that close Krauser's pants with a clumsy shake and tortured intent.
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It isn't safe, but Krauser doesn't feel safe either, and maybe he hasn't been for a lot longer than the years between them, that never stopped Leon from trying every appeal he could to reason with him. Leaves him with the sharp edge in his fist, dragged out from between them. The only reason it doesn't score a pair of red lines between them is its keen edge gummed up by plant sap and dirt. It's still in his fist when Leon's arm wraps up under Krauser's, butt against the other side of his shoulder, its blade pointed against the dirt.
The years since a traumatized rookie cop ended up in a trainee's greens hardened him, shaped him into someone who could be Krauser's mirror. Someone who could be thrown again and again into the horror of bioterror and endure, in the end he lived up to the potential his mentor had seen in him, he did what had to be done. Took it all, the fear, the pain, the betrayal, the grief and without even giving himself a minute to look at the gore-slick mess of it, buried it for the sake of the mission.
Leon doesn't have to imagine how it's festered because to keep them from shaking, his fingers are fisted so tightly around his platinum hair Leon's knuckles ache, his lungs and his eyes burn with the poisonous sting of everything pouring out of the figurative tear this is ripping open. He tastes salt instead of nicotine when he licks into Krauser's mouth, squeezes shut his eyes until stars burst behind his eyelids and cleaves to the thing he'd been relying on since he got here to blunt off the sharpest edges. Pleasure promises to give him relief, Krauser was good for it — and pain — and on more than a few occasions it came intertwined, like they are.
There's a conclusion so natural he doesn't question it.
His shoulders jerk up with his mouth reluctant to break free, wet shining between them, lips resolving to tightly smother the agony on his face. There are no guarantees that Leon's fingers haven't come away without a strand or two of Krauser's hair tangled in them when they fan out over his chest. He stabs the knife into the ground, reaches up behind him and claws off his shirt and waistcoat in an overhead yank and a violent shove into the ground beside him, reaches for buttons or laces that close Krauser's pants with a clumsy shake and tortured intent.