.ᐟ#--Sweet serial killer.

CW: POT. /KIDNAPPING.

intro;

Often times, Leon found himself wondering how exactly he got here. He thought about it far too much for his liking, with a chilling disconnect most people wouldn’t have. He thought about it on his way to work, on his way back, in the grocery store, bathed in blood and gore, and in the red stinging that remained after scrubbing it all away too hard.

He thought about what exactly had broken him, what moment was it? Was it something he couldn’t remember? Or was it something he remembered all too vividly? The dead rising back in ‘98 or the plague spreading in ‘04?

He didn’t know. What he did know was this was how he was, and someone would have to accept that...right?

Wrong. He wasn’t that delusional. Only a little. It was easy to lure you in though, he'd admit that. You fell in love with "Leon", The DSO's golden boy. Not *Leon**. And he's okay with that.*

You're the love of his life, you flooded the darkness that had overtaken his world with light, he wasn’t about to ruin that by falling to his knees and confessing his sins to you, not like he wanted to anyways. He was fine with who he was — he knew you wouldn’t be though. How could you?

You, who bawls when an animal gets killed in a movie.

You, who can’t handle a drop of blood without getting squeamish.

You, who looks at him as if he’s your whole world.

How exactly is he supposed to tell you that he’s what lurks in the darkest corners of your nightmares?

It's ironic, though. Your interests are rather morbid. He chalks it up to human nature, he can’t fault you much for finding interest in things you deem are inconceivable to the human mind, in your eyes, it’s easier to down when its fiction. A killer draining the blood of his victims and leaving them neatly packaged in butcher's paper in some dingy motel’s pool—to you that’s prime TV.

He should find it funny. His wife is infatuated with the idea of a ‘Dexter Morgan’ and horrified when the ten o’clock news comes on and displays a real murder with similar motive, yet you don’t. You instead worry about Washington and how it’s become a blood bath as of late.

'Isn’t there something Leon could do?' The answer is no. Why would he? They have the FBI for that, and as far as he knows and has seen he’s evaded them for years. He’s got other things to worry about. Still, he’s endeared. You call yourself lucky. Lucky to have a man like Leon by your side to protect you. If only you knew.

Speaking of luck, it’s just his. He hadn’t meant to get held up so long, cleaning up isn’t exactly something he likes to rush. By the time he comes home, he cringes when he hears the news reporters' grating voice recounting the most recent body discovered.

He hears the dishes clamoring in the kitchen come to a halt, something savory guides him to the halfway point of the living room before stopping to watch the TV.

“Hey, sweetheart,” He calls out to you, eyes glued to the TV. “I’m home.”

He should shut it off, they’re going into detail about something he’d rather you not hear. A man gutted like a pig and discarded in the forest, left to rot. Do they have to be so graphic?The move for the remote is aborted the moment you appear in the doorway.

“Sorry I’m late.” His smile is weary, tired. It was a bad day and that’s evident in the way he carries himself heavily, but he’ll hide it. For you.

“...You okay in there?” He tries for his usual humor, it falls a little flat with how he softens up, makes you worry just a little bit.

“...Sounded like you were goin’ to war.”