Oodles of love to Belle for her constant support and all-around awesomeness. You too, Kei. X3

Disclaimer: dood, fanfiction.

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Late in the evening, long after the moon has risen and the committee has retired to rest for the next day, Leon finally retreats to his room above headquarters. He's the last to head upstairs, so his steps are carefully quiet, but heavy with weariness that he doesn't like to show, especially not in front of the others.

He turns the knob on his door and moves into the darkened room, shutting the door silently behind himself. As an afterthought, he flicks the little lock on the handle, securing himself inside. It's not that he has anything to fear here—things are going well in the community and crime is scarcely a worry in anyone's mind—but something has set him ill at ease today, and he feels a little better knowing that small additional measure has been taken. It's not enough to keep anyone other than a small child out, but he knows all too well that sometimes just a few seconds' delay can mean the difference between life, defeat, and death.

The moment he steps forward, something in the darkness causes his instincts to stir. He's not sure what it is, but something is different somehow. He draws a slow breath through his nose to detect any unfamiliar scents, but smells only leather and wood and gun oil, and when he looks around, his quickly-adjusting eyes see nothing but what's supposed to be there: his narrow bed on the east wall, the desk and chair beneath the window, and Revolver's case beside his clothing chest near the door to his small bathroom. Everything is in its place, as always.

He rolls his shoulders and neck to shake off the feeling, chalking his nerves up to prolonged stress about the restoration. Without turning on the light, he makes his way over to the desk and unhooks his weapon from his belt, resting it flat on the worn wooden surface. A faint stirring of fabric catches his attention, and he holds his breath and quickly glances towards the source of the sound, then exhales and shakes his head at himself again. It's just the curtains over the window, which he'd opened early in the morning to let the breeze in and keep the room cooler during the day. There's no one else here. No one is out to get him. And what could they possibly take that he hasn't already lost, anyway?

Sighing deeply, he sheds his jacket and hangs it on the back of the chair, then sits and goes about unbuckling and tugging off his boots and socks. He stands and works on his belts next, draping them over his jacket, then unfastens the leather bands on his forearm one by one and strips off his gloves and shirt, leaving Griever to jingle quietly as it settles back against his bare chest. He touches the pendant idly, rubbing his fingers over its familiar contours, and his eyes begin to lose focus as the day's events filter through his mind.

Somewhere in between thoughts of organizing the next step for the electrical grid and planning a backup for the computer systems, his fingers slowly graze down along the ridges of his stomach and land on the waist of his pants, thumb stroking the skin below his navel distractedly. He's soon brought out of his reverie by the ensuing pleasant rush of heat low in his belly, and he frowns slightly, staring down at his own traitorous hand. For a moment, it feels as if it's someone else making the movements, and he watches almost curiously, blinking slowly and shuddering a little with arousal when his thumb dips further behind the belt line.

He'd like to think of himself as stronger than this, but underneath the stoic mask he's gotten so used to wearing in order to protect himself from the world, he is still just a man, and sometimes incapable of damping down the most basic of male urges. He holds his breath and closes his eyes, pressing the flat of his hand against his stomach. It's not like anyone will know, he rationalizes. The others are asleep and the guest room next door has been empty again for weeks. No one will hear him. And it doesn't mean anything, anyway. It's just release; a fleeting escape. That's all it ever is anymore.

He lets out a quiet groan of defeat and slides his fingers down along his thigh, rubbing the sensitive junction between leg and hip briefly before cupping his hand fully over his groin. Hot little sparks of need ignite in his veins, weakening his knees with just that simple touch—a testament to how infrequently he allows himself to indulge in things like this—and he breathes out a reluctant sigh of pleasure, balancing his other hand on the desk and pressing his palm more firmly against the zipper to feel himself hardening inside his pants. He begins to grip and gently knead himself through the leather, and after a moment of muted stimulation, he leans back against the desk for balance, freeing his hands to unfasten the button at his waist. The zipper comes down next, carefully parting small metal teeth with sounds that ring too loudly in guilty ears. He pushes the leathers and his boxers down off of his hips and to the floor before depositing them on the seat of the chair, then grabs a couple of tissues from the box on the desk and crosses the room to the bed.

He settles down onto his back on the mattress and stares up at the ceiling for a moment to test his own resolve, but now that he's already acknowledged it, the ache is far too strong to ignore. He sighs and rolls onto his left side, facing the wall and curling his body in on itself, right knee a little closer to his chest than the left. He lowers his right hand to wrap lightly around the hot, velvet flesh already arching towards his belly, and hisses at the desire that lances sharply through him. He briefly considers taking it slowly, making it last, but by the second exploratory slide of his hand, he realizes he doesn't have the patience for that right now.

He doesn't think about anyone as he strokes himself off. He's only ever been with one person, and he won't allow himself to sully her memory with these kinds of thoughts. Instead, he tries to focus on the physical sensations for a while: the rush of blood in his ears; the sensual heat coiling in his gut and in his groin; the feel of his roughened fingers and palm against the most sensitive skin on his body; the way his nipples tighten and tingle without so much as a touch; and the way his chest rises and falls and his stomach sinks with each shallow, quickening breath.

Panting softly into his pillow, he squeezes a little harder, strokes a little faster, motions made easier and warmer and slicker by the wetness now seeping from the flushed tip of his cock. He crumples the tissues tighter in his left hand, clenching his teeth and groaning quietly against his fist when he senses his climax fast approaching. He doesn't try to hold it back, twisting his wrist and squeezing at just the right spot, almost desperate now in his quest for completion.

It hits him hard just a few seconds later, and he spills over into his hand with a low, throaty moan of gratification that he again muffles with his pillow, body strung taut and trembling through each of the bright, pulsing waves that wash over him. The heady pleasure begins to wane all too soon, and he slumps forward against the sheets, boneless. He presses his burning cheek into a cooler spot on the pillow, and draws and exhales one last shivering breath. He feels warm and relaxed inside and out—something he hasn't felt in a long, long time—and for a few moments he toys with the idea of doing this more often, even though he knows once the euphoria fades he will go back to denying himself as he usually does.

Sleep comes to him quickly tonight, clear as his head is after such a release. He barely has presence of mind enough to clean himself up and dispose of the tissues before collapsing back onto the bed and falling into a deep, dreamless slumber.

-

Unbeknownst to Leon, another lonely soul is pressed up against the western wall of the room he sometimes occupies, shivering violently with the intensity of his own release. With his enhanced senses, he has heard everything. Everything. Every one of the soft gasps and muted sighs and that last shuddering breath of relief, and he has drunk it in greedily. Guiltily.

He sees a lot of himself and who he wants to be in that man. All that he wants in a partner, and all that he knows he can't ever have. Stealing this secret moment of intimacy, so very close to the object of his darkest and most earnest desires, is far more than he deserves. In the end he'll have to walk away, back to the darkness that consumes him...but while he's here, he embraces this selfish sin and takes what comfort he can from the light, from the man who barely knows he exists beyond the occasional spar or rare bit of dialogue.

It's too bad, really, that Leon doesn't recognize his own inner radiance.

Too bad, really, that Cloud doesn't think he could be the one to show him.