★ reader loves animals deeply leon and reader are married, pure fluff.
★ di or re9 leon but can be any
★ i wrote this during a cetacean biology class lol
The apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the TV, there’s some nature documentary playing softly. You and Leon barely pay attention to it anymore.
You’re curled comfortably against Leon’s side on the couch, with some peanuts while he scrolls lazily through his phone.
His free hand lazily caresses your arm and his lips often meet the top of your head, your shampoo clouding his senses.
¨What’s your favourite animal?¨ He asks suddenly.
You glance up immediately with your eyebrow slightly risen.
¨That’s random…¨
Leon shrugs without looking away from his phone.
¨Surprise me.¨
You think for a second before smiling softly.
¨Whales.¨
That finally makes him look up from his phone and at you, as you are already looking at him.
¨Whales?¨ Leon repeats, taken by surprise at your answer.
You laugh softly curling even more against his chest.
¨Yeah, whales.¨
¨Why?¨
Your expression softens instantly and look down at the bowl resting over your lap.
¨They’re really emotional animals.¨ You murmur. ¨They have strong family bonds. Some species even stay connected for life.¨
Leon watches you softly. Your words sink in. His lips curl into a soft smile, he understands now why they are your favorite animals. They’re just like you.
¨They protect each other a lot too,¨ You continue quietly.¨ especially the babies.¨
Something warm settles inside Leon’s chest. You always got softer talking about things you loved.
¨Plus!¨ you grin suddenly, looking back at him¨ Baby whales are sooo cute.¨
Leon huffs softly through his nose.
¨Cute until they sink your boat.¨
¨They don’t sink boats!¨ You scoff playfully.
¨I’m tellin’ you right now, if I ever see one in real life, I’m keepin my distance.¨
You laugh.
¨Coward.¨
Leon immediately pulls you closer against his chest.
¨I’m just smart.¨
You roll your eyes before giving him a soft kiss. You grab the TV remote control and change it to something more entertaining.
Little did you know Leon’s is preparing a big surprise.
Months later, cold ocean wind whips softly through your hair while the boat rocks gently beneath your feet.
You still haven’t fully recovered from realizing where Leon brought you.
¨You remembered,¨ you murmur for probably the fifth time that morning.
Leon leans lazily against the railing beside you wearing sunglasses and a dark jacket. A huge contrast to your bright orange bikini set.
¨You say I have memory problems.¨
¨You barely remember where your car keys are.¨
¨That’s different.¨
Your laugh mixes softly with the sound of waves around the boat. You’ve barely stopped smiling since you got out of the plane.
You look at the crystal clear water in front of you, the sun reflecting against it. Everything around you screams calm. Except the excitement in your stomach.
¨You’re excited.¨
You glance up at him immediately.
¨Of course!¨
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.
¨You’ve talked about whales more these last two days than normal people talk about their families.¨
Leon snorts softly.
The guide toward the front of the boat continues explaining migration patterns to the group nearby.
¨Remember everybody, sightings aren’t guaranteed today.¨ You overhear the guide. Your expression falls immediately.
¨Told you,¨ He murmurs softly beside you, caressing your arm. ¨Ocean’s kinda big. There’s a chance your giant sea cows don’t show up.¨
You gasp quietly.
¨They are not cows!¨
¨They are huge.¨
¨They are more than that.¨ You argue.
¨They are still huge.¨
You smile softly before opening your mouth to argue again. Then suddenly.
A massive spray of water erupts in the distance. The entire boat goes silent.
Your heart skips a beat and you swore you could cry at the excitement you feel in your chest.
Your hand grabs Leon’s sleeve instantly.
¨Oh my god.¨
A whale breaches partially through the water. Huge, swimming gracefully.
Your entire body freezes beside him. Leon physically feels your grip tighten around his arm.
¨No way…¨ You whisper breathlessly.
Leon feels his shoulder relax, almost letting out a sigh. He’s been praying that you get to see the whales today. He’d actually feel disappointed if you both didn’t.
The guide starts talking excitedly nearby but you barely hear any of it.
Another shape surfaces beside the whales. Way smaller. A baby whale.
Your entire face softens quickly, your lips turn into a small pout it almost hurts Leon to look at it.
He glances between the whales and your expression. The whales, mildly terrifying. You, completely enchanted.
The calf surfaces closer this time. A soft rush of air leaves its blowhole before it disappears beneath the water again, circling lazily near the boat.
You almost fly to the edge of the boat, gripping the metal bar tightly.
¨Leon,¨ You whisper, like speaking too loud might scare them away. ¨It’s so little. A little baby.
You laugh softly under your breath, without looking away from the water. The small sound of water can be heard as the baby whale surfaces curiously again.
The people on the boat gasp quietly while cameras start clicking somewhere behind you.
Meanwhile Leon watches the mother. A huge shadow beneath the water. Calm yet ever watchful.
¨She’s definitely judging us.¨ He mutters quietly.
You look back at him. ¨She’s literally just existing,¨
¨She could flip this boat if she wanted.¨
¨You’re scared of whales?¨
¨I’m respectful of creatures that weight more than military vehicles.¨ You laugh. Leon could listen to that sound forever.
The calf is now beside the railing you’re standing on. It makes a soft clicking noise to its mother, which answers loudly.
Your entire face melts instantly, you have to cover your mouth.
¨Oh my God, did you hear that.¨
Leon nods slightly.
You lean slightly over the railing carefully, completely fascinated now. Waving like an idiot to the calf beneath you.
¨Hi baby.¨ You kneel down, your hand still on the metal bar, whispering to the baby whale, you’re pretty sure people around you think you’re crazy. ¨Hi sweet boy¨
Leon slowly turns his head towards you.
The calf makes a soft clicking noise while surfacing again. Your hand immediately flies to your chest.
¨You are SO cute.¨ You continue emotionally, almost like talking to a baby. ¨Yes, yes you are. Perfect baby. Sweet angel.¨
Leon blinks. Completely speechless.
The whale calf circles in front of you. Making you melt over the railing.
¨I love you sososososo much.¨ You whisper dramatically towards the ocean creature.
He stares at you in complete disbelief. You’ve always been this way with animals. Everytime you both see a puppy at the park you always gotta whisper sweet things to it like it's yours.
¨That thing could flip this boat over.¨
You gasp quietly without taking your eyes off the whale.
¨Don’t say that in front of him.¨
¨Him?¨ Leon repeats. ¨You assigned it a gender already?¨
¨Well, he feels like a boy.¨
¨The whale feels like a boy?¨
¨Mhm.¨ You nod.
Leon drags a hand slowly down his face.
The calf surfaces again closer this time making another curious sound towards the boat.
You open your mouth slightly.
¨Oh my God, he talked to me, Leon!¨
Leon lets out a stunned laugh.
¨Look at this little face.¨
¨Baby, that thing is bigger than you.¨ He blinks, pointing at the baby.
¨And yet he’s still a baby.¨
¨They’re so social.¨ You speak a bit louder this time. ¨Especially calves. They learn from their mothers constantly.¨
Your voice carries the same warmth from months ago on the couch. The same softness. Leon still remembers every word.
The calf makes another small sound, almost answering back making your heart skip a beat. You feel like a Disney princess.
¨Leon,¨ You whisper. ¨Do you realize how lucky we are right now?¨
Leon watches you instead of the whales. ¨Starting to.¨
The baby swims closer to its mother again, brushing gently to her side as they both swim closer to the boat this time.
Your hand immediately flies to your chest.
¨Oh my God,¨ You mumble. ¨I can’t handle this.¨
Leon laughs quietly under his breath.
¨Yes, you can.¨
¨No, I actually can’t.¨ You turn towards him, still knelt down. ¨This changed me as a person.¨
¨That dramatic, huh?¨ He crosses his arms.
¨You don’t understand.¨ You point emotionally towards the whales. ¨Look at them.¨
Leon obediently looks back at the giant ocean creatures, both of them capable of destroying the boat.
The calf swims close to its mother now, brushing its head gently across its mother fin.
Then he looks back at you.
Your expression softens softly at the gentle action of the calf.
¨Leon.¨ You look up at him with complete sincerity. ¨I want a baby.¨
He nearly chokes on absolutely nothing.
¨What?¨
You gesture dramatically towards the whales again.
¨Look at THEM.¨
¨I am lookin’ at them.¨
¨Now I want a baby.¨
Leon stares at you silently while the ocean breeze blows your hair softly. His hand slides over his mouth trying to hide the laugh escaping him.
¨You can’t just say things like that outta nowhere, sweety.¨
¨I’m having an emotional experience.¨ You say, defending yourself.
¨You’re havin’ a whale-induced baby fever.¨
¨Yeah.¨ At least you’re honest.
Leon’s eyes drift toward the mother whale swimming beside her calf. And then, to the happiness tainting your face.
Both, mother and calf, make a small sound before disappearing beneath the water.
Leon looks at the whales for another second before looking back at you. At the excitement still glowing across your face.
He feels content. The whole trip was for this, not only the whales but for you. About seeing you happy.
His hand slides quietly into yours, his warm fingers intertwined with yours. He helps you stand up
It takes you by surprise. You turn at him immediately. Leon shrugs softly.
¨Figured whale expert needed some emotional support.¨
Your smile turns unbearably soft.
¨Thank you for bringing me here, baby.¨
Leon’s chest tightens at the softness of your voice.
¨Yeah, baby.¨ He murmurs quietly against your lips ¨Worth it.¨ He says, before finally locking his lips with yours in a soft kiss.
Pairing: Death Island Leon x gf!reader
Word count: 5226 words
Warnings: mentions of blood, mentions of being shot, major character’s death (reader), pure heart-breaking angst
Plot: A routine mission with Leon ended in irreversible loss when you were shot in the field and later died in his arms despite every attempt to save you. In the aftermath, Leon is left to survive through grief, guilt, and the things he never got to say. What follows is not healing, but routine: hospital silence, a funeral with few attendees, and weekly visits to your grave with coffee and flowers, clinging to habits that no longer have an answer on the other side. He still carries the engagement ring he planned to give you after the mission. A reminder that the cruelest part of losing you wasn’t your death, it was losing the future that should have followed.
A/N: I don’t even know why I felt like writing this, but welp 😭 I genuinely cried while writing it, I hope you guys enjoy it even if you hate me 😭❤
Taglist: let me know if you want to be added!
Resident evil’s masterlist
The briefing room had already gone quiet when you arrived, the kind of silence that always followed bad news disguised as routine. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above you, reflecting off the polished table where maps and half-digested intel were scattered like something already gone wrong. Leon stood near the far end, one hand resting on the back of a chair, the other holding a folder he wasn't really reading anymore. His posture was controlled, too controlled. The kind of stillness that meant he had already run through every possible outcome and didn't like a single one of them. When you entered, his eyes shifted to you immediately. Not surprised, just… softer for half a second. “You're late,” Chris muttered from the side of the room. Leon didn't react to him. He only looked at you. “You weren't.“ He said quietly, like it was both a statement and a relief he didn't want to admit. You moved to stand beside him, brushing past the edge of the table. Your shoulder almost touched his.
The briefing resumed, but it blurred into background noise. Coordinates, hostile presence, extraction point. Words that meant danger but never fully captured what that actually looked like when it happened. Leon listened like he always did. Focused, unreadable. But you knew him well enough to catch the smallest tells. The slight tension in his jaw, the way his thumb tapped once against the folder and then stopped, like he'd caught himself doing it. And something strange you've never seen before underneath all of it. When the mission parameters were finalized, the room began to be cleaned in pieces. Chairs scraped, papers were gathered, people left in pairs, in clusters, in silence. You stayed, so did he. For a moment, it was just the two of you and the echo of everyone else leaving. “You sticking close this time.“ Leon said, finally. It wasn't a question. “I always do.“ You tilted your head slightly. “That's not what I mean.“ You met his gaze. He looked tired in a way sleep never fixed. Not exhaustion from the mission ahead, but from everything before it, everything that had trained him to expect loss before arrival.
“I can handle myself.“ You said. “I know,” he replied immediately. No hesitation. That wasn't the issue. A pause stretched between you, thick and unspoken. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice dropped, meant only for you. “I don't like the feeling I get when I can't see you.“ He admitted. It was quiet, almost irritated with himself for saying it. You almost smiled, but it didn't fully land. “You're not going to lose me in there.“ He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize something he already hated imagining forgetting. “Yeah,” he said finally, lower this time. “That's what I keep telling myself.“ A radio crackled somewhere down the hall. Footsteps approached, signaling it was time. Leon reached out, not fully nor dramatically, just enough to catch your hand for a brief second. A touch that no one else would have noticed unless they were looking for it. His grip was steady, controlled, but not completely. “Stay close,” he said again. And then, after a pause that felt heavier than the entire briefing combined: “Please.“ You squeezed his hand once before letting go and nodded with the faintest smile. Outside, the world was already waiting to fall apart.
The air outside the facility felt wrong the moment you stepped into it, too still, too clean for something already infected with tension. The sky had that washed-out grey-blue that made everything look temporary, like the world itself was waiting for something to go wrong before committing to the day. Leon moved ahead of you by half a step, like he always did when he wasn't trying to show it. His hand stayed near his weapon, but his attention kept flicking back, subtle, automatic, like he was checking you were still there without making it obvious. The rest of the team spread out around you. Chris was already scanning the perimeter, all sharp angles and discipline, the kind of focus that made it look like he trusted the world only when he had it in his sights. Jill walked slightly to his side, quieter but not less alert, her eyes moving like she was reading a language everyone else had forgotten how to speak. And Claire stayed a little further back than the rest, not because she was weaker, but because she was watching people as much as she was watching the environment.
It should've felt controlled, professional, balanced. It didn't. Leon slowed just enough for you to fall into step beside him. Not behind, not ahead. Beside. “You're quiet.“ He said under his breath. “You're one to talk.“ You replied. A faint exhale, almost a laugh, but it never fully formed. Ahead of you, the entrance to the site loomed. Broken fencing, emergency lights still blinking like they hadn't been told the situation was already over. Somewhere inside, something moved that didn't belong there. Chris raised a hand slightly. The signal for stop. Everyone froze. Leon's body shifted instantly, subtle but immediate. The change from 'walking' to 'ready' was so practiced that it looked more like instinct than thought. His gaze locked forward. “Movement inside.“ Chris said, voice low. Jill adjusted her stance without a sound, weapon angled but not raised fully yet. Claire's hand tightened on her gear strap. Leon leaned just slightly towards you again, voice barely audible. “Stay with me.“ You didn't answer, you didn't need to.
The moment Chris gave the signal to proceed, everything tightened. Footsteps entered the structure. The first sound inside wasn't a scream. It was something worse, wet, uneven breathing that didn't match anything human should sound like anymore. Leon moved first when the door gave way. Of course he did. Inside, the world changed. Light broke into harsh strips through cracked windows, cutting the room into pieces. Shadows didn't sit still, they shifted, wrong and twitching. The smell hit before the danger became visible, something humid and sticky. Chris took point left, Jill, right, and Claire covered the rear angles. And you stayed with Leon, exactly where he had asked you to be.
For the first few minutes, it was almost manageable. Controlled bursts of movement, clean shots, communication in fragments. “Left corridor clear.“ “Two contacts down.“ “Moving up.“ Leon stayed close enough that you could feel him adjusting his position to keep you within reach without ever slowing the team. It was subtle, strategic, hidden in plain sight. Then the structure changed. Something deeper inside reacted. A sound echoed through the hallway ahead. Not footsteps, not human. Jill turned her head slightly. “That's not infected movement.“ Chris didn't answer, but his grip tightened. Leon's voice dropped lower, sharper now. “Whatever's in there… It's organized.“ That was the first real shift. Not panic but recognition. The realization that this wasn't just another containment failure, it was something that had already adapted. And as you moved deeper, the spacing between you and Leon began to tighten without either of you agreeing to it. Like gravity was doing it for you. He didn't say it again, but you could feel it in the way his shoulder kept angling towards you. Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me. And the deeper you went, the more it stopped sounding like a request.
The hallway had felt too narrow before it happened, like the building itself was slowly closing its fist around all of you. Light flickered overhead in uneven pulses, turning every movement into something fractured, too fast, too sharp, too easy to misread. Leon was just ahead of you, angled slightly left as he cleared the next corner. His voice had started to form your name, half warning, half instinct. But he never finished it. The shot came clean. No warning crack that your brain registered in time, no dramatic build-up. Just impact. A single precise force hitting your chest and stealing the air out of your body before you even understood you had been hit.
For a fraction of a second, you didn't feel pain. Just disbelief. Then your knees started to fail you. “-No.“ Leon's voice broke instantly, like something inside him had snapped clean in half. You stumbled back into the wall, your hand moving instinctively to your chest. Warmth spread fast, too fast. It wasn't gradual, it was immediate, soaking through fabric, slipping between your fingers when you tried to press down. Somewhere to your left, you heard movement. Chris shouting an order, Jill firing back into the darkness, Claire calling your name. But it all sounded far away, underwater. The world narrowed to one thing: Leon reaching you. He was there so fast it didn't even feel real. One moment, he was clearing angles, the next one, he was in front of you, catching you before you hit the ground completely.
His hands came to you immediately, one behind your back, one pressing where your own hand was already shaking. “No, no, no… Stay with me.“ He said, voice rising in a way you had never heard from him. Not command, not control. Just panic, raw and unfiltered. You tried to speak, but it came out broken. Air, blood, and something you couldn't organize into words. Leon looked down at his hand for half a second, then froze when he saw how quickly it was getting worse. That was the moment his control finally cracked. “Chris!“ he shouted, and it wasn't just a call for help. It was a demand. “We need extraction NOW!“ Chris' voice answered somewhere in the chaos, but Leon wasn't really listening anymore. His focus has collapsed entirely onto you. “Look at me,” he said, forcing your face towards him with shaking hands. “Hey… Hey, stay with me, okay? You're not… You're not allowed to-.“ His sentence broke. Because there was nothing tactical left in him now. Only fear.
Your vision blurred at the edges. The corridor behind him flickered in and out of focus, the sounds of gunfire, movement, orders. It all faded under something heavier. Leon pressed harder on your chest, like he could physically hold you together if he tried enough. “You're okay,“ he said, but it didn't sound like he believed it. “You're okay, you're okay, you're okay… Just breathe, just-.“ His voice lowered suddenly, breaking into something quieter. Almost desperate. “I've got you.“ But his hands were shaking too much to make it true.
The corridor had turned into controlled chaos. Gunfire still echoed somewhere deeper in the structure, but for you, everything had narrowed to breath, pressure, and the feeling of Leon refusing to let go of you. His arms were locked around you, one hand still pressing hard against your chest as if sheer force of will could stop what was already slipping away. “Extraction route is compromised,” Chris said sharply through the comms, voice tight but controlled. “We move on foot to the secondary exit. Now.“ That word 'now' hit differently for Leon. Because he didn't move. He didn't even look away from you when Chris spoke. “Negative.“ Leon said immediately. It wasn't hesitation, it wasn't discussion. It was a refusal. A pause stretched between you. Chris' voice came again, lower this time. “Leon, we don't have time for this. She's injured, but if we don't move the team-.“ “She's not injured.“ Leon cut in, sharper than before. His grip tightened slightly around you, like the word itself had insulted him. “She's bleeding out. Choking on her own blood.“ Silence crackled through the channel. Even in the distance, you could hear the shift. Jill stopping fire for half a second, Claire's voice cutting off mid-callout. The entire team feeling the fracture in command.
Chris stepped into view at the end of the corridor, weapon still raised, posture still perfect. Professional, controlled. Everything Leon wasn't being anymore. His eyes dropped to you once, then back to Leon. “Leon,” Chris said, slower now. “I understand. But if we stay, we lose everyone.“ That word again. Everyone. Like it included you in a category instead of a person. Leon laughed once, short, broken, almost disbelieving. “You're talking like she's already gone.“ He huffed. “Don't do that,” Chris warned. He didn't sound angry or cold, just tired of losing people in different ways. Leon finally looked up at him. And the expression on his face was nothing like the man who had walked into the mission. “This isn't a negotiation. I'm not leaving her behind.“ Leon said quietly. Chris didn't move. “It is when I'm in command of extraction.“ That was the moment everything stopped being tactical. Leon shifted his weight slightly, still holding you against him, and the change in his tone was immediate, lower, heavier, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with enemies in the building. “Then take me off your command structure,” he said. Chris blinked once. “Leon-.“ “I'm getting her out,” Leon continued, voice breaking at the edges but steady in intent. “Alive. Or I'm not leaving.“ A beat of silence. Jill's voice came through the comms softly, almost carefully. “Chris…” Claire didn't speak at all. She didn't need to.
Chris looked at Leon for a moment. Not as a soldier, not as an agent. Just as someone who understood exactly what it meant to lose someone and still keep walking afterwards. “Leon,” Chris said finally, quieter. “You can't save her if you die here.“ Leon didn't respond immediately. He looked down at you instead. His hand trembled slightly where it pressed against you, as if he was fighting his own body to stay steady. When he spoke again, it wasn't to Chris. It was to you. “Hey,” he said softly, like the world outside the two of you had stopped existing. “You hear me? I'm getting you out. You're not allowed to leave just yet, okay?“ A pause. His forehead almost touched yours. “I need you to stay with me.“ Behind him, Chris exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that meant a decision was being made that no one would like later. “Fine,” Chris said at last. “We move. But we move now. And Leon-.“ Leon didn't look up. “I know,” he said. But he didn't sound like he agreed. He sounded like someone who had already decided what price he was willing to pay.
The extraction didn't feel like a victory. It felt like losing in a different location. By the time they got you out, everything outside the facility was too bright, too open, and normal for what was happening in the middle of it. The kind of daylight that didn't respect grief. A field medical tent had been set up fast, fabric snapping in the wind, equipment already inside waiting for outcomes it probably wouldn't like. Leon barely let go of you when they took you from his arms. It only happened because someone physically separated him. “Mr. Kennedy, we need space-.“ He didn't hear the rest. Or didn't process it. His hands hovered in the air for a second after you were gone, like his body hadn't been told the truth yet. Inside the tent, the world disappeared behind canvas walls and sharp medical commands. “Blood pressure dropping.“ “Airway compromised.“ “Get me adrenaline, now!“ And then another familiar voice broke into the chaos. “Move her here—no, here. I need suction. Keep pressure on the wound.“ Rebecca said. She didn't look up much, she couldn't afford to. But she was already fighting something that didn't want to be fought anymore.
Outside, Leon stood frozen just beyond the entrance flap. He could hear everything. His hands were still stained in your blood, still shaking, still useless. Behind him, footsteps approached. Chris stopped a few meters away. Neither of them spoke for a moment. It was Chris who broke it first. “She's in good hands.“ He said quietly. It didn't really sound like a promise, just reality as he could frame it. Leon didn't look at him. “I had her in my hands.“ He mumbled. Chris didn't respond immediately. There wasn't a good answer to that. Silence stretched again, heavy with everything neither of them wanted to name. Then Chris spoke again. “You did everything you could.“ That sentence landed wrong. Leon finally turned his head slightly, just enough for Chris to see his face. “That's the problem,” Leon said. “It wasn't enough.“ Before Chris could answer, the tent flap moved sharply. Rebecca stepped out. Her gloves were still stained, her expression wasn't dramatic, but it was controlled in the way only doctors get when they've already crossed past optimism. She looked at Chris first, then at Leon. “It's not looking good…” She quietly said. No euphemism, no cushioning. Just truth.
Leon moved before he even realized he had. Inside the tent, the air felt smaller. Everything sounded further away except the machines. You were there, barely. Too still, too pale, too far gone in a way that didn't match how recently you had been talking, breathing, fighting. Rebecca didn't stop him when he approached. She just stepped slightly aside, still watching the monitors like they might change their minds the moment you saw Leon. He sat beside you. Careful, like touching you wrong might make it worse. Or like it mattered anymore. His hand found yours. And for a second, he just held on. “Hey…” he said softly. His voice broke on the first syllable, so he stopped before trying again. “I'm here.“ Your eyes flickered barely. But enough that something inside him snapped between relief and terror. “Dont-.“ He started, then swallowed. “Don't leave me like this.“ His thumb brushed your knuckles, slow, trembling. “I was going to tell you…” He whispered. A pause too long invaded the atmosphere. His breath hitched. “I love you.“ It came out like it had been trapped behind everything he'd ever survived. Your fingers twitched slightly in his. And Leon leaned closer, forehead almost touching yours, like he could anchor you there just by refusing to move. “I love you.“ He repeated, quieter this time. “I love you. Please just… just stay a little longer.“
The tent had gone quiet in the way nothing living ever would. Even the machines seemed unsure of themselves now, less sharp, less certain, like they were trying to soften the truth before anyone had to say it out loud. Leon didn't notice the silence at first. He was still holding your hand, still counting your hitched breath without meaning to, still leaning in like proximity alone could keep you here. “Hey…” He whispered again, because repetition had become the only thing keeping him upright. “You're still with me, right?“ His thumb brushed your knuckles. “Just… stay with me. Please.“ Behind him, Rebecca moved quietly between monitors. Not rushed anymore, not fighting in the same way she was minutes before. Just adjusting, confirming, watching. She didn't interrupt. That was what scared him most. Leon leaned closer, forehead finally resting on yours. “I didn't get to say everything,” he said, voice breaking under the weight of it. “I was going to… I was going to take you home. I was going to-.“ He stopped because your fingers had stopped responding properly. Not fully gone but fading out of rhythm. “Hey,” he said again, sharper. “Hey, look at me.“ Your eyes were barely open. But they were on him. That was worse because you were still trying. Still here in the only way you could manage. Leon exhaled shakily, a sound that didn't belong to a trained soldier anymore, tears finally falling as he allowed himself to feel. “I love you…” He said again, like he could force the world to remember it. “I've always had… Please don't leave me…”
After a small pause, your lips moved slightly. Nothing came out. He leaned in immediately, desperate, like the distance of a breath was too much to risk. “What? What is it? Talk to me, please.“ Your fingers tightened once, like all the energy left in your body was used to make that tiny movement possible. Like you were trying to hold on to the sound of him. And then he saw it. A tear. Slow, unsteady. Not from pain nor fear, something deeper. Something human that was trying to surface at the very end when there wasn't enough time left to say it properly. It slid down the corner of your eye before their light faded into something darker, emptier. And that was when Leon broke. “No…” he whispered, like denying it could still change physics. “No, no, no… don't—don't do this.“ He pressed your hand harder against his chest, like he could physically stop the moment from happening if he held on tight enough. “I didn't get to hear it,” he choked out on his own cry. “I didn't get to hear you say it.“
The monitor shifted tone behind him, flatlining into something that no longer cared about hope. Rebecca's voice was soft when it came, slightly unsteady. “Time of death…” But Leon didn't hear the numbers. He only felt your hand go still in his. Like the world had decided, without asking him, that this was the moment you stopped being someone who could answer back. He stared at your face, waiting. Like if he waited long enough, you'd finish the sentence you never got to say. His voice dropped to something almost inaudible. “…I love you.“ He said one more time, but it wasn't a confession anymore. It was a promise he couldn't return to you. And the tear on your cheek was still there when he finally realized you weren't coming back to finish it.
The sky over the cemetery was dull in a way that felt almost intentional, like even the weather didn't want to draw attention to what was happening below it. Everything was too quiet. Not peaceful, just emptied out. A small group stood gathered near the fresh earth, close enough to show respect, far enough not to intrude on something none of them could fix. Leon stood slightly apart from them. Not because anyone had told him to. Because he couldn't stand being closer. The coffin was already lowered. That part had happened while he wasn't fully present. Time had blurred, fractured into fragments of conversations he hadn't answered and movements he hadn't controlled. Someone spoke nearby, words about service, sacrifice, loss, but they didn't land. They passed through him like wind through something hollow. He wasn't looking at anything except the ground. At the place where you were further away than distance could ever explain. Behind him, he could sense the others. Chris stood with his arms crossed, not out of indifference, but because stillness was the only way he knew how to contain grief without letting it spill. Jill stood quietly beside him, head slightly bowed, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The kind of silence she wore was familiar, too many names, too many endings. Claire was further back, hands clasped tightly in front of her, jaw set in a way that suggested she was holding something together by force. None of them approached Leon. They didn't know how. Or maybe they knew better than to try.
A final bit of soil was placed over the grave. The sound was soft, too soft for something permanent. Leon finally moved. Slowly, like his body was remembering how gravity worked. He stepped forward until he was standing right at the edge of the grave. No speech, no ceremony, no performance of strength left to give. Just him. He crouched slightly, fingers brushing the edge of the earth as if checking whether it was real. It was. Of course it was. His hand stayed there longer than it should have. “I keep thinking…” he started, voice rough, barely holding shape, “that you're going to call my name.“ Silence answered him. Not even the wind contradicted him. He swallowed hard. “I keep waiting for it,” he admitted, almost like he was ashamed of it. “Like I just… missed you walking away somewhere.“ His fingers tightened slightly against the dirt. “But you don't walk away,” he said quietly. “That's the part I can't-.“ He stopped. Because there wasn't a version of that sentence that ended without breaking him further. Behind him, someone shifted, but no one interrupted. Leon exhaled shakily. “I was supposed to tell you everything,” he said. “I did tell you, but I… I didn't get to hear you say it back.“ A pause. Long enough that it almost became unbearable. Then, softer, almost disappearing into itself: “You left me mid-sentence.“ His shoulders tightened, but he didn't cry loudly. It wasn't that kind of grief anymore. It was quieter.
Leon remained at the edge of the grave long after, the fresh earth sat untouched beneath him. Permanent, unfair, real. For a moment, he simply stared at it. Then his hand disappeared into the pocket of his jacket. When it emerged again, he was holding a small black box. His grip tightened around it instantly. Like, part of him regretted taking it out. Like part of him couldn't stop. The weight of it had followed him for weeks. Through briefings, through flights, through quiet mornings beside you. Through every moment he'd spent trying to find the right time. He had planned everything. Not perfectly, just enough. A dinner when the two of you finally had time to breathe, a nervous laugh when he inevitably forgot what he'd rehearsed, your smile, the answer he already hoped he knew. His thumb brushed over the edge of the box. Slowly, carefully. Then he opened it. The ring sat exactly where he had left it. Wating. Leon stared at it for so long that the silence around him became unbearable. Behind him, nobody spoke. Not Chris, who helped him choose the ring, not Jill, who convinced your superior to give you a day off the same day as Leon's, not Claire, who agreed on keeping the secret from you, even though she was too excited to not say it. Because suddenly, there was nothing left to say. His jaw tightened. And for the first time that day, his composure broke completely. Not because you were gone, not because he had watched you die, but because you would never know. You would never know that he had cosen you. That he had carried your future around in his pocket. That every plan he had made beyond the next mission had started and ended with you.
A shaky breath escaped him. “You would've said yes,” he whispered. It wasn't arrogance, it wasn't certainty. It was grief. The kind that invented conversations because reality no longer allowed them. His eyes dropped back to the ring. “I would've asked after the mission, in that restaurant you always loved.“ His voice cracked. A small, broken smile appeared for barely a second. “And you would've told me my timing was terrible.“ The smile disappeared just as quickly. Because there would be no laughter, no proposal, no wedding, no future with you. Only a ring that would never leave its box. Leon closed it carefully and held it against his chest for a moment. As if he was mourning something beyond your death. Not just like the life you had shared. The life you never got to have. Then, after a long silence, he slipped the box back into his pocket and walked away carrying both of you for a little longer.
The path to the cemetery had become familiar in a way Leon never admitted out loud. Not because it got easier. Because repetition was the only thing that still kept the days from collapsing into each other. The sky was the same kind of grey it always seemed to be when he came here, soft, indifferent, like the world had long stopped taking notes on his life. Leon walked slowly, hands occupied. Two coffee cups in one hand. Still warm, careful not to spill. A small bouquet on the other. Your favorite flowers. He never forgot, he never allowed himself to. By the time he reached the grave, he didn't hesitate. That was the strangest part now. He just… arrived. Like it was a routine he had learned too well. He set the coffees down first, one slightly closer to where he always sat, the other placed as if you might still reach for it out of habit. Then the flowers, always carefully. “I still don't know if you'd approve of the coffee I bring you,” he said quietly, almost conversational, like you might answer back if he spoke the right way. “You used to say I made it too strong.“ A faint breath left him, something between a laugh and something heavier. He sat down beside the grave, not quite on the ground anymore, but not fully apart from it either. “I keep thinking,” he continued, voice softer now, “that when I go home… you're going to be there.“ He stared forward for a moment, unfocused. “And you'll be mad at me,” he added, a little more honestly. “Because I left the dishes from breakfast again.“ A pause. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the coffee cup. “But you're not,” he said. No emotion in the words at first. Just a fact. Then it cracked. “And I still forget that part,” he admitted. “Every time I open the door.“ Silence settled again. Not empty, just full of everything he wasn't saying fast enough. Leon exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly on his hands. “I used to think the worst part would be losing you,” he said. He swallowed before continuing, like the words felt like thorns piercing through his throat as they came out. “It's not.“ His eyes lowered. “It's everything after.“ A long pause followed, the kind that stretched until it felt like it might swallow sound entirely. Then, quieter, almost like he was afraid to give the words too much weight: “I think about what I never said properly,” he continued. “And I keep coming back to the same thing.“ He glanced down at the grave, as if you might still be there listening in the only way that remained possible. “It was always there,” he said softly. “I just never said it enough.“ His voice steadied slightly, like he was holding himself in place with effort. “I love you,” he said again, like he was trying to say it as many times as he could to compensate for all the times he didn't say it. “And I always will.“
The words didn't feel like closure. They felt like something he would keep carrying until it wore him down completely. Leon stayed there for a while longer, coffee cooling beside him, flowers unmoving in the still air. And when he finally stood, it wasn't because anything had ended. It was because nothing ever did. He looked down one last time, not expecting an answer. Just remembering there used to be one. “I'll come back next week,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause that hurt more than the words themselves, “Same time.“ And he left you there again, the only place where he still felt close enough to keep talking.
Cabin Fight - Leon Kennedy x Reader (Fever Saint Part 4)
Summary: The cabin was supposed to be a refuge. Instead, it becomes a battlefield.
Masterlist
The cabin appears through the storm like something dragged out of a nightmare. Rotting wood. Dark windows. Smoke curling weakly from the chimney.
But right now, it may as well be heaven.
Leon can already hear the villagers behind you all. There’s shouting and footsteps. Branches snapping beneath boots. Torchlight cutting through the darkness as the village chases.
Ashley is barely keeping up. You’re worse.
Your breathing has turned ragged somewhere during the run across the rickety wooden bridge, each inhale sharp enough that the man can hear it over the rain. The shotgun remains clenched in your hands anyway, muzzle twitching toward every shadow like your body physically cannot stop scanning for danger. The broken shovel you had been wielding must have gotten lost sometime during the run, as it’s now absent from your grasp. He suspects that it was too much extra weight for your injured shoulder to carry.
The cabin is getting closer, light streaking through dust covered windows. For a moment, he feels horror as the door slams open.
Then, relief.
Standing in the doorway is the man from earlier. Luis. He’s squinting through the rain, one hand up and gesturing for everyone to come inside. “¡Rápido!” the familiar voice shouts. “Move your asses!”
Leon grips Ashley’s wrist a little harder at that, tugging her forward. He shoves her in the doorway first, before entering himself. When he turns sharply, he can see that you’ve yet to cross the threshold.
You’re still outside. One of the Ganados had nearly reached the porch, before you pivoted back toward it, shotgun already raised. The blast erupts loud enough to shake the walls. The villager’s upper body disappears into red mist, the rest of him dropping to the ground.
“Rabies!” Leon snaps. “Inside!”
You finally move, boots hammering against the porch steps, your body stumbling across the threshold like it doesn’t know how to react to relief.
Luis reaches for the door at the same time Leon does, both of them slamming it shut together just as bodies crash violently against the outside walls. Wood rattles. Glass shakes. Ashley flinches hard at the impact, her body crouching down behind you like you’re the only thing keeping her alive.
For half a second, nobody speaks.
Then, he turns towards Luis, a glare in his eyes. The man raises his arms instinctively, stepping back at the sight of his fury. A defensive smile comes to his face, but it’s only for show and everyone knows it.
Memories flash through Leon’s mind. Luis throwing the key to the chains aside, leaving him in that room on his own. The questions without answers. Hunnigan’s words are echoing through his ears.
“It seems he used to be a researcher for Umbrella.”
The way his hand presses against Luis’ chest is almost automatic, shoving the man hard against the wall. He can hear old wood creak against the pressure, Luis’ jacket rough against his fist.
“You.”
Luis chuckles nervously, “Ah. Look, about earlier-!”
“Yeah,” he pushes harder. The Spaniard flinches in pain. “About that…”
Luis gives a low groan, before his eyes fall to Ashley.
“Ah!” He sucks in a breath, “I see you found your missing senorita.”
Ashley steps forward for a moment, about to say something, before the man finally looks at you.
Leon knows what he must be seeing. You’re drenched from head to toe. Mud streaks your clothes. Blood, some yours, some definitely not, covers your hands and throat. The skin around your shoulder has gone an angry, feverish red beneath the torn fabric.
You look like Hell.
“…Madre de Dios,” Luis mutters softly.
You immediately narrow your eyes at him. “Who the hell are you?”
Luis actually looks delighted by the aggression. “Luis Serra.” He places a hand dramatically against his chest. “Local charmer. Occasional survivor.”
Leon rolls his eyes instantly, finally stepping back and letting the man go. “He talks too much. Ignore him.”
The brunette man steps from the wall, moving towards you. His hand comes up, gesturing to your shoulder. “…May I?”
Your eyes narrow immediately. “No.”
“Ah,” Luis sighs dramatically, glancing toward Leon. “And here I thought we were making progress.”
“We just met.”
The back of his hand goes dramatically to his forehead, “And already you wound me.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Debatable.”
Another violent slam rattles the cabin walls before either of you can say more. Dust shakes loose from the ceiling beams. Somewhere upstairs, glass creaks ominously. Ashley flinches hard at the noise. Leon’s attention snaps toward the windows automatically, training taking over before panic can. He moves through the cabin quickly, scanning exits, weak points, furniture. Old floorboards groan beneath his boots.
One front entrance. Two downstairs windows. Staircase on the right.
It’s a bad defensible layout. Worse if the villagers bring ladders.
“They’re not gonna stop, are they?” Ashley asks quietly.
“No,” you answer before Leon can. Your voice sounds rough now. Tired. The adrenaline that kept you upright during the run is starting to crack around the edges.
Luis notices too. His gaze drifts back toward your shoulder. Up close beneath the cabin light, the injury looks even worse. The skin around the stitches is swollen and flushed dark red, clear fluid soaking slowly through the gauze.
“Infected,” he mutters.
“I noticed,” you snap.
“No, querida, I mean badly infected.”
Leon sees your jaw tighten slightly at that. For the first time since entering the cabin, you look unsteady. Not weak exactly. Just… strained. Like your body is finally realizing it survived long enough to slow down.
Luis reaches toward your arm again. This time you actually jerk backward. Fast. Instinctive. The movement happens so quickly that Ashley startles.
Luis pauses immediately, both hands lifting slightly in surrender. “I am not going to hurt you,” he says, surprisingly gentle.
“Congratulations. Want a medal?” Your words are almost a growl.
Another crash slams against the front door hard enough to make the hinges groan.
Leon exhales sharply. “Okay. Reunion time’s over.”
Immediately, everyone shifts. Luis is quick to head to an overturned cabinet in the corner, hands grabbing one side of it. His eyes meet Leon’s, and the man is quick to help. Another impact shakes the front door hard enough to splinter wood near the hinges.
Lifting up the cabinet, a tunnel is revealed.
You’re pushing Ashley into it before the poor girl can even register what’s going on.
Leon shifts awkwardly, brushing his knee against you. “Go with her.”
You almost snarl at him, “She’ll be fine. I’m staying here. Not letting you get killed.”
Before he can protest, you’re already turning towards the windows, watching as muddy hands start to pound on the glass. His heart drops as it starts to crack and shatter.
Ashley disappears into the tunnel below just as another body slams against the front door with enough force to rattle the entire frame.
Leon swears under his breath. “They’re getting in.”
“No shit,” you mutter, already moving.
The cabin suddenly feels too small. Too loud. Rain hammers the roof overhead while infected voices screech outside from every direction at once. The walls groan beneath repeated impacts. Another crack splits across the nearest windowpane.
A body bursts through.
You rack the shotgun. The metallic sound cuts through the room like a threat. One of the Ganados starts forcing its arm through the shattered window frame, fingers clawing wildly for purchase. Without hesitation, you step forward and fire point blank.
The blast paints the wall a dark red.
When another clambers its way inside, Leon is already there, handgun raised and firing.
Another window shatters upstairs. Leon’s head snaps upward immediately. Footsteps. Multiple.
“They’re climbing in already,” he curses.
A violent slam rocks the front entrance again. Wood splinters near the lock. Luis curses in Spanish before rushing toward a nearby shelf, grabbing ammunition boxes and setting them down hard across the table. “Leon!”
“I see it.”
The blonde man moves fast, tossing supplies across the room with practiced efficiency. Handgun ammo. Shotgun shells. It all gets laid out for easy access. He’s quick to take a box of bullets and start loading them.
Then, his eyes cut toward you again. You’re swaying. Barely noticeable. Just for a second. But he sees it. Your hand tightens harder around the shotgun grip like you’re trying to physically force yourself upright through sheer spite alone.
“Hey,” Leon says sharply.
You ignore him completely. Another villager starts clawing through the broken remains of the window. You fire again before it fully gets inside. The recoil nearly buckles your knees. That gets his attention fast.
Leon crosses the room immediately, grabbing your good arm before you can stumble sideways. “Easy.”
“I’m fine.” You break yourself from his grip, eyes scanning the room for anything you can use to defend yourself. You land on some broken boards in the corner, with rusted nails jutting out from jagged edges of the wood.
You lift the boards and swing them just as another villager throws itself at you. The boards connect with its head, and gore splatters upwards onto the ceiling. He shoots the man down before it can get to you again.
Leon barely has time to reload before another Ganado crashes into him hard enough to send both of them slamming against the cabin wall. Rotten teeth snap inches from his face, the stench of blood and decay thick enough to choke on. Its hands claw wildly for his throat as he drives his forearm beneath its jaw, boots skidding across splintered floorboards while he forces the thing backward.
“Get off!” he snarls, pistol jammed between their bodies. The infected screeches in his face, parasite twitching violently beneath stretched skin.
Then, over the gunfire and screaming and splintering wood, he hears it.
A scream. Yours. Raw. Sharp. Painful enough that his stomach drops instantly.
Leon slams his knife upward without thinking, burying the blade beneath the Ganado’s jaw hard enough to feel cartilage crunch. The body collapses off him a second later. He whips around, and sees you.
One of the infected has its hand locked around your injured shoulder, fingers digging directly into the swollen wound beneath your bandages. You’re trying to wrench yourself free, shotgun half-raised in your other hand, but the moment it squeezes harder, your entire body buckles with a broken gasp. He can hear the stitches break apart and snap out of your skin, bits of flesh being ripped out with the torn strings.
For half a second, Leon sees red.
The Ganado jerks you hard enough that your shotgun slips from your grasp and clatters across the floorboards. Blood immediately starts soaking through the ruined gauze in thick, dark streaks. Your body falls to the floor, crying out as you hit the hardwood.
“Hey!” Leon roars.
The infected barely has time to turn before he’s on it. His shoulder slams into the villager hard enough to drive both of them through the edge of a table. Wood explodes beneath the impact. The Ganado screeches, twisting violently as Leon’s knife flashes downward again and again and again. One stab to the throat. Another through the eye. A third buried so deep into its skull that he feels bone grind against the blade.
Still breathing hard, he shoves the corpse away. It falls to the side with a wet slap.
“Y/N.” Your name leaves him rougher than intended.
You’re curled halfway onto your side, one hand clamped over your shoulder while blood slips between your fingers. Your breathing has turned ragged again, sharp little gasps you’re clearly trying to suppress through gritted teeth. “…Still alive.” you manage weakly.
Despite the pain twisting your face, you still try reaching for the shotgun lying a few feet away. Blood is pooling beneath your shoulder, ruined gauze and stitches torn open.
“Fuck!” He curses, turning around in time to shoot another enemy, “C’mon. Get back up! We’re gonna get torn apart at this rate!”
“Not if she passes out first!” Luis snaps back.
Leon looks over sharply. The Spaniard is already beside you, dropping to one knee despite another crash shaking the cabin walls. His hands move quickly toward your shoulder before stopping just short of touching you again, like he’s remembering the way you recoiled earlier.
“Querida,” he says, and for once the teasing tone is gone completely. “Look at me.”
You don’t. Your breathing is turning uneven now, pupils blown wide with pain as blood continues slipping through your fingers.
“She needs pressure on this wound,” Luis says toward Leon, voice clipped and sharp. “Now.”
Another Ganado crashes through the upstairs window before either of you can move. Leon fires instantly, hitting it just as it rounds the corner to the stairs.
Leon is about to say something, when the sound of a door slamming open interrupts his chain of thoughts.
“Leon!” Ashley’s voice rings out like a church bell. “Over here!”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Looking down, he can see that the haze in your eyes has cleared. You’re looking towards Ashley, your teeth gritted and face determined. With a hiss, you pull yourself to your feet, and start running.
Leon decides to ignore the blood dripping from your shoulder to the ground below.
leon, who has a crush on you but refuses to admit that he has a crush on someone as a full grown man, who brings you breakfast each morning because you always have a sour look on your face when you get a stomachache from having nothing but a coffee.
leon who passes by your office to "ask you a question about this report," sees that your mug is running low, and makes you another coffee without asking, just the way you like it.
leon who waits for you at the end of the day, even if he's supposed to have gone home hours ago, just so he can walk you to your car. because the smile you give him when you say thank you is what gets him up and into the office each morning. and maybe he's hoping that one day he'll have enough courage to meet it with a kiss.
the s stands for service. leon [acts of] service kennedy
SUMMARY: Agent Kennedy is a smartass, so he reopens his stitches.
PAIRING: Leon S. Kennedy/ fem!Reader
TAGS: Reader is the doctor, Any era leon works, Fluff and a little crack if you squint, Hunnigan gave him the balls, we love lonely men, a little beta read.
𖦹 Word Count: 2,009 𖦹 Ao3
"Agent Kennedy, you need to stop moving." Your voice cut through, quite displeased by his constant fidgeting. You had patched him up merely two days ago; he had seventeen stitches across his abdomen, fresh bandaging and a lecture he could probably recite word for word by now.
Avoid strain. No sudden movement. Rest for at least forty-eight hours.
Simple instructions.
Instructions Leon Kennedy had apparently treated as optional.
Leon was not foreign to the concept of stitches and so you were sure there would be no complications this time as well. Lo and behold, 'I was bored so I went to the camp' which led to your current predicament.
“Says the lady currently driving a needle through my skin,” he muttered with a strained groan, finally leaning back against the operating chair.
"You were the one who denied local anaesthesia. If you want I could still-" You were cut off by him almost immediately. "I don't need local ana-thing for 5 stitches" He said as if you had offended him by even suggesting it.
Men.
"Then don't move again. I mean it." Sternly, this time.
"You got it doc."
Keeping his word, he stopped moving, the only sign that he was not under an anaesthetic being the faces he was making every time the needle went through. The stitching, being superficial, was done relatively fast. You moved away and discarded your gloves.
"I'm writing you up on a strict recovery leave for the next two weeks" , you said flatly as you reached for the clipboard resting on the counter nearby.
Leon’s head snapped up so fast you almost feared he had torn another stitch. "Oh, come on, doc, don't do this to me. Hell, I'm pretty sure you're not even allowed to do that."
“Doctor’s authority overrides field assignment if an operative is deemed medically unfit for active duty,” you recited. “Would you like me to continue, or have you memorised this lecture too?”
Leon stared at you for a long second before letting out a quiet sigh through his nose.
“That’s low.”
“What’s low is reopening your stitches because you got bored.” Moving to your desk and sitting down, you picked up his file.
“In my defence, it wasn’t entirely my fault.”
You finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “You voluntarily went to a training camp two days after abdominal sutures.”
“They needed me there!” He replied quick on his feet.
"You told me you went because you were bored." Another flat look.
A beat of silence "Well, I was bored and they needed help with the rookies."
"Leon, we are not arguing about this. You need rest. As your doctor its my responsibility to make sure you stay in good health and shape" You set the clipboard down on the desk with a sharp tap, turning back to face him.
He slumped back onto the operating chair with a groan. "Fine. You're the boss. I'll sit at home and do nothing. Rot basically. Cause that's what u want me to do. Rot."
"Leon."
"No no. Do as you please. Don't let my misery bother you."
"Agent Kennedy."
That finally got his attention.
Barely.
He dragged a hand down his face before peering at you through brown-blond strands falling over tired blue eyes. “You know, people usually buy me dinner before threatening my entire lifestyle.”
You crossed your arms. “People usually don't reopen stitches out of boredom.”
A soft smile took home on his face all the while looking like he was seconds away from falling asleep. Cute. Adorable even. The small voice in your head even urged you to run ur fingers through his hair. How unprofessional, you scolded yourself mentally.
“You’re exhausted,” you said, gentler this time.
“I’m functioning.”
“You were limping when you came in.”
“Hey now you're just being dramatic.”
How stubborn can someone possibly be, level Leon Scott Kennedy. You exhaled slowly through your nose, fighting the urge to smile. Fighting and losing, apparently, because his eyes narrowed the second he caught it.
“There it is,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“That thing.”
You frowned. “Very descriptive.”
“The smile.” He gestured vaguely toward your face. “You try not to do it around me.”
Your heartbeat performed an unhelpful little backflip.
“That is objectively untrue.” Quick to defend yourself and only receiving a "mmhmm" from his end.
"FYI, I'm very professional, I do not laugh and giggle with any of the government agents I'm assigned to. Ever." You said trying to gain some of the ground back for it to all be yeeted out the window when leon dramatically clutches his chest.
"Agents. There are multiple? You're telling me I'm not the only one?"
You roll your eyes and get up to wash the tools you used. Distracting. Or at least trying your best to distract yourself. That was until Leon spoke up again.
"I think you tolerate me quite professionally.” His voice dipped lower, softer around the edges. “I think the smiling part’s separate.” And thank god you were'nt facing him cause he would have totally caught onto how warm that sentence just made you.
"You're avoiding the real topic." You said trying to go back to medical leaves.
"You're deflecting." God did he ever stop, or was he on a mission to break his poor doctor's composure today?
Nope. Not today.
"You need sleep." You said placing the washed stuff back where it belongs
"Cruel" Came a quick reply
"And at least two weeks off duty."
"Crueler."
With that, you turned back only to see him staring at the ceiling as if he had been sentenced to death. You cleared your throat and sat back down at your desk, flipping through his file in an attempt to regain some level of professionalism. “Your vitals are stable for now. But if those stitches reopen again, you’ll need another full closure.”
“Sounds romantic.” I choose to ignore that one.
“You’ll need to come back in a week so I can remove the stitches.”
“A whole week without seeing me?” he mused. “How tragic.”
“You say that like you don’t appear here every three business days.”
“That’s unfair.” To which I replied, "hardly," before standing up and making my way to his other reports to add them into the file as well.
Another silence settled between you.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made you aware of stupid things.
Like the fact Leon’s voice always sounded rougher when he was tired.
Or how he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking.
Or how unfairly good-looking someone had no business being while half-drugged on painkillers. You could feel his gaze lingering again. It made concentrating nearly impossible.
“Why do you do that?” he asked suddenly.
You looked up. “Do what?”
“Act like you don’t like me.”
You nearly dropped the clipboard.
“I never said I didn’t like you.”
“You don’t have to.” His smile turned faintly crooked. “You get all professional whenever things stop being about medical stuff.”
“That is generally how being a doctor works.”
“Mm. See? There it is again.”
You set the clipboard down with perhaps slightly more force than necessary. “You are reading too much into things.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Before you could respond, Leon shifted forward in the chair with a quiet grunt. Immediately, your expression sharpened. “What did I just say about moving?”
“I dropped my phone!”
You are quick to pick it up and hand it to him. And as if on cue, it rang loudly in his hand.
Leon glanced at the screen and groaned dramatically. “Great. Hunnigan.”
“Answer it.”
“She’s gonna yell at me.”
“You deserve it.”
He narrowed his eyes at you before answering anyway. “Hey.”
You busied yourself backl with his file while he spoke.
Or rather, while he got scolded.
“Yes, I’m at medical.”
Pause.
“No, I’m fine.”
Longer pause.
“I said I’m fine.”
You heard a faint muffled voice and had to fight down a smile.
Leon pointed accusingly toward you while talking into the phone. “See? This is workplace bullying. You and her. You both are teaming up against me.”
You snorted quietly.
Apparently, that was audible enough because Hunnigan’s voice sharpened through the receiver.
Leon sighed heavily. “Okay, okay. Yes ma’am.”
Another pause.
Then his expression shifted slightly.
Subtler.
Softer.
His eyes flicked toward you briefly before he looked away again.
“...No,” he said after a moment. “Not yet.”
Your brows furrowed slightly.
Not yet?
Hunnigan must have said something else because Leon suddenly rubbed his face with his free hand.
“You are literally making this worse.”
Now you were curious.
Very curious.
A beat later, he hung up and tossed the phone onto his lap.
You crossed your arms. “Problems?”
"Aren't there always?...You know what I've realised, doc?" I looked at him, confused, "What have you realised?"
“I like being here.”
You blinked. “In medical?”
“In your office.”
Your heart stumbled traitorously. Was he smooth-talking right now?
“That might genuinely be the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’m serious.”
You looked at him carefully.
He looked exhausted still. Pale under the fluorescent lights. Hair falling into tired eyes. Stubbornness practically radiated off him in waves.
But underneath all of that was something else.
Ease. Like this was one of the few places where he could unclench for a minute.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
The rain outside had softened into a steady rhythm against the windows. Somewhere farther down the hall, footsteps passed and faded again.
Leon Kennedy looked unfairly pretty while exhausted.
"So...I've got a question for you", Leon spoke up, breaking the quiet. "Sure. What is it?" You noticed the slight shift in posture. The hesitation. The way his gaze flicked away for half a second before returning to yours.
“I was wondering...” He cleared his throat lightly. “If maybe you’d want to get dinner sometime.”
Your brain stopped functioning.
Completely.
You stared at him.
Leon immediately grimaced. “Wow. That bad, huh?”
“What?”
“The silence. Usually not a great sign.”
“No, I just…” You blinked rapidly. “You’re asking me out?”
"Well, I was trying to.” A faint flush touched the tips of his ears. “Kinda crashing and burning now.”
“You’re serious?” you said.
You folded your arms again mostly to hide the fact your hands suddenly had nowhere sensible to go. “Agent Kennedy, are you aware that there are probably regulations about this?”
“Probably.”
“And you didn’t even hesitate?”
“I hesitated for like six months.”
Your eyes widened slightly. “Six months!?”
“Listen,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m not exactly great at this anymore.”
The honesty in that statement hit unexpectedly hard.
Not self-pitying.
Just truthful.
Careful.
Like someone testing whether the ground beneath them would hold.
“You could’ve asked someone else,” you pointed out softly.
He looked at you for a long moment.
Then, quieter than before, “Didn’t want someone else.”
The room went still. Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far in the distance.
Leon leaned back again, clearly deciding he’d already embarrassed himself enough for one evening. “Anyway. You can say no. I figured I’d ask before you banished me to house arrest.”
"Wh-I...well..uhh." Words and thoughts had completely escaped you because this was genuinely the last thing you thought would happen.
"Hey its ok, you know? It's fine. I'm a big boy, I can take rejections."
You shook your head, trying desperately to ignore the stupid fluttering in your chest. “Leon.”
His expression softened slightly at the sound of his name.
“I’m serious” he said quietly.
"Well...You are going to recover first." And upon hearing that, he visibly perked up. As if you had just given a golden retriever its favourite treat. And god did the sudden, wide-eyed hopefulness look adorable on him.
"...and after?" He asked carefully
You tried to maintain professionalism.
You truly did. But the small smile found your face anyways. "After...maybe dinner."
Leon stared for exactly one second before visibly relaxing with a smile as he looked at you.
“There it is again,” he said softly.
You frowned slightly. “What?”
“That smile.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A/n: First leon fic!! Not sure how I feel about it tho. Did you guys like it?
❥𝖨𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽!!
summary : just because of a chocolate bar in the grocery store and a little girl, leon met his greatest loves.
tags : post ID!leon, single mom, tooth rotting fluff, reader is 31 and leon is 29ish, inaccurate toddler language, strangers to lovers??? or strangers to friends to lover, girl dad leon
notes : i finished this last week but it took me awhile to get back on this to edit everything, sorry 😭 enjoy tho and thank you for reading!
masterlist : 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
time seemingly stopped for leon as his eyes stayed fixed on the little girl standing a few feet away from him, bouncing excitedly on her tiptoes while clutching a comically oversized pizza box in her hands. her entire face had lit up the second she saw him moments ago, pure excitement shining in her eyes and his name echoed brightly through the hallway when she yelled it.
from behind her, you were there standing too. still just as beautiful as the last time he saw you which was only few days ago to be honest and leon had been in a short mission for days but you remained a constant thought in the back of his mind.
more often than he cared to admit, which is absurd cause he just met you and lilah.
and now here you are again, standing in front of him like nothing had changed which nothing really considering its only been a few days ever since he met you again in this very same hallway.
but what really caught him off guard was lilah. the kind of happiness written all over her face wasn’t something leon was used to receiving. it was the sort of excitement that you can only really see in movies, where a child looked at someone like they were the best thing they’d seen all day.
full of warmth and full of joy, like simply seeing him had made her evening better.
and honestly? leon couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at him like that.
sure, claire and sherry were always happy to see him, and he cared deeply for both the of them, theybe been through everything in this wretched world but somehow this felt different.
simpler and softer like a breath of fresh air slipping into spaces inside him he hadn’t realized that is there but at the same time, something heavier settled quietly in his chest because did he even deserve this kind of enthusiasm from her?
if you and lilah truly knew what his life looked like, like what he does for a living, the blood, the violence and the things that followed him everywhere.
would you still smile at him like this?
or would you avoid him entirely once you realized what kind of man stood in front of you?
"eon!!! youre here". lilah exclaimed as he found himself walking towards them. the little girl then looked up towards you and you took the pizza box cause she might let go of it because of excitement. "he's here".
you cant help but smile at the joy in lilah's face. "surprise, baby".
lilah widened her eyes before whipping her head towards leon, her hair moving frantically with her. she looked at him like he hung the stars and eyes full of wonder.
"are we.... neighbows?". lilah asked, her voice full of hope and eyes still full wide.
leon chuckled under his breath as he crouched down to level with her and now theyre face to face properly. he then pointed at the door behind him causing lilah to gasp again.
"i live here". leon nodded before he suddenly got his arms full of a bouncing kid. he looked at you in surprised and in unsureness cause he was shocked and doesnt really know what to do.
you just smiled at him. you watched how he fumbled his arms and loosened his hold on his duffle bag before putting his arms around lilah with small hesitation.
it is such a cute sight, his face looks so caught off guard and he looks so unsure on what to do with lilah on his arms.
but as you look at him, you noticed a white patch on his shoulders, just peeking behind his shirt. you squinted your eyes a little bit and immediately looked at his face again. there it was, a faint purple mark on the side of his left cheek. its really not noticeable csuse it looks like its fading now but its still there, along with a faint scratch on the side his forehead.
you frowned, a slight pang on your chest when you also noticed the small wounds on his knuckles. you dont know what he does and what his job is but you felt a bit of pity and sadness for him. he looks so tired and wounded as you give him another look.
its just a sudden feeling that you couldnt comprehend so you looked away for a moment.
"we gonna be fwiends for ever". lilah giggled on his neck before she pulled away, her little hands still on his shoulders. "we have fwood, do you wanna eat?".
he widened his eyes at the invitation and he smiled softly before shook his head to decline the invitation, but before he could say something, you cut him off.
"we bought quite a lot, so uhm if you want". you said as you grip the pizza box in your hand while lilah just kept looking at leon's face with a soft smile. "you can eat dinner with us".
this is probably a bad idea but you just cant help it. he looks miserable, now that you have noticed his wounds. you observe how his eyes looks tired when he looked at you after you told him that its okay to eat dinner with you guys.
"i—... i dont want to impose". leon said, his voice breathy and you could really tell that there's a bit of tiredness in them.
"you wont, trust me". you assured him before glancing at lilah who is looking expectantly at him.
he then looked back at the little girl in his arms, she's so small and soft, still so pure in this kind of world. he doesnt want to ruin her perception of the world, cause lilah looks like the kind of person who looks at the world so beautifully.
when its not.
she's so kind and good.
but maybe he should let himself indulge in this serenity that you and lilah are showing him.
maybe this wont backfire on him.
"i'll go change first into something more comfortable, is that okay?". leon softly asked lilah who nodded. he smiled then slowly stood up, wincing a little bit as his ribs screamed at him.
you noticed it but you didnt mention anything.
"come here, baby. lets ready the table". you called at lilah who didnt seem to want to let go of leon.
you then finally opened your door and pushed it open while waiting for lilah who keeps waving at leon with a grin.
"dont eat all of the food, okay?". leon teased the little girl who just stuck her tongue out at him before running inside the apartment.
"we'll wait for you, dont worry". you chuckled at leon who just rubbed a hand behind his neck.
"thank you". he softly said which you replied with a smile.
he deserves a good night.
both of you then went inside your respective apartment to get ready for dinner. you called out to lilah to start getting ready for a quick bath while you delivered the box of pizza in the living room table.
tonight calls for a dinner in the living room considering you have a guest. you thought that maybe you guys should watch a movie too so before you could set up anything, you followed lilah first in your room.
you looked at her in amusement when you found her already naked in the bathroom and is waiting for you patiently.
"arent you a little excited?". you tease her after putting your bag in your small vanity and went to tie your hair up.
"leon". she answered a simple response causing you to chuckle under her breath.
its amazing how attached she is to the man who she just met a few days ago.
after that, you focused on helping lilah wash up for the night while she happily sang under the shower. the bathroom is then filled with her laughter and dramatic little performances, making you laugh along as you carefully washed her hair. every now and then, she’d suddenly switch songs halfway through or make up her own lyrics entirely, clearly entertained by herself.
soon enough, you found yourself washing up beside her too. between the singing, lilah then started telling you everything she did with mrs. caske throughout the day, jumping from one story to another without pause.
you listened attentively while washing up, you hummed along and occasionally asking questions to keep her entertained.
her little voice echoed warmly around the bathroom as she rambled happily, completely energized despite the long day.
once the both of you were clean and finished showering, you wrapped lilah up and yourself in a towel before heading back to the bedroom together and to dress yourselves in comfortable clothes for the night.
"so soft". lilah giggled loudly as she hugged herself to feel the softness of her minnie mouse pajamas.
she then went and hugged your pajama covered legs. you laughed softly before hefting her up in your arms and proceeded to walk out of the room to ready your dinner.
both of you worked in tandem as you guys took some utensils, plates and mugs for the drinks ; and put it on the living room table. you then opened your fridge to take out some left over pasta that you made yesterday night. you'll eat it again cause its still good anyways.
"careful". you told lilah when you handed her a carton of juice.
lilah nodded as she gripped it tight on her hands and carefully moved to the living room to put the juice on the table. after watching her successfully put down the pitcher, you went to the stove to reheat the pasta with some butter.
your stomach grumbled lowly when the aroma of the butter hits your senses, everything is just so good with butter.
as you reheat the pasta and lilah entertaining herself in the living room, you both finally heard a knock on your door causing the little girl to snap her head up and look at the door.
you then put the finished pasta quickly on a big bowl and brought it on the living room before you went to the door with lilah following you like a duckling.
she started singing leon's name causing you glance at her in amusement. you unlocked the door then opened it softly to finally see leon in a more comfortable clothes.
it kinda looks illegal to look this good in just black sweatpants and a white tshirt. you gulped unknowingly when you glanced at his arms, its big alright? it looks like a thing to be just held.
"leon". lilah jumped with her hands in the air.
the man gave you a small smile before he looked down at lilah and feign a shock expression at her minnie mouse pajamas.
"look at you, looking so good". he praised causing lilah to beam up at him.
"come on, come on". lilah went forward to grab his hand while giggling.
leon looked at you again as the little girl just grabbed and drag him inside. you just shrug at him before closing the door behind them.
you followed them inside while lilah just continued babbling away to leon who keeps nodding and eyes darting from place to place to observe the surroundings.
your place is quite similiar to his too but the major difference that he noticed is that its so filled in and it smells good. leon thought that it might be coming from the flowers all around the room. he could see vases of flowers and plants in some of the tables, one at the middle of kitchen table, and on by the windows.
theyre blooming and just so beautiful.
lilah made him sit on the couch and his eyes went to the table that is filled with food. his stomach growled in hunger and he felt shy all of the sudden while you just laugh quietly.
"uh oh". lilah said as she tilted her head at leon before looking at the table and grabbed a plate. "les eat".
you then opened the pizza box and all three of you looked at it in awe. its looks so good and juicy, the smell even covered the whole apartment. its literally glistening in the box too while the oil is staining the surfaces.
"that looks good". leon stated as he felt his mouth water at the sight of it. it felt so long ago ever since he had some pizza. its always been ready made food, coffee or some food in the cafeteria in DSO. hell, sometimes he even gets ration meals if he's too tired to think on what he is going to eat.
"i wish i bought the chicken with it". you sighed while still looking at the pizza.
"s'okah mommy, we ave pasta". lilah smacked her lips and leon gently took the plate that lilah gave him before she pointed at the plate of your pasta. "try, mommy makes the best spahetti".
you cooed at your baby who just grinned proudly at you before pointing at the pizza next, to signal you that she wants to eat now. you then proceeded to take a squared slice of pizza and it was a good thing that the restaurant can cut their slices into squares one so that it'll be easier for kids to hold it.
you put three slices on lilah's plate before you twirled some spaghetti and put it on her plate too.
"thank you, mommy". lilah politely said as she carefully took her plate and moved down to sit on the floor.
seeing how lilah looks comfortable on the floor, leon then followed her down causing you to widen your eyes. he visibly winced as he adjusted himself on the floor but he sighed when he finally found himself comfortable and felt his body go lax.
"good floor". leon shot you a grin then took some pizza for himself and some spaghetti.
you watched them both in amusement before you took the carton of juice and poured them some in their mugs.
"seems like we have an old man here". you teased lightly as you finally took some slices of the pizza for yourself.
"who are you calling old?". he muttered under his breath before giving you a look, making lilah giggle loudly beside him while you just laugh and bite into your pizza.
“you’re silly, leon.” lilah quipped before slurping her noddles.
"thank you, lilah. finally, someone appreciates me in this apartment". leon sighed dramatically before taking a bite of his pizza with a small moan in delight as the little girl just grinned at him with spaghetti sauces on her cheeks.
you snorted softly while shaking your head before finally joining them on the floor too, settling beside leon as your little girl was already sitting on his other side and the warm smell of pizza and pasta filled the apartment.
outside, the city continued quietly beyond the windows, cars occasionally passing by while the soft glow of streetlights filtered through the curtains.
and in the inside of your cozy apartment, everything felt warm and comfortable.
lilah happily chatted away between bites of food, occasionally trying to steal more spaghetti from the plate while leon pretended to be deeply offended whenever she reach for his pizza too.
her laughter echoed around the apartment easily, bright enough to make both you and leon laugh along without realizing it, and for the rest of the night, the three of you simply stayed there together on the floor sharing food, teasing each other, and enjoying the kind of quiet happiness that felt almost too easy between the three of you.
its funny cause days ago, you guys were only strangers but now here you are, eating dinner together like you guys knew each other for years.
𝐜𝐰. 6k words, vendetta era!leon, exes to lovers (divorced), coworkers (reader is a dso agent), swearing, slow burn(?), jealousy, arguing and insults, ingrid hunnigan appearances, slight insecurity, uncertainty and denial of feelings, yearning, scientific inaccuracies, leon humor, tension, undercover at a gala trope, flirting, physical affection(?), side characters that I made up, reader has a vaguely science-y degree, lots of nerding out, alcohol, probably some plot holes, weapons (not used), reader gets called "pretty thing", no use of y/n
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. The mission is simple; infiltrate the gala, gather intel on a small-time bioweapon researcher, and apprehend him. But of course, things with Leon are never that easy.
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞. let's all pretend i understand human origin determination for the sake of fanfiction!!! everyone thank my amazing stunning brilliant girlfriend for helping me cook up the ideas in this chapter because she is the true mastermind!!!!
𝐩𝐭 𝟏. 𝐩𝐭 𝟐. 𝐩𝐭 𝟒. 𝐩𝐭 𝟓. 𝐩𝐭 𝟔.
You never thought you’d say this, but working with Leon didn’t suck as much as you’d anticipated. Did you enjoy it? Absolutely not. Did you want to set yourself on fire along with the rest of every bioterrorism scene you were sent to? Also no. You supposed it was all the time apart that had healed some of the hurt, even if the scar tissue remained, rearing its ugly head every time you and Leon clashed on some insignificant detail. Which you did a lot.
“I’m the one with DSO experience, I’ll decide the course of action,” he’d say.
“Well I read the protocol for situations resembling this one, so I think I’m the one who should be making the decision here because I’m going to pick the option that we’re supposed to go with,” you’d bite back.
You now had several missions together under your belt. It wasn’t easy, but it was at least easier than it was in the beginning. That first one was hell. Hunnigan had been a godsend, advising you on best courses of action and bringing you up to speed on technique and operations as you encountered them. It just stung the way she and Leon interacted, even if it all boiled down to years of familiarity and cooperation. You could hear it all in your earpiece. It wasn’t jealousy, it was worse than that. It was that fact that Leon could be nice, could be a decent fucking person, he just went out of his way to be a dick to you specifically. Because even after sixteen years, he was making your life more miserable and difficult than it had to be. Luckily, despite a few somewhat close calls, the mission was relatively easy. There were no near-death situations, and you’d even saved the day (your words, though Hunnigan agreed that you did well) a few times.
Since then, things with Leon had slowly but surely mellowed out. There was, no doubt, still a distaste for each other that underlined every interaction. There were still comments that maybe, maybe could have broken some tension but instead cut with precision. There was still the simmering rage beneath your skin that flared up whenever you could sense that he was about to dig up something from the past, something that you had vowed to set aside for the sake of the job. There was still the sinking of your heart every time you found yourself almost interacting with him like you would with anyone else, every time you remembered who he had been to you and how he became who he was now. Sometimes it ached so much that you’d take your work to another room.
There was no guidebook to being coworkers—to being partnered agents—with your ex-husband. You were good at taking instructions, at following a plan; that’s why you fit so well in your job. But it made this situation harder.
You were actually kind of glad that this next mission was so easy. No BOWs, no facilities or labs, no specimens, and, most importantly, no immediate life-or-death danger. You finally had the chance to snuff something out before it got too big to handle without a gun.
The concept was simple; go undercover, infiltrate a small gala being held in the name of science, and take in a small-time researcher that was starting to get too big for his boots. It would be important to gather intel and cozy up to any of his clients, potential or actual. And a gala meant you got to dust off some of your nicest clothes. You could only hope Leon would clean up a bit and look the part.
It wasn’t an overnight mission, thankfully, but you’d been booked a hotel for convenience anyhow. You sat on the cheap bed, looking at yourself in the full-length mirror mounted on the wall while Leon was still getting ready in the bathroom. You eyed your outfit uneasily. Was it really going to blend in well enough in a ballroom full of rich patrons of the sciences? Was anyone going to truly believe that you belonged there? You tugged at the fabric a little, eyeing your face uneasily. It was not a fancy rich person face. It was a stressed and nervous as hell face.
The bathroom door clicked, unlocking and slipping open. The sound had you leaping to your feet, standing at attention before your brain could process what was even happening. You felt dumb, but sitting back down now would look dumber, so you stayed where you were, fidgeting with a seam just enough to hopefully calm your nerves but not enough to look pathetic. Hopefully.
Leon stepped out and into view. He really had cleaned up. He was shaven, hair meticulously but not-too-perfectly coiffed, and he almost looked younger. You supposed he simply didn’t have any fear to wear on his face this time. He didn’t spare you a glance at first, choosing to go straight to retrieve his pistol and tuck it inside his suit jacket. He looked sort of like he was portraying James Bond.
Finally, he looked at you, hand momentarily stuttering and the pistol missing his pocket. His eyes flashed with something you couldn’t place, forehead wrinkling into a slight frown. You knew it, you knew you looked silly. He bit his lip and then returned his expression to something unnaturally neutral just as fast. He cleared his throat and, paying attention to what he was doing this time, successfully hid the pistol.
“You look good,” he offered. It sounded forced, rough. He coughed. You exhaled strongly.
“Shut the fuck up,” you groaned, spinning and heading to the other side of the room to check your things for something, anything else that would look better at a gala.
“What? I complimented you, do you not take compliments anymore?”
“Don’t lie to me,” you snarled, “I know I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb.” Behind you, Leon’s hands came up in a confused gesture that you couldn’t see with your back turned.
“No? I wouldn’t waste my breath to tell you you look good if you don’t. You’re not that special,” he tacked on under his breath. You whipped around, fueled by the frustration of nothing in your belongings being any better than what you already had on and the irritation of one Leon Kennedy. He grimaced and averted his gaze.
“You look—you’re really—” He sighed in frustration, stopping himself from running his hands through his hair just before he messed it all up. They fell to his sides, clenching awkwardly. “I haven’t seen you like—like this since—you know.”
Your stomach dropped into your fancy shoes. Heat crawled up the back of your neck, but it wasn’t flusteredness, shame, or anger, it was something you couldn’t name. All you knew was that it hurt not in a way that stung or brought tears to your eyes. It was hollow, a tremor of past pains that only left the ghost of a warm breath on your skin. You hated it.
Whatever vulnerability had led to Leon saying what he did vanished as disorientingly fast as it emerged. The irritability and words that lodged beneath your skin like needles returned, and the moment—the too-late notion that communication could lead somewhere for once—vanished into thin air. The face that briefly held something other than disdain for you, something frighteningly close to optimism—or maybe it was closer to a vague helplessness, a surrender to whatever war raged within his head—took shelter yet again under a shroud of acrimony.
Sickeningly, your chest ached for the resurgence of that shred of positivity and promise you saw on him moments before. You hated that you wanted him to care, to feel anything better than bitterness for you. Why? Why did you give a damn? Why did you—after all these years of independence and rejoicing in the lack of a drunken, uncooperative husband—wish, even for a second, that he might make up for all he’s put you through for so long?
Deceivingly level, Leon inhaled deeply through his nose, startling you into the realization that the hotel room had been waiting in suffocating silence while the two of you watched the other through the haze of time.
“So pardon me for not knowing what to say. Or what I can say.” You stared after him as he popped back into the bathroom briefly to grab a few items he’d left before reemerging, grumbling to himself. “You go off like this all the time, no matter what I say it’s wrong, and yet I still act like saying something is better than nothing even though you always tell me to ‘shut the fuck up.’”
Numbly, you looked down at your outfit. Then back to the mirror. You smoothed out the creases formed from your antsy clutching and willed yourself to take a look through the eyes of a stranger. It wasn’t awful, you had to admit. Expensive doesn’t always mean expensive-looking. Maybe you were an investor with simpler tastes. Maybe you were one of the handful of actual scientists at the rich-people-feeling-charitable party.
“Do I…” You trailed off. You couldn’t believe you were about to ask your ex-husband this question, but you needed to know for certain. You had to at least try to understand him. “Do I really look that good to you?” You glanced back at Leon through the mirror. He halted in tucking his cologne back into his bag, then swallowed and met your eyes.
“To me?” You nodded slowly. His attention was swiftly redirected to organizing his belongings.
“Yeah,” he affirmed, almost too casually. “You’re attractive, anyone can see that. You don’t have to worry about fitting in at the gala because I can assure you, the ugliest guys you’ve ever seen will be there and no one will bat an eye because they have money and confidence.” You snorted and hated that he actually made you feel better. “And the women will all be half plastic and botox. So really, nothing to worry about.”
“So it’s not that I look good, it’s that everyone else looks bad,” you teased. You’d already drawn out the closest to a veritable compliment you’d get from him, so you didn’t need to push. Leon’s head fell back and he treated the ceiling to an eyeroll. His lips parted to defend himself, but you interjected with an obviously dramatized click of the tongue. “You’re gonna need to rely on something other than charm tonight when trying to weasel information out of people because it is… not good. If that’s the best reassurance you’ve got.” He frowned and stood straight, crossing his arms. Thankfully, he hadn’t taken your jabs to heart. His reactions to—well, anything you said, truth be told, were still relatively unpredictable to you.
“I’m very charming. I don’t think I need to take advice from you, I’m the more experienced agent anyway. I know what I’m doing. You’re the one who’s nervous and begging for compliments.” He snapped his fingers in the direction of your own assets, beckoning you to gather whatever you were going to take with you. You located your comms earpiece, hesitating to put it in yet.
“Do you really think I’m that eye-catching?” He groaned. Luckily, you understood him just well enough to know that he wasn’t genuinely fed up yet, just incredibly close to crossing that line.
“I’m done with this conversation.” You smirked.
“Okay, but it’s only fair that I let you know that your own attire is dashing as well.” You regretted saying something nice—you regretted saying anything at all—when you could see the gears turning in his head. He looked up at you mischievously.
“Would you say it… suits me?” You grabbed a pillow from the bed and launched it at him. He caught it and tossed it aside. “Come on, we need to head out.” He put in his earpiece and you did the same. Your knife was firm where it was hidden against your leg, your pistol hidden in your overcoat. You were ready—as ready as you’d ever be, at least.
The two of you made it in without a hitch. You quickly parted from Leon, the two of you claiming opposite sides of the ballroom as your territory to explore.
“Gather information regarding Dr. Robert MacMillan,” Hunnigan's voice directed, “and, if possible, apprehend him.”
“Yeah, we know why we’re here,” Leon responded. Instinctively, you glanced around the room and saw him raise a flute of champagne to his lips, likely hiding the movement of his speech. As if anyone would be watching him closely enough to give a shit if he was talking to himself.
Well, apparently you thought too soon, because someone must have been paying him at least a little attention. Within seconds, an elegant woman in a sleek red dress had sauntered up to him, making light conversation. You, of course, could only hear one side of it.
“Is that so?” Leon laughed. “Well, I assure you I’m not, but if you have anything to tell me, I’d gladly accept your advice.” She swirled her own flute and you even thought you saw her batting her eyelashes.
You averted your gaze and unknowingly clenched your jaw. You didn’t need to watch over Leon. Even if he did a lot of reckless shit, he was right about his charms and experience. Although you still stubbornly wanted to do anything but admit it. What you needed to do was find your own guest to sweet talk into divulging black market secrets to you.
So that’s exactly what you did. The night progressed just so, with you and Leon floating between groups and individuals, gathering names and details that Hunnigan made note of, piping in with new developments every now and then that might benefit either of you in your search. You felt very accomplished, your insecurities almost entirely melting away as you made light work of your assignment. And, it seemed, you had the opportunity to indulge in your own personal interests.
“I’ve seen you making the rounds tonight. Quite the social butterfly, aren’t you?” A rich, masculine voice called and approached you from behind. You spun and met his gaze, observing him. He seemed to be in his early to mid-thirties, easy on the eyes with an air of confidence that wasn’t over-the-top. He seemed genuine, normal, even. You made a mental note to not let your guard down.
“Oh? Do I have a fan?” He laughed.
“Oh, sure, you could say I am. More importantly, I’m intrigued. What’s a pretty thing like you doing here by yourself?”
“‘A pretty thing like myself,’ huh?” You repeated. You heard a quiet breath in your earpiece. “What makes you think I’m here alone?”
“Well, I know if I was here with you, I wouldn’t want to let you out of my sight. Someone with an eye for priceless treasures might scoop you up.” He winked. You wondered if that was a hint into his own intentions.
“Touché. Well, I am here alone.” You heard Leon snickering, wherever he was. “Why, are you interested in a priceless treasure to take home tonight?” He frowned in consideration, appearing to mull it over extensively for a moment. His brows shot up, stance relaxing.
“Well, I might be,” he chuckled lowly. You flashed a small smile laced with a hint of seduction.
“What’s your area of expertise?” You honed in on getting him to talk. There was no need to ask if he was a scientist or patron; he wasn’t at all plain or underdressed, but he lacked the certain flair that the sponsors and donors all seemed to be saturated in.
You remembered clear as day from your college years; once you got an academic started on their research and passions, the real struggle would be getting them to stop. This man seemed relatively loose-lipped; he either had a plethora of intel to easily unearth, or you’d quickly find that he had nothing of use to you and you could move on to something more productive.
His eyes, bright blue and reminding you, aggravatingly, of someone else, twinkled. “I’m Cameron Akrigg, I deal in forensic criminology.” Your lips parted and your eyes widened.
“Forensic criminology, huh? Well, Cameron Akrigg,” you repeated for Hunnigan to make note of, “I think forensic criminology is riveting.” You hadn’t expected to meet anyone interesting, and yet, one seemed to fall nicely into your open hands. And if he dealt in criminology, surely he wasn’t actually involved in anything nefarious, right? Unless criminology was his cover, something to make people think exactly like you instinctively did?
You needed to know more—for the mission, yes, to be sure he wasn’t connected to MacMillan, but also for your own personal curiosity. You introduced yourself back, giving a fake name you’d thankfully prepared ahead of time, and began your line of questioning.
“So do you conduct research? Got any big findings making waves in the peer-reviewed journals?” He tossed his head back smoothly and laughed while he swirled his champagne flute.
“No, no, I just finished my master’s recently. I’m starting a new job soon, but who knows? Maybe some day I’ll have questions I want to investigate, no pun intended.” You chortled quietly. “From what I’ve heard of others’ experiences, the decision to go for a PhD just kind of… falls into your life.” He shrugged and you nodded.
“That makes sense! I didn’t even end up going to college until my mid- to late-twenties, so…” you trailed off, unsure of where your anecdote was going or what purpose it was meant to serve. Cameron understood what you meant, though, even if you didn’t.
“Right, like, academia and further education is all really personal and subjective.” His eyes glimmered. “What did you study?”
You explained your program to him. It could loosely be connected to forensic criminology, mostly the forensics part, and you glided effortlessly over your job and how you were using your knowledge in your life today. It pays to be knowledgeable, but it pays even better to know more than you let on. In this circumstance, it felt like being honest about your studies, at the very least, would prove beneficial. It would open some sort of door, form some sort of connection or build trust.
“Ah, so you might have a little interest in DNA profiling and bodily fluid ID,” he stated, his tone questioning but grounded and confident in his assumption. “More organic stuff like that, yeah?”
The seductive attitude he’d taken on when first approaching you had melted away into something more genuine; as if you’d drawn the nerd out of the dalliant casings he’d arrived in. It was a reassurance to know one layer had been peeled back, even if you didn’t know how many more remained. You had him talking, you just needed to push further.
“Oh, all sorts of IDing. DNA, fluids, yeah, but also just about anything suspicious that needs to be looked into. I’m not one of the top dogs—is that the expression?” He grinned into his flute and gave a slight nod before sipping. His eyes crinkled warmly; he seemed like a good guy. You really hoped he wasn’t involved in any of the BOW shit. “Well, yeah, I’m not one of the top dogs so I kind of pass on my surface-level findings to people who are more equipped to deal with all of that. Unfortunately, there’s not much I can do in that area with my degree as it is.” With a curt exhale through your nose, not quite a laugh or scoff, you joked sarcastically, “Maybe I need to look for a new job.”
You were startled by your previous exhale echoing in your ear. You’d forgotten there were two agents listening to your every word. Well, one was listening, and the other, you didn’t know. And didn’t care.
Cameron shifted his weight, very subtly (but not unnoticeably) lessening the distance between the two of you. “Well, if you’re in the market for one, I would love to put in a good word for you. I can sense that you’re a hard worker and have a great deal of care for your specialty, even if we haven’t been speaking for much time at all. I like to think I can read people well enough to justify little inklings like that.”
You were, admittedly, a bit flustered. His voice was low and gentle for only you to hear, and his eyes seemed to hold no ill will. He was genuinely interested in you, and it felt nice. You told yourself you didn’t need validation or praise from some guy, but couldn’t deny that it was actually uplifting to be heard, even by a stranger, considering your assigned work partner never seemed to give a damn about your thoughts or brains.
“And, well… it’s selfish of me, but I’d like to see more of you. Wouldn’t it be great to collaborate on scientifically solving America’s next cop-stumping crime scenes?” You giggled. Leon cleared his throat somewhere in the ballroom.
“Oh, you wouldn’t want me at a crime scene with you. I’d just be a distraction.”
“Well,” he half-agreed, hinting at something a bit more flirtatious with an almost-toast of his flute toward you. Another giggle escaped your lips at his antics. “I can’t disagree. I would be a little unfocused.”
“Oh, you flatterer.” He hummed, shrugging lightly and leaning further toward you.
“Is it flattery if it’s true? I can’t say I would be 100% in the zone if you were at a crime scene with me… maybe I shouldn’t recommend you for any openings.”
“I guess you could say if looks could kill, we wouldn’t be investigating anything because I’d be the perp and you the victim. Or am I wrong?” Cameron whistled. You thought you heard Leon’s voice but you weren’t entirely sure you hadn’t just imagined it. After all, it was the kind of stupid thing he’d say, wasn’t it? Unless his dorky-but-affectionate lines had changed since the nineties. Whatever, you didn’t plan on finding out. You were just proud to have come up with that one on your own—on the spot, no less.
“You’re trouble,” Cameron teased, full lips pulling into a wide grin to flash the singular dimple on his left side. He shook his head, a stray curl falling gracefully onto his forehead. Then, Hunnigan spoke in your ear, updating you.
“Cameron Akrigg is clear, he’s got no criminal ties or unsavory history. You’re good to move on.”
So Cameron had no ties to MacMillan. You were relieved; you were enjoying his company, and it would be a shame to have to poke and prod at him for crucial information or, worse yet, well and truly investigate and apprehend him.
You felt your shoulders relax a little and refocused your eyes on Cameron. He looked tired, probably still recovering from all his years of higher education—you didn’t get a master’s so you didn’t know the post-completion “healing” process, if there was one—but he had an eager smile, one that spoke of ambitions and big dreams. You could only wish for his career to be long and fulfilling, hopefully not something that would tear him down and haunt him forever. As soon as you realized you were hoping he wouldn’t turn out like Leon, you dismissed the train of thought entirely and refocused on the moment at hand.
“Do you do any origin determination in your work?” You were kind of glad he switched up the subject; you didn’t know how to follow your flirty comment from earlier, or how to continue the conversation after Hunnigan’s update and your distracted mind. Your eyes lit up at the opportunity to leave it all behind.
“Oh, yeah!” Well, not really. This guy was clearly a lot more hands-on and involved than you; you were a field agent, and if he were in the DSO, he’d be the one analyzing evidence and samples you bring back. But, you happened to know enough about origin determination. Or so you hoped.
“Counter or rocket immunoelectrophoresis?” Fuck fuck fuck. Stay cool.
“CIE. I prefer the qualitative aspect.” Cameron nodded.
“You know, I read a recently published journal article where researchers used CIE and RIE to evaluate protein extractants. They found ammonia solution to be really good for extracting aged stains.”
You hated to admit it, but you were interested. Even if you felt a little out of your depth, Cameron didn’t make you feel bad for it. If anything, his joy at talking about his passion made the topic that much more enjoyable. Besides, he had a master’s and you’d wrapped up your studies years ago. And you certainly weren’t keeping up-to-date with the research; you had more than enough papers to deal with in the DSO. You had your bases covered in terms of excuses.
“I’m sure you’ve read so many articles and studies and it may be hard to keep them all straight or recall things off the top of your head, but I’m curious, could you tell me more about this one?” Cameron blushed. You felt a pang in your heart and wondered how often he was prompted to talk about what he so clearly loved. Poor guy. You really were rooting for him, deep down.
“Let’s see… Usha et al., I believe, was this one.” He tapped his index finger on his lower lip and paused for a moment to recall details. “Well, RIE, as you know, is better for yielding quantitative results. The researchers started with CIE for general evaluation and then the RIE just kind of confirmed their initial findings. They wanted to know what was the best protein extractant out of gel buffer, saline extractants, and ammonia solution, and the precipitin peaks were higher for ammonia.”
You watched the way crow’s feet appeared when he got excited, the way he looked years younger despite it. You also watched, fuzzily and out of the corner of your eye, as a figure seemed to be approaching you specifically from across the room. You tried to calm your heart and focus on the conversation. If there was a problem, Leon or Hunnigan would let you know.
“So is this your specialty? Like, is the bulk of your job do—”
“Hey, there you are,” Leon breathed casually. Too casually. His hand found the small of your back as he came to a stop just beside you. His fingers were spread, palm wide and staking its claim. The touch burned through all of your layers and defenses until it reached a 20-year-old who needed it desperately. He leaned into you; he could have inhaled your scent or even kissed your hairline if he’d puckered his lips. It took all of your strength to not glare daggers at him; you had to keep your composure and not blow your cover. Leon did not appear to have the same concerns; rather, he seemed eager to reveal every lie you’d told.
Cameron’s eyes darted between the two of you, unsure of the circumstances now that another variable had entered the equation. You squirmed under Leon’s touch, hoping it read as ‘I’m kind of into it, but like, I don’t know him well enough to be super into it.’ You were no trained actor. It probably looked like you needed to find a bathroom.
“Do you…” He trailed off, but you damn near prayed he’d finish with ‘know each other’ or something you could easily downplay. You side-eyed Leon harshly while Cameron was distracted with looking him up and down, gauging the competition. Do not fucking ruin this. You could only wish the message came across in your expression, but this was Leon. He never listened to you. “I thought you were here alone.” You rolled back your shoulders, standing straight with a confidence you certainly didn’t feel.
“I am. We…” You looked at Leon. His eyes were trained on you as well, intense and shadowed from the way he was backlit. You could hear him in your mind, daring you to deny what he was insinuating. The feeling was like something crawling beneath your skin; you couldn’t escape it, couldn’t stop it. He subtly pulled you closer to him, his fingers digging into you through your attire. The movement wasn’t enough for anyone else to catch on, but you felt your center of gravity shift.
“We’re—” He started, still not moving his attention from you. You bumped into his side, a small gasp escaping you. The way his eyes softened for a brief second was, you told yourself, a figment of your imagination.
“We met here—” Your voice was a pitch higher than normal. Stupid stupid stupid. Get a grip, he doesn’t know anything, you can worm your way out of this one. Leon looked back to the forensic criminologist and you each tripped over each other’s words.
“—Getting us drinks—”
“—Got distracted—”
“—Waiting—” Hunnigan groaned in your earpieces before the sound was cut off—she must have forgotten she was unmuted—and you could see the quickest flex of Leon’s jaw before it was gone.
“I’m sorry?” Cameron was thoroughly confused; his brow was furrowed and the poor guy looked… betrayed. You supposed you had lied to him, but this was an entirely new lie that you felt you couldn’t justify. You’d initially chatted him up for information, flirted a little and maybe led him on, sure, but it was for the mission, right? This was just Leon being… what? What was he after?
You felt bad for Cameron; you were enjoying the conversation, the chance to interact with someone who you could actually talk about chemical analysis and scientific investigation with, and your laughs weren’t even forced! You were having a good time with him, even if you weren’t really planning on leaving with him—you were no priceless treasure—at the end of the event. Even if he was a fleeting escape from your duties.
You sighed, stepping out of Leon’s hold and, unintentionally, closer to Cameron. The agent’s arm fell to his side heavily. As if you were high schoolers and you’d just rejected him in front of the whole football team. It was pathetic, but there was no time to dwell on it.
“We met here earlier, he went to get us champagne and then we were going to talk business but kind of got distracted with…” Your arms flapped dumbly. It was the most awkward save and even worse way to gesture to the situation you found yourself in. There was no way in hell this man was going to buy anything you said now. Your partner had completely and utterly ruined it. You were, at the very least, glad that Cameron didn’t have any intel to divulge. This would have been a disastrous, mission-derailing blunder on Leon’s part.
“Oh. Sure, well”—he tipped his flute in your direction with a light smile—”talk business, then, and come find me later.” He winked and headed off with hardly even a glance in Leon’s direction. You knew he knew something was up, but it almost felt as though he was offering a choice… if you really were here with Leon, he didn’t seem to feel threatened, and still left the figurative door open for you. It seemed, fortunately, that you had convinced him enough.
You abruptly let out a breath you’d been holding for… well, you didn’t know, you couldn’t recall when you stopped breathing and started anticipating the worst. Leon also exhaled, though less panicked than you. His shoulders sagged like he’d been Atlas holding the sky. There was a clear, distasteful curve of his lips, a snarl almost. His eyes followed Cameron through the crowd like a hawk until he disappeared from view.
You immediately stalked off, heart pounding red-hot rage through your body now that the adrenaline sat unused from your fight-or-flight response. Each step echoed off the walls of your skull, the rest of the high-ceilinged room slowly fading into silence in your mind.
“Hey, don’t wander off,” Leon warned, chasing after you. You picked up the pace, but he did as well, dodging guests to finally snag your wrist in his firm grip. You spun so fast that he didn't even recognize that you were facing him until you stomped on his foot. He winced, curling into himself. There was no hint of remorse in your face, only cold, sharp eyes boring into him. He grunted, “Okay, sure.”
“Sure? Sure? Leon, what the fuck was that? Cameron was harmless, we were just talking! I had everything under perfect-fucking-control!” You kept your voice low in the ballroom—words could travel fast with enough power—but the lack of volume was more than made up for in the way each consonant sunk its teeth into him. Your stare burned holes in his jacket.
“I—he—he was like a—a predator hunting its prey with you!” You heard Hunnigan clear her throat, presumably trying to politely redirect the two of you back to the task at hand. Unfortunately, it was too late.
“He was hunting me? Are you for real?” Leon stiffened. Then, he doubled down on his poorly-thought excuse.
“You know what? Yeah. I am for real. I thought he was being gross and trying to get your guard down. We’re here for a reason—”
“What are you talking about?” You hadn’t looked at him with such venom in a long, long time. “Did you think I was seriously into him? I—” You sneered, letting a breath hiss through your teeth. “You know what? I always have had low standards, haven’t I?” His frown twitched. You’d hit your bullseye.
He let go of your wrist. Furious heat flared up your neck at the realization that you’d let him keep his hand around you the whole time. How hadn’t you noticed it? He steeled himself, putting on a much-too-calm front. Too professional. It didn’t suit him, not this unbearable, alcoholic, brooding, asshole version of him.
“You need to do your job. The mission comes first. You can suck any dick you want later, but we have to locate a goddamn threat.” Your vision went white for at least three seconds before your awareness returned to the gala. Your whole body shook.
“You’re lecturing me about doing my job? When you were doing fuck-all and listening in to my conversation?” Each word was even, calculated, much too quiet and controlled. Leon pursed his lips. He definitely knew he’d fucked up. His mouth twisted into a grimace, his eyes suddenly and inexplicably captivated by the sight of the dusty print you’d left on his shoe when you’d stepped on it. “If I’m so bad at it, why don’t you finish this one yourself? You’re the experienced agent, you can locate Dr. MacMillan and take him in all by yourself, since you’re so capable.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Even if he’d spoken, you wouldn’t have listened. He’d ruined his chance big time.
You turned on your heel and started away. Your nails dug into the flesh of your palms and tears burned at your eyes. How humbling; Leon could still get a rise out of you with his words. And here you thought working with him wasn’t turning out to be so bad.
The ballroom was quieter now. No one seemed to be aware that a heated argument had broken out, but you still wished the chatter would roar and drown out every thought you had.
You heard a click. Nothing special, nothing crazy, but you were more than familiar with the sound of a gun being cocked. You didn’t turn fully, but you did look back.
“I heard some people were asking about me. Not very subtle, are we?”
A little fluffy piece about Leon's crush on the RPD receptionist who has a fear of relationships.
Let me know if you would like me to continue their story!
This was the third time in an hour that Leon had walked up to the receptionist's desk. Your desk.
Leon didn't even get to speak when you calmly asked, "What is it this time, Leon?"
You had practically memorized the sounds of his footsteps. He didn't walk with as much heaviness as the other officers. He was light on his feet.
"How did you know it was me? You didn't even look up." Leon fidgeted with the snake plant next to the desk.
Glancing up, you notice the slight blush on his cheeks. It wasn't shocking. Everyone was aware of Leon's feelings towards you. When you started just over a month ago, the other staff and officers were welcoming towards you. However, the other recent hire, Leon, was especially attentive. Leon had practically begged Lieutenant Branagh to swap patrol shifts with another officer so that he could personally show you around the Raccoon City Police Department.
You hum before answering, "Well…you are one of the few officers who come up to the receptionist's desk. You are also the only one to come here multiple times a day…or multiple times in an hour."
He pursed his lips, "I was just going to ask if you wanted to grab dinner tonight or not."
Leon was a sweet man, cute even. Persistent as hell, though. Whenever he was done with reports or not patrolling the city streets, he would hang around the front desk. If you needed to print something, he would book it to the printer to get whatever you printed for you. If he caught you staring at the menu of the Thai place next door, you could expect him to show up during lunch with your order already in hand.
Not only would Leon do things for you, but he genuinely wanted to learn everything about you. Sometimes you would entertain him, answering every question he had about you. You swore that Leon knew more about you now than your best friend did.
"Did you happen to forget that I don't like dating colleagues?" you gave him a sarcastic smile.
You were aware that if Leon weren't handsome or so considerate, you would have probably complained to HR about him. Curse pretty privilege.
Leon pouts, "Come on…I know you like Italian food. There is also a really good ice cream spot next door to where I wanna take you. Please?"
"Nope. Now run along, pretty boy, before I have the lieutenant send you off to patrol the car meets tomorrow night," you said with amusement.
The blonde grumbled, but followed your orders as he went back to his desk.
You shake your head with a smile until you hear a female voice, "I gotta hand it to him…That guy is determined."
Looking up, you catch sight of the back of Jill's head as she watches Leon walk off.
Jill Valentine was your favorite co-worker at the RPD. You two bonded quickly over your love of dogs and your shared enjoyment of tormenting your male co-workers whenever they exposed their lack of knowledge about the female body.
Surprisingly, only Leon Kennedy understood how women use pads during their periods. Officer Redfield believed they were glued to a woman's body.
"Yeah…Determined never to leave me alone."
She snorts a laugh before glancing up with a more serious look. "Honey…do you seriously hate him? If you need help, then I can tell him off for you. You always joke around with him…I thought you enjoyed it."
"What? No-" you almost cough on your coffee. "He isn't that bad, not enough to make a complaint about him. I just…I think he shouldn't waste his time with me, ya know?
Jill furrowed her eyebrows, confusion on her face. "Waste his time? He is right where he wants to be."
You groan, "I mean, he should…I don't know…"
Slumping into your chair, you tug your cardigan tighter around your body. You knew exactly what your issue was, but it wasn't fun admitting it.
"What if I agree to go out with him and we end up hating each other? What if things get awkward and work becomes miserable? What if HR doesn't even allow relationships between co-workers? What if we actually get together and break up a year later and just waste each other's time—"
"Hey," she grabbed your hands that were flailing around, "You shouldn't be this stressed out over something that hasn't happened. Seriously."
You pout and hunch down on your chair, not wanting to hear a lecture at the moment.
Jill lets go of your hand and sports a soft smile. "I think you are more nervous about liking him than anything else."
Shrugging, you turn back to your computer screen. She was right, you were worried about falling for Leon, and the potential for heartbreak.
"Look, I know you don't need a relationship. They are not something we need to live with. However, you can't let a fear like that stop you from forming a connection that can be so special. I'm not saying to marry the guy, but even just one date could help you learn something about yourself." Jill pats your shoulder and waves a farewell.
Your eyes follow her as she walks away, replaying the conversation in your head.
What if this fear of heartbreak was stopping you from letting yourself be happy with someone who genuinely cared about you?
Your thoughts are interrupted by the sounds of police officers walking in from their lunch break, and you remind yourself to focus on work once more.
Except for the next hour, your mind was busy with images of Leon. You could barely focus during a phone call because all you could think about was Leon's cute chin and his large hands that always found their way just inches from yours.
Grumbling, you decide to flip a coin. Heads, you continue denying him and hope he moves on, or tails, where you go ask him out for dinner yourself.
You pull out a quarter and shut your eyes as the coin flies in the air. Once you heard the coin hit the wooden desk, you opened your eyes and looked down.
Tails.
"Fuuuuuuck…okay. Better do it now before you chicken out," you whispered to yourself.
You took your emotional support water bottle with you to the wing of the building where Leon's desk was. It was moments like these where you were thankful for how abnormally big the RPD was for a police department.
Standing outside the door of where his desk was, you took one breath before walking inside. Several officers greet you warmly, causing Leon to immediately look up from his desk when he hears them say your name. As he saw you walk over to him specifically, he stood up quickly to greet you, "Hey, you rarely come back here."
"Yeah…I uh…are you able to talk for a bit out in the hall?" you asked, uncertainty on your face.
Leon furrowed his brows, confused, "Uh, yeah. Sure. Everything alright?"
You nod and motion for him to follow you out into the hallway.
"So uh…" You cleared your throat as you two found a quiet spot. Leon's blue eyes were filled with worry as he looked at you. He had never noticed you so fidgety with him.
You grip onto your water bottle. "Is your offer for dinner still on the table or…?"
Leon froze for what seemed like eternity before his lips formed into a huge smile. "Are you serious? Really? Yes, yes. It is!" He went to grab your hands, but stopped himself from going overboard. "You aren't messing with me, right?"
Seeing his excitement melted your heart. "I am being very serious. Yeah, I'd like to go."
Leon could see that you were clearly out of your element, but didn't want to bring it up. The last thing he wanted to do was make you feel embarrassed.
"That's great! Thank you, really. I can make reservations and all, so you don't have to worry about anything. I will make sure the restaurant serves the dishes I know you like. Chicken parm, right?" He took out his notepad (which was for writing down info during patrols and not about what his crush likes to eat) to note down everything.
You nod, a ghost of a smile on your face as you notice his attentiveness, "Yeah, that sounds good."
Leon closes his notepad and puts it back in his pocket. You shifted nervously under his intense gaze. Leon couldn't stop staring at you, a blush dusting his cheeks while a dopey smile spread across his handsome face.
He breaks the silence, "Can we hug?"
"Don't push it."
Leon laughed quietly, the sound warm and breathless as he rubbed the back of his neck.
Maybe agreeing to dinner with Leon Kennedy wouldn't be the end of the world after all.
Hey can I make a request leon re9 x wife pregnancy story where they are both chilling together in their living room in their house. then leon cooks food all of a sudden his wife starts feeling sick from the smell. then she runs to the bathroom and then they suspect something is up and take a pregnancy test. Just something like a cute story of them together.
( 🧺 ) —— unexpected pregnancy
💭 . . . one morning— when Leon finally had enough time to spend with you— decided to cook for you so you could relax, but you unsuspectingly got sick from the smell of the food, which was enough to concern your husband, who suspected something was up and told you to take a pregnancy test.
which, you two have an unexpected surprise waiting for you as soon as those two dotted lines show up.
᠃ ᠌ ᠌ pairing :: RE9 leon kennedy x fem!reader 𓍢 ִ
𓎢𓎟𓎡 𓈒 word count : 1,555
⤷ ﹒ content & warning(s) : pregnant!reader, fem!reader, pregnancy fic, no smut just fluff! Leon is a doting husband to you, short fic, pet-names, no use of y/n but [name].
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀：author's note —⠀⠀I hope this fits your req! I'm not too good at writing pregnancy fics, BUT I did try my best for you, anon. Also, a new layout and a slightly new writing style? 👀 𓏴⠀
It was supposed to be a normal day, you hadn't expected to wake up next to your husband to be right next to you. Although it was a very lovely surprise for you, it was enough for you to wake up from your sleepy daze— instinctively moving towards your husband who was still sleeping, the sunlight was peaking through the windows, enough to signal that the day was approaching slowly.
Although you didn't move to get up like you usually would, you didn't move to make you guys some breakfast; for some reason, your body was achingly exhausted. You've been feeling quite down for the past few weeks, which was enough to draw your husband's attention, although you always manage to convince him that you were feeling under the weather.
In the midst of your dazed thoughts, you hadn't even noticed how your eyelids were growing heavy or the way your breathing started to slow, and before you knew it, you had fallen back asleep. Huddling close to your husband's body for warmth, you hadn't felt him slowly starting to stir awake when you were falling asleep.
When Leon had woken up, he felt the familiar weight of your body on top of him; it was a sensation he hadn't felt in a long time, although it was comforting. It would've been comforting and peaceful if it weren't for the fact that the sunlight was starting to peek through the curtains and into his eyes, momentarily blinding him when he blinked the light away slowly.
Leon shifted slightly, enough to not stir you awake, but to slowly get up as his form sat on the edge of the bed, groaning slightly as he got up, moving to the connected bathroom to get ready for the day— he was careful enough to be silent throughout the whole process, he wanted you to sleep in, that wasn't mentioning the fact that you staryed to behave strangely lately but whenever he asked, you brushed him off.
Leon moved not so gracefully down the steps, shifting his weight slightly before he made it downstairs, already moving to the kitchen to cook his wife something before you wake up. He wasn't the best at cooking, although he knew how to cook the basic meals, the meals that you always loved in the comfort of your home.
It only took a few minutes for you to finally wake up, to smell the familiar smell of eggs and bacon that threatened to creep up the stairs and into the shared bedroom. You blinked through your sleepy haze and winced slightly as the sunlight threatened to blind you with how bright it was— you slowly stirred awake and clumsily got out of the bed with the blankets falling down on the floor behind you.
By the time you had made it downstairs, the smell grew stronger, thicker, almost... nauseating. Although you brushed it off as a temporary morning sickness, unaware of the day you and your husband were about to have, nor the surprise in it, you slowly made your way into the kitchen, where Leon was. He perked up as soon as he heard your familiar footsteps— clumsy, light, almost sleepy.
" You're awake? I was hoping that you would still be asleep. " Leon smoothly called out to you, snapping you out of your daze as you let out a muffled chuckle at the audacity of his comment. You slowly moved through the kitchen as the smell grew stronger, but you forced it down as soon as you saw him cooking for you, " ..You're cooking? I'm surprised you didn't burn down the kitchen. " Your comment was soft, deliberate; there was no heat behind it.
Leon looked over at you when you made the small comment, earning a small eye-roll from the older man as he stirred the eggs in the pan, turning his attention back to the food that was cooking on the stove; the cracking of the bacon filled the air. It should've been a comforting sight between the couple, but you felt the familiar prickle of something threatening to rise in your throat.
You instinctively moved away from your husband; it was quick, harsh against the wooden floors, disrupting the calming air between you two. It was enough to immediately catch the attention of your husband as he already moved to turn off the stove to prevent the food from burning, and followed after your hurried form. As soon as you made it to the bathroom, you already kneeled over the toilet and threw up; it was a sickening sound.
Your vision blurred as your hands clenched the edges of the toilet rim. You couldn't even stomach the thought of opening your eyes to see your throw-up floating in the toilet's water, although in the midst of your suffering, you felt the familar hand of your husband wrapping his fingers in your hair and pulling it back, his other hand moving to rub soothing circles on your back.
It took only a few minutes for you to finally stop, and when you did, everything felt light now. Your stomach ached instinctively, your hand moving to your stomach as you flushed the door and pulled the lid down to force yourself to sit on the toilet. Leon was already starting to suspect things; none of this felt normal. This wasn't just some "under the weather" type of sickness.
" There's something wrong.. Honey, please be honest with me. " Leon looked up at you as he let go of your hair, moving to your hand as his hand felt like a grounding presence, grounding enough to pull you out of your daze. Your breathing quickened for a moment, almost painfully so. " I.. I don't know. " Your answer was quiet, uncertain, almost like a pained whisper.
It was enough for Leon to connect the dots in his head slowly, adding further to his conclusion by your whisper, the way your hand grasped his tightly, the way your eyes seemed unfocused, or how your breath hitched for a moment. enough for him to stand up and release your hand as he moved to the cabinet not too far away, shuffling through some things before he pulled out the test, the box catching the glint of the bathroom lights.
You two always kept some tests on standby for moments like these, although you hadn't truly processed the many realities in your brain, one of them being that you were unexpectedly pregnant, something that neither of you truly planned for. You closed your eyes for a moment as you took a deep breath; his presence was enough to ground you, to provide comfort for you.
You didn't need to open your eyes to feel his hand meeting yours, slowly, treating you carefully, " ..i-if.. if you are pregnant, I promise.. I promise I'll be a good father. " Leon's voice was almost weak, something you hadn't heard from him in a long time; your chest had instinctively tightened, enough to force your eyes open as you looked up at him. You didn't need to say anything; the silence was enough to ground you both from this unexpected moment.
You grabbed the test from him as he moved to leave the bathroom, giving you a semblance of privacy as you heard his departing footsteps, moving to the kitchen, leaving you in the dimmed bathroom as you clenched the small box in your hand, your vision blurring for a moment before you got up and moved the lid up, slowly taking the pregnancy test out of the packaging.
It only took a few minutes for you to do the test properly. Everything was a blur, something you couldn't remember, but as soon as you peed on the sample, you moved to clean yourself up and wiped the test in case any of your urine got on it. You waited... and waited, by the time you were getting restless, you got up and peeked over at the test that was resting on the counter.
only to find what seemed to be eerily similar to two lines on the window, your heart practically dropped to your stomach, enough for you to draw in a quick and harsh breath as you quickly stood up and carefully walked to the positive pregnancy test, like it was some ticking time bomb waiting to detonate. When you caught a full look at the test, you saw it properly; it was positive. Your eyes weren't tricking you.
By the time you realized what was going on, you grabbed the test from the counter, moving out of the bathroom and into the hallway that led to the kitchen. Your footsteps were light, quick; you could hear Leon pacing around. By the time you had arrived, you could see him moving back and forth, the wooden boards creaking under his weight, and the food in the pans was getting cold.
When Leon heard you walking close, he didn't look back. Instead, he heard you slowly walking closer to him, tentative, careful, before you slowly placed the positive test on the counter, within his peripheral vision. It was enough for Leon's body to tense up for a moment before you placed a hand on his bicep, a comforting gesture that made him instinctively relax.
Perhaps having a family wouldn't be so bad.
. ౿ Where to? ── masterlist , rulebook , see me .✦
blurby re4 fluff thing shoves it in your arms and runs away
"You're cute."
"I'm not cute," Leon grumbles, like he's not looking up at you with saucer-sized eyes, like he's not gripping the backs of your thighs like they're a teddy bear. You lean over him again to press the thousandth kiss of the last hour to his lips. The two of you were making a very poor attempt to get out of bed. It's not anyone's fault that it's softly storming outside, that the rain is pattering the windows and the grey-blue blankets sprawled across Leon's bed are so comfy. And it's certainly not either of your faults that you can't seem to detach from each other after what seems like years apart.
It was only a week.
You're so disgustingly in love with this man.
"I'm looking at you, and I have eyes, and I see a very cute man."
"You should get your eyes checked," his gaze darts away faster than you can catch. He buries his nose in the hollow of your neck, following with a short kiss at your collarbone. He closes his grip on your legs, fully trapping you now. You're not complaining. Blonde strands slip through your fingers as you rub your nails delicately into his scalp. He sighs, and you feel a sense of pride at the way his shoulders drop. He's actually relaxing.
"Don't need to," you rub at his neck and shoulders now, and he nearly moans. "I have 20/20 Leon-vision."
"You're biased."
"Maybe so," you shrug. He tips his head back just enough to look at you, the blue of his eyes lidded heavily with lingering sleep. Just then, he yawns and rubs at his face, and you feel like your knees may snap in half from the weight of the affection you feel towards him. "Yeah, fuck you, you're so cute."
"Shut up." You're not sure how your jaw doesn't fall to the floor from the way he grumbles it, like you've embarrassed him. The tips of his ears have begun to burn a light shade of pink, and you can't wipe the shit-eating grin off your face.
"No one ever called you cute before, handsome?" You kneel on the bed between his open legs, pushing him backwards and into the mattress. Now, with his face fully visible, you can see that same shade of pink dusted across his cheeks. You're a little too proud that you made him blush. You wish you had a camera, because nobody would ever believe that you had this federal agent, a direct weapon of the President of the United States, flushed like the petals of a summer peony.
"Most people avoid eye contact."
"I'm not most people."
"You aren't," he concedes. His arms find your spine, running upwards with a gentle pressure. "I think you have to be a little crazy to choose... all of this." You scoff and lean down for another kiss. Leon melts into it, like it's the first time he's been touched. Pulls you closer so that you're practically laying on top of him. And if he has his way, that's exactly where you'll stay.
"So I'm crazy, then," you smirk and wiggle your eyebrows. "Crazy 'bout you." Leon groans and rolls you on your side, wrestling you into his chest. You pretend to fight and let him win. It's not like there's anywhere else you'd rather be.
Masterlist
AO3
Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader
Summary: Leon falls victim to the cat distribution system.
As an emergency vet, you have strict rules about giving out your personal number to clients. But when a soaking wet, broad-shouldered man walks into your clinic holding a shivering neonate kitten like it's a live grenade, you make an exception. Strictly for cat emergencies, of course.
(It does not stay strictly for cat emergencies. Not when he keeps using "suspicious sneezes" as an excuse to see you)
Content: Sick animals, grief and loss, burnout, alternating POV, no Y/N, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, gentle romance, Leon becomes a cat dad, flirting, awkward Leon, domesticity, reader is a veterinarian, realistic vet med content
DM or Comment to join the taglist
The rain is a relentless, gray sheet that turns the Washington D.C. outskirts into a blurred watercolor of brake lights and misery.
Inside his Porsche Cayenne, Leon S. Kennedy feels the familiar, hollow hum of a post-mission comedown. His suit is wrinkled, his tie is loosened to the point of uselessness, and the smell of stale coffee and government-issued paperwork seems to have seeped into his very pores.
The debriefing had been a disaster. Four hours of bureaucrats in sterile rooms asking him to quantify the "unquantifiable horrors" he’d seen in a damp basement in Eastern Europe.
They want data; Leon just wants a drink and a decade of sleep.
"Note to self," he mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carries over the rhythmic thwack-thwack of the windshield wipers. "Next time Hunnigan calls with an 'easy' reconnaissance job, tell her I’ve retired to open a bakery. At least bread doesn't try to grow extra heads."
He’s doing sixty on the slick highway, his grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel light but practiced. His mind is already drifting toward the bottle of aged bourbon sitting on his kitchen counter—his only roommate in an apartment that’s too quiet and too clean.
It’s a dangerous headspace to be in. In his line of work, the moment you start looking forward to the end of the night is the moment something bites you.
Suddenly, the world narrows.
A flash of neon orange darts into the cone of his high beams. It’s small—too small for a deer, too erratic for a trash bag.
"Son of a—!"
Leon reacts before he thinks. It’s a muscle memory honed by years of dodging charging Ganados and careening through Raccoon City in a stolen cruiser.
He slams the brake pedal, the ABS system pulsing violently beneath his boot. The car skids, its tires screaming in a high-pitched protest against the wet asphalt. The back end fish-tails, a graceful but terrifying slide that Leon corrects with a sharp, disciplined jerk of the wheel.
The car lurches to a halt, the engine idling with a low, mechanical pant. Leon’s heart is hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm he usually reserves for when a Tyrant is breaking through a drywall.
"Great. Just great," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "If I’ve totaled the suspension for a squirrel, I’m never living this down."
He throws the car into park and steps out. The rain hits him instantly, soaking through his dress shirt and plastering his blonde hair to his forehead. He rounds the front of the car, expecting to find a mess on the road. Instead, he sees a tiny, shivering lump huddled against the front passenger tire.
It’s an orange kitten. It couldn't be more than five weeks old, its fur spiked into pathetic, sodden needles. It looks less like a predator and more like a very angry, very wet dandelion.
Leon stares at it. The kitten stares back with wide, watery eyes, letting out a pathetic, high-pitched mew that sounds like a rusty hinge.
"You’ve got a real sense of timing, kid," Leon says, crouching down. The water is already pooling in his expensive shoes. "Of all the lanes in all the world, you had to walk into mine."
He reaches out, and the tiny creature tries to hiss. It’s a valiant effort, really—a miniature display of bravado that makes Leon’s chest ache with an unexpected, sharp tug of empathy.
He knows what it’s like to be small, cornered, and surrounded by things much larger and meaner than you.
"Easy. I'm not a zombie. Well, not on the weekends, anyway," he murmurs.
He sheds his suit jacket—the one that cost him more than an average paycheck—and scoops the kitten up. The creature is so light it’s terrifying; he can feel every individual rib beneath the soaked fur. It’s vibrating with a bone-deep chill. Without a second thought, he swaddles the kitten in the heavy fabric of his jacket, shielding it from the downpour.
Back inside the Porsche, the heat is blasting, but the kitten is still shaking. Leon sets the bundle on the leather passenger seat, watching as a tiny, pink nose pokes out from the lapel of his jacket.
"Come on, little guy," Leon mutters, his voice softening in a way he hasn't heard in years. "Don't clock out on me yet. I didn't almost wreck my favorite car just for you to quit now."
He taps the GPS on his dashboard with a frantic, wet finger. 24-hour emergency vet.
"Alright, hold on," he says, shifting the car back into gear. He glances at the kitten, who has now curled into a ball inside the jacket, looking exceptionally small against the vastness of the interior.
"I hope you like German engineering, because we’re about to break some speed records."
As he pulls back onto the highway, the bourbon is forgotten. His focus is entirely on the tiny, rhythmic rise and fall of the orange fur beside him. For the first time in a long time, the mission isn't about saving the world or stopping a virus.
It's just about making sure one small thing makes it to tomorrow.
──────•✦•──────
The clock on the wall of the treatment area mocks you. It’s 3:00 AM, the literal witching hour of veterinary medicine, where the cases are either bizarre, tragic, or a headache-inducing combination of both.
You take a sip of coffee that has reached a temperature and consistency best described as "over-brewed sludge," feeling it burn a slow path down your throat. It’s the only thing keeping your eyes open.
"The tulips really did a number on him," you mutter to Sarah, your lead tech, as you both stare down at a sedated domestic shorthair in cage four. "Bloodwork looks like a disaster zone. His liver’s basically thrown in the towel and headed for early retirement."
Sarah sighs, rubbing her eyes behind her glasses. "Are we starting him on the lactulose titration now?"
"Yeah," you say, your fingers dancing across the sticky keyboard of the workstation with a weary, mechanical rhythm. "And hang the fluids. I’ve already typed in the orders. Honestly? I could use a Propofol coma myself right about now. Just ten minutes of medically induced silence. Is that too much to ask of the universe?"
The chime of the front bell rings—a sharp, cheerful ding that feels like a physical blow to your sleep-deprived brain.
"The universe says yes," you grumble, pushing off the counter.
You catch a glimpse of the security monitor. Standing in the lobby is a man who looks like he just crawled out of a shipwreck. He’s soaking wet, broad-shouldered, and wearing a look of such raw, high-octane panic that your professional instincts override your exhaustion.
"Well," you mutter, adjusting your stethoscope around your neck. "This is going to be interesting."
You head out to the lobby, the smell of wet pavement and expensive leather hitting you before you even reach him. He’s striking—harsh jawline, blonde hair plastered to his forehead in messy clumps, and eyes a startling, piercing shade of blue that seem to be vibrating with adrenaline. He’s cradling a high-end suit jacket like it’s made of glass.
"Exam room one," you say, your voice blunt but not unkind. You don't wait for him to move; you lead the way, the squelch of his boots following behind you.
Once the door clicks shut, he gingerly places the jacket on the stainless steel table. "I found him on the highway," the man rasps. His voice is deep, underscored by a slight tremor he’s trying very hard to hide. "He almost... I almost hit him. I think he’s dying."
"Let’s see the damage," you murmur. You carefully peel back the wet fabric, expecting a gore-fest. Instead, you find a tiny, orange scrap of fur that lets out a pathetic, high-pitched squeak.
Your hands, practiced and steady, move over the tiny body. You grab a warm, chlorhexidine-soaked gauze to wipe away the road grime and grease. You check the gums—pale, but pinking up. You listen to the heart—fast, but steady. No broken bones. No internal bleeding. Just a very cold, very hungry little life.
"Good news, sir," you say, looking up at him. "He’s not dying. He’s just a dramatic, malnourished neonate."
"Leon," he corrects instantly, his voice slightly breathless. "Just... Leon."
You blink, then tap your ID badge with a tired, playful smirk. "Okay, Leon. We can do first names. It saves time in an emergency." You go back to drying the kitten with a soft towel. "He’s probably five weeks old. He’s thin, he’s got a bit of a chill, but he’s remarkably intact for someone who took on a car and won."
Leon sags against the counter, his hands shaking as he runs them through his wet hair. The relief on his face is so profound it makes your chest twinge with a rare spark of empathy. Usually, people are just annoyed about the bill. He looks like he just saw a ghost be resurrected.
"So, what happens now?" he asks. "You... you have a shelter? Or a rescue?"
You stop scrubbing and give him a long, grim look. "It’s kitten season, Leon. Every rescue within a three-state radius is currently overflowing. They won't take a bottle-baby right now. If I send him to the city shelter, his chances are... well, they aren't great."
The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the sound of the rain lashing against the exam room window. You watch the conflict play out across his face—a man clearly burdened by a world of "heavy" things, staring at a three-ounce kitten. He rubs his temples, looking at the orange scrap that is currently trying to burrow into his damp shirt.
"I don't know the first thing about cats," he admits, a dry, self-deprecating humor touching his lips. "I'm more of a... tactical entry kind of guy. Not a 'nanny' guy."
"You managed to not squash him with a car," you shrug, reaching into the cabinet to pull out a starter kit. "That’s a passing grade in my book."
He sighs, a long, defeated sound that ends in a nod. "Fine. I’ll take him. What do I do?"
For the next ten minutes, you give him the 'Neonatal 101' crash course. You pack a box with formula, tiny bottles, and a snuggle-safe heating pad. You show him how to hold the kitten—belly down, never on his back—and how to test the temperature of the milk.
"And here’s the best part," you say, a mischievous glint in your tired eyes. You pick up a cotton ball and dip it in warm water. "Since he’s this small, his mom would usually lick him to make him go. Since you are now the mom, you have to stimulate him to go to the bathroom after every meal."
You hand him the cotton ball. Leon stares at it as if you’ve handed him a live grenade with the pin pulled.
"I have to... what?"
"Stimulate," you repeat, suppressing a grin. "Gently. It’s glamorous, I know. Welcome to parenthood, Leon. Try not to get any on the suit."
The moment of levity is shattered when Sarah’s head pops through the door, her expression grim. "Doc, we’ve got a hit-by-car ten minutes out. It’s a Golden Retriever, multiple fractures, looks like he’s in shock. We’re prepping the crash cart."
The shift in your energy is instantaneous. The playful vet vanishes, replaced by the clinical commander. You reach for a pen stuck in your pocket and use it to shove your messy hair up into a makeshift bun, tightening the knot with a sharp tug.
"Copy that. Get the O2 ready and start a warm saline bag," you say, already moving toward the door. You look back at Leon, who is standing there holding a box of formula and a terrified-looking orange kitten.
"Leon, he's stable. Take the kit, go pay the tech at the front desk, and get that cat into a warm bed," you say, your voice now a sharp, professional staccato as the adrenaline begins to flood your system. "I’ve got a real crisis coming through those doors. Good luck. Don't be a stranger if he stops eating."
You don't wait for a goodbye. You're already sprinting toward the treatment area, the "Propofol coma" forgotten.
──────•✦•──────
The apartment is a monument to a man who expects to leave it at a moment’s notice and never return.
It’s located in a quiet corner of D.C., all cold granite countertops, brushed steel, and a sofa so ergonomically perfect and devoid of character it might as well have come with the lease. There are no photos on the walls. No stray mail on the entry table. The air usually smells of nothing but filtered ventilation and the faint, metallic tang of the gun oil he uses to clean his gun.
Now, it smells like kitten formula and desperation.
Leon sits on the edge of his bed, the glow of his phone illuminating the deep grooves of exhaustion etched into his face. He sets an alarm for 02:00. Then 04:00. Then 06:00.
"Great," he mutters, his thumb hovering over the save button. "I've gone from tactical extractions to a scheduled piss-watch for a creature that weighs less than a standard-issue magazine. My career trajectory is really peaking."
He looks down at the shoebox he’s lined with one of his softest, most expensive hoodies. Inside, the orange kitten—whom he has tentatively dubbed 'Cheeto' in a moment of sleep-deprived weakness—is a vibrating ball of fluff.
The 02:00 alarm blares with the subtle grace of a flashbang. Leon is upright in half a second, his hand flying toward the nightstand before his brain registers that he’s not in a trench in Edonia. He’s in a climate-controlled bedroom, and the only 'hostile' is a hungry five-week-old feline.
He stumbles into the kitchen, his movements stiff. The process of heating the formula is an exercise in agonizing precision. He uses a meat thermometer to ensure the liquid is exactly 98.5 degrees Fahrenheit. If it’s 98.4, he’s convinced the kitten will get hypothermia; if it’s 98.8, he fears he’s essentially serving lava.
"Okay, kid. Chow time. Don't make it weird," Leon whispers as he gathers the kitten into his lap.
His hands—hands that have steadied a sniper rifle in high-wind conditions and punched through the reinforced glass of Umbrella laboratories—are shaking slightly. He holds the tiny plastic bottle like it’s a detonator with a frayed wire.
When the kitten finally latches, a frantic, rhythmic tug-tug-tug vibrating through the silicone nipple, Leon finds himself holding his breath.
"Easy there, tiger. It’s a buffet, not a race," he says, a small, lopsided smirk tugging at his mouth. "You eat like a zombie at an all-you-can-eat brain buffet."
The "glamorous" part comes next. Leon stares at the box of cotton balls you had handed him with that knowing, mischievous glint in your eyes. He can still see your face—the way your hair was a mess, the way you didn't even flinch when he walked in looking like a drowned rat.
You had looked at him like he was just a guy, not a government asset, not a survivor. Just a guy with a cat.
"Stimulate," he repeats your words, his voice a flat, dry monotone. "She said it would be fun. She lied. I’m definitely filing a complaint with the veterinary board for emotional distress."
He performs the task with a grimace of intense concentration, murmuring apologies to the kitten the entire time.
By day three, the "sterile" nature of the apartment has surrendered. There are half-washed bottles in the sink. A trail of discarded paper towels leads from the sofa to the trash. A stray sock, mangled by tiny needle-teeth, sits in the middle of the hallway.
Leon should be annoyed. He should be furious that his sanctuary has been breached by an orange chaos-agent. But as he sits on the sofa at 4:30 AM, watching the sun begin to bleed over the D.C. skyline, he realizes his internal monologue has gone quiet. The anger—that low-simmering hum of PTSD that usually keeps him company in the dark—has been drowned out by a tiny, motorized purr.
The kitten crawls up his chest, stumbling over the buttons of his shirt, and tucks its head directly under Leon’s chin. The fur is soft, smelling faintly of the soap you’d used to clean him.
Leon freezes, his arms hovering awkwardly for a moment before he slowly, tentatively, rests a hand over the kitten’s back. He feels the tiny heart beating against his own.
For the first time since the world ended in a rain of missiles over Raccoon City in 1998, the crushing weight in his chest feels... lighter.
"I think the vet might be onto something, Cheeto," Leon breathes into the quiet room, his eyes heavy with a sleep that feels, for once, like it might be dreamless. "But don't tell her I said that. She already thinks I’m a pushover."
He closes his eyes, the minimalist apartment finally feeling like something it has never been before: a home.
──────•✦•──────
The fluorescent lights of the clinic are humming at a frequency that is starting to feel like a drill against your temple.
You’re leaning your lower back against the cabinetry of the pharmacy station, clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee like it’s a holy relic.
"I mean it, Sarah," you mutter, watching your tech draw up meds with terrifying efficiency. "One more pyometra. Just one more emergency spay where the uterus looks like it might burst, and I’m done. I’ll donate my scrubs to a thrift store and start a new life. Maybe I’ll go into accounting. Numbers don't bleed on your shoes or try to bite your face off.'"
"You’d be bored in a week," Sarah chirps, not even looking up. "Besides, you love the drama. Oh, speaking of drama—look who’s back."
The front bell dings. You peer around the corner. It’s Leon.
He looks like he’s been through some shit. The rugged, leading-man handsomeness is still there, but it’s buried under a layer of profound sleep deprivation. He’s got dark, bruised circles under his eyes that rival your own, and his blonde hair is a mess of spikes. But then you look at his hands.
He’s holding that plastic carrier with a level of tenderness that is honestly offensive. It’s like he’s carrying a box of nitroglycerin.
"Room two," you tell Sarah, snapping into a professional mask that is mostly held together by caffeine and sheer stubbornness.
You walk into the exam room and find him standing by the table, looking at the carrier like it’s a bomb he forgot how to disarm.
"Back for more punishment, Leon?" you ask, your voice dropping into that comfortable, blunt cadence. "You look like you’ve been living in a war zone. Which, granted, is a normal Tuesday for a kitten owner."
"He doesn't stop," Leon rasps, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that makes your nerve endings tingle. "I followed the schedule. I monitored the intake. But he just keeps screaming. Is he broken?"
"It’s called meowing, Leon. It’s how they demand your soul." You reach into the carrier and scoop out the orange scrap. He’s already gained weight; his belly is a round, healthy little pear, and his eyes are bright. "Wow. Look at you. You’ve actually kept him alive. I’m impressed. Most guys usually give up by the third bottle feeding."
"I don't like failing assignments," Leon mutters, though there’s a flicker of a lopsided smile on his face as he watches you examine the tiny creature.
You perform the check-up, checking the heart rate and the lungs, all while Leon stands way too close. He smells like woodsmoke and laundry detergent, a combination that is currently frying your brain.
You praise him for the kitten’s hydration levels, and you see his shoulders drop about two inches in relief.
As you move to pack the kitten back into the carrier, Leon starts firing off a string of hyper-specific, borderline neurotic questions.
"The water for the formula—I’ve been using a thermometer to keep it at exactly 98 degrees. Is 98.5 too high? Does it cause thermal shock? And the cotton balls—are the quilted ones too abrasive for his skin?"
You stare at him. This man is currently worried about the abrasive quality of a CVS-brand cotton ball. It’s the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen, and your filter—already weakened by a twelve-hour shift—completely disintegrates.
He’s hot, your brain shrugs. He’s a good dad. And you haven't been on a date in ages. Just do it.
"Leon," you interrupt, putting a hand on his arm to stop the frantic flow of questions. The muscle beneath his sleeve is hard as a rock, and the heat of him makes your palms itch. "Stop. You’re doing great. The cat is thriving. You, however, look like you're about to have a stroke."
He pauses, looking a little sheepish. "I just... I don't want to mess it up."
"You won't." You reach over to the counter, grab a neon-pink sticky note and a pen, and scribble your personal cell number on it. You press the note into his large, calloused palm, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
"Look," you say, flashing him a playful, slightly crooked smirk. "If you have any more midnight panics about formula ratios or quilted vs. non-quilted cotton, just text me. Strictly for cat questions, of course. My expertise is limited to things with four legs, but I can talk you off a ledge."
Leon stares at the pink paper in his hand like it’s a piece of top-secret intel. He looks up at you, his blue eyes searching yours, and for a second, the sarcastic vet and the stoic man are just two people standing in a cramped room with a tiny cat.
"Strictly for cat questions," he repeats, his voice low and a little amused.
"Obviously," you say, walking him toward the door. "I'm a professional, Leon. Now get out of here and go take a nap before you face-plant in the lobby."
As he walks away, you lean against the doorframe, watching the swing of his shoulders.
"What was that?" Sarah asks, appearing out of nowhere with a smirk.
"Professional consultation," you mutter, taking a final, cold sip of your coffee.
Oh god, what did I just do? If he texts me a picture of his cat's poop at 2:00 AM, I'm never living this down.
──────•✦•──────
Leon is a man who understands protocol. He understands mission parameters, chain of command, and the strict rules of engagement. So, when you handed him that sticky note with your number on it, his brain filed it under a very specific, very restricted category: Emergency Technical Support.
He spends the better part of forty-eight hours staring at the digits, convinced that a woman like you—someone who handles life-and-death crises with a sarcastic quip and a steady hand—has better things to do than talk to a government-sanctioned blunt instrument like him.
You’re light, and full of life, and you probably have a social circle that doesn't involve handler-reports and ballistic testing. In Leon’s mind, you are firmly out of his league, occupying a world that isn't stained by the things he’s seen.
But then, the kitten—Cheeto—starts doing things. Weird things.
His first text is sent at 11:30 PM. He attaches a grainy photo of the kitten standing in the middle of the hallway, arched like a Halloween decoration, scuttling sideways with a chaotic energy that Leon can only describe as "biological anomaly."
Leon: He’s moving at a forty-five-degree angle and his tail looks like a pipe cleaner. Is this a neurological tremor? Do I need to bring him in for an MRI?
Your reply comes three minutes later, and Leon feels a pathetic jolt of electricity at the buzz in his pocket.
You: Leon, he’s just playing. It’s called crab-walking. He’s trying to look big and scary. Is it working?
Leon looks at the kitten, who has just tripped over its own paws and face-planted into the carpet.
Leon: I’m terrified.
By Thursday, the anxiety reaches a fever pitch. Leon is sitting on his bed, watching the kitten knead a fleece blanket with a rhythmic, intense focus. He doesn't text this time. He calls. He needs a professional voice to talk him off the ledge.
"He's vibrating," Leon says the moment you pick up, his voice a deadpan, military monotone that betrays the fact that his eyes are currently dinner-plate wide. "The whole cat. He’s vibrating and poking the blanket with his claws. It’s some kind of repetitive motor reflex. Is he having a seizure? Should I be checking his airway?"
He hears you let out a long, melodic breath on the other end—a laugh you’re trying to stifle.
"Leon," you say, and the way you say his name makes him grip the phone a little tighter. "He's making biscuits. He's purring. It means he's happy. It means he thinks the blanket is his mom."
Leon looks down at the orange fluff currently 'baking' against his thigh. "Making biscuits. Right. So it’s a culinary instinct, not a medical emergency. I’ll cancel the medevac."
"Please do," you chuckle. "Go to sleep, Leon."
But sleep doesn't come easily. The climax of his "cat-dad" neurosis hits at 1:00 AM on Saturday. Cheeto had been particularly enthusiastic about his bottle, guzzling the formula until his stomach was a hard, round little marble. Afterward, the kitten had simply... collapsed.
He’s sprawled out on his back, limbs limp, unresponsive to Leon’s frantic prodding.
Leon’s heart is in his throat. He hits the FaceTime button before he can talk himself out of it.
The screen flickers to life, and suddenly, you are there. You’re in your pajamas—something soft and mismatched—and your hair is a magnificent, messy bird’s nest that tells him he definitely just woke you up. You look soft, blurry around the edges, and devastatingly beautiful in the low light of your bedroom.
"Leon?" you mumble, squinting at the screen. "Is everything okay?"
"He’s unresponsive," Leon says, his voice dropping into a low, intimate rasp of genuine distress. He turns the camera toward the kitten. "He’s just... lying there. I tried poking his paw and he didn't even hiss. I think I broke him."
You lean in closer to the camera, your eyes scanning the image. Then, you smile. It’s a gentle, warm expression that makes Leon’s apartment feel ten degrees warmer.
"Just a milk coma, Leon," you explain softly. "Look at that belly. He’s just full. He’s passed out in a food haze. He’ll be up and terrorizing your curtains in two hours."
Leon sags back against his headboard, the adrenaline draining out of him and leaving a hollow, aching exhaustion in its place. He covers his face with one hand, letting out a jagged sigh.
"I'm a disaster at this," he admits, his voice sounding raw even to his own ears. "I've faced things that—things that shouldn't exist—and I'm losing my mind over a cat that's just... full."
"It's because you care," you say. There’s no mockery in your tone, no punchline. Just a simple statement of fact that cuts right through his armor. "Most people would have just ignored him on that road, Leon. You didn't. You’re a good man. Even if you are a neurotic cat-dad."
Leon lets the words sink in. A good man. He hasn't felt like one in a long time. Usually, he’s just a weapon that the government points at problems.
"A 'cat-dad,'" Leon repeats, a dry, self-deprecating smirk appearing as he looks back at the screen. "Is there a badge for that? Or do I just get a lifetime supply of lint rollers and a permanent coating of orange fur on all my tactical gear?"
You laugh—a real, bright sound that echoes through his quiet bedroom. Leon finds himself staring at the screen, watching the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, the way a stray lock of hair falls over your forehead.
He realizes, with a sudden, jarring clarity, that he’s stopped looking at the kitten. He’s just looking at you.
The silence stretches, becoming something heavy and electric. Leon realizes he’s spent the last forty-eight hours coming up with increasingly flimsy, ridiculous reasons to see your name light up his phone.
He isn't worried about the cat anymore. He’s worried about how much he doesn't want to hang up.
"You look tired," he says softly, his thumb tracing the edge of the phone. "I should let you get back to sleep. Sorry for the... milk coma false alarm."
"It’s okay, Leon," you say, your voice dropping to a sleepy, tender murmur. "Call me anytime. Even if it’s just for biscuits."
As the screen goes black, Leon stares at his own reflection in the glass.
He’s a mess. He’s a DSO agent who just got called a "good man" by a woman who makes him feel like he’s eighteen again, before the world turned into a horror movie.
He looks at the sleeping kitten and then at the phone.
"You've failed miserably, Kennedy," he whispers to the empty room. "You’re definitely flirting now."
──────•✦•──────
The daily text updates from Leon have become the highlight of your grueling, twelve-hour rotations—a digital breadcrumb trail of "cat-dad" neurosis that you’ve come to rely on more than caffeine. What started as a clinical safety net has morphed into a steady stream of orange-furred chaos. You find yourself smiling at your phone in the middle of the surgery prep, looking at a blurry photo of a kitten stuck in a tissue box.
But lately, the digital interaction isn't enough for him.
"He’s back," Sarah, your tech, sings out from the pharmacy area. She leans against the doorframe with a devious, toothy grin. "The hot brooding guy with the orange accessory is in the lobby. Third time this week. What’s the 'emergency' today? A crooked whisker? A suspicious meow?"
"Shut up, Sarah," you mutter, though you can feel the heat crawling up your neck. You instinctively reach up to smooth a stray hair back into your ponytail.
"Oh, please. You’re wearing the 'fancy' scrubs and you actually used mascara today. I see you," she teases, checking the clipboard. "He’s here for... a bag of gastrointestinal kibble. The kind we sell for a 20% markup that he could literally Prime-deliver to his door in four hours."
You roll your eyes, grabbing a clean lab coat. "Maybe he just likes supporting small businesses."
"Maybe he likes supporting your specific business," she retorts, following you toward the lobby. "The girls in the back have a pool going. Twenty bucks says he asks for your number by Friday. Fifty says he’s already got it and he’s just a massive coward."
"I don't think 'coward' is in his vocabulary," you whisper, though your heart is doing a rhythmic thud against your ribs that feels suspiciously like a drumroll.
You push through the double doors and there he is. Leon stands near the display of prescription diets, looking entirely too large and too handsome for a sterile veterinary lobby. He’s wearing a charcoal sweater that hugs his shoulders in a way that should be illegal, his blonde hair perfectly tousled despite the humidity outside.
"Leon," you say, your voice landing in that sweet spot between professional and playful. "Don't tell me. He’s developed a sudden, life-threatening allergy to his own tail?"
Leon turns, and the way his blue eyes light up when they land on you makes your stomach do a slow, dizzying somersault. He clears his throat, shifting his weight. He looks incredibly cool until he opens his mouth, and then that slight, charming awkwardness leaks out.
"He sneezed," Leon says, his voice a serious, low rumble. "Three times in a row. It was... rhythmic. I thought it might be the early stages of a respiratory collapse. Or a dust mite allergy."
You walk over, taking the carrier from him. Your fingers brush against his—just for a second—and you feel the static electricity zip up your arm. You peek inside at the kitten, who is currently busy trying to eat a loose thread on his bedding.
"He looks like he’s on death’s door, truly," you say, your voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "The 'rhythmic sneezing' was likely just him being a cat, Leon. But since you’re here, I suppose I can perform a very expensive, very rigorous five-second nose check."
"I also needed food," he adds quickly, gesturing to the shelf. "The bag I have is... getting low. Maybe."
"You have half a bag left at home, don't you?" you ask, tilting your head, a smirk playing on your lips.
Leon stays silent for a beat too long, his gaze dropping to your name tag before meeting your eyes again. "I like the atmosphere here," he says, a bit of that one-liner bravado returning. "Very... clinical. Good lighting."
"Right. Everyone comes to the vet for the 'ambiance' of barking dogs and the smell of anal glands," you retort. You lead him to the counter, ringing up the overpriced kibble. You’re acutely aware of the techs watching from the window, probably exchanging silent high-fives.
You feel a pang of doubt as you hand him the receipt. A guy like this—rugged, mysterious, probably used to high-octane thrill-seekers—couldn't possibly be interested in you.
You’re a woman who spends her days getting peed on by Chihuahuas and her nights smelling like antiseptic and wet fur. You’re exhausted, your under-eye circles are permanent residents, and your social life is a graveyard.
But then Leon reaches out, his hand hovering over yours for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary as he takes the bag.
"Thanks," he says softly. The way he says it isn't like a client. It’s a low, intimate vibration that makes the bustling clinic fade into the background. "I’ll... let you know if the sneezing returns. Or if he looks at me funny."
"I'm sure you will," you say, your bluntness softened by a gentle, tired smile. "Go home, Leon. Your cat misses you."
As he walks out, his stride confident and his shoulders broad, you lean against the counter and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Twenty bucks!" Sarah yells from the back. "He’s totally into you, Doc! He’s just waiting for the cat to give him the green light!"
You just shake your head, looking down at the counter where he stood. You find yourself hoping the kitten sneezes again tomorrow. Just once. Just to be safe.
──────•✦•──────
The air in the treatment area is thick with the scent of antiseptic, metallic blood, and the heavy, lingering stillness of the recently departed. You’re standing over the stainless steel prep table, your hands steady despite the tremor of exhaustion in your knees as you pull the heavy plastic of a cadaver bag over a sweet, senior Greyhound who just couldn't fight any longer.
"If the shift keeps up like this, we're going to run out of freezer space," your tech, Marcus, sighs, his voice flat with the kind of gallows humor that keeps hospitals running at 2:00 AM.
"Don’t," you whisper, zipping the bag with a sharp, final schlick. "I hate this part the most. Every time. Packing up someone’s best friend in a glorified trash bag. It’s a hell of a way to say goodbye."
You lean your forehead against the wall for just a second, letting the grief wash over you and then drain away. You have to stay empty. If you let the "sad" stay in your lungs, you’ll drown.
Then, the front bell doesn't just chime—it screams. Someone is leaning on it.
You’re moving before you even think, your clogs squeaking on the linoleum. You burst into the lobby and stop dead.
It’s Leon. But the charming, awkward "cat-dad" who buys too much kibble is gone. In his place is a man who looks like he’s standing in the middle of a war zone. His face is pale, his eyes are blown wide with a jagged, frantic terror, and his chest is heaving.
He isn't holding a carrier. He’s holding the orange kitten against his chest, his large hands trembling so violently you can see the tremors from the doorway.
"Please," Leon chokes out. The sound is raw, a jagged piece of glass in his throat. He thrusts the limp, tiny body toward you. "I can't—don't let him die. Please. Not him too."
The kitten is a wet rag. His breathing is a shallow, agonizing rasp—the "guppy breathing" that makes every vet’s blood run cold.
You swear under your breath and snap into action the internal "vet-mode" slamming into place. You snatch the kitten and sprint back through the swinging doors. "Marcus, get the O2 cage prepped! I need a 24-gauge IV and a dose of dex. Now, move!"
For the next twenty minutes, you are a machine. You slide the needle into a vein thinner than a piece of thread. You listen to the crackle in the tiny lungs—pneumonia. Aspiration, likely. The kitten is tucked into the oxygen-rich plexiglass box, a tiny, fragile heartbeat under a mountain of IV lines and telemetry wires.
You finally step back, wiping a smear of blood off your thumb. You look toward the door. Leon is standing in the entryway of the treatment area, looking utterly lost. He’s hovering in the "no-man's land" between the lobby and the sterile zone, his hands still curled as if he’s holding a ghost.
"He’s in the cage, Leon. Steroids, antibiotics, and oxygen," you say, your voice softening as the adrenaline begins to ebb. "It’s touch-and-go. The next six hours are the decider. You should go home. Get some sleep. I’ll call you the second anything changes."
Leon doesn't move. He just looks at the floor and then slides down the wall, his long legs stretching out across the cold linoleum directly in front of the kennel bank.
"I'm staying," he says. It’s not a request. It’s a directive.
"Leon, I have four other critical patients in here trying to find the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s not exactly a five-star hotel," you say, trying to inject a bit of your usual dry bite into the air to break the tension.
"I don't care," he mutters, leaning his head back against the cages.
You leave him there because you have to. You spend the next three hours wrestling with a diabetic ketoacidosis cat and a bloated Doberman. Every time you pass the kennel ward, you see him sitting on the floor like a dejected kid, watching the rhythmic puffing of an orange kitten in a plastic box.
Around 5:00 AM, you find a lull. You walk over and nudge his boot with your clog.
"Leon. Seriously. The floor is disgusting, and you look like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin. Go home."
He looks up at you, and the sheer weight of the shadows under his eyes hits you. "Sometimes," he says, his voice a low, hollow echo, "I feel like I can't save anyone. Not my teammates. Not the people I’m sent to protect. And now... not even a cat."
You feel the breath hitch in your throat. You slide down the wall next to him, your shoulder brushing his. The warmth of him is startling against the sterile chill of the room.
"You and me both, Leon," you sigh, staring at the rows of monitors. "The 'God complex' they give us in vet school is a lie. Most days, we’re just finger-plugging a leaking dam."
Leon looks at you, his gaze intense. "Sorry. I shouldn't... this has been a hell of a shift for you, hasn't it?"
"They all are," you say, leaning your head back. "Some just have more body bags than others."
──────•✦•──────
Your shift officially ends at 7:00 AM. Your relief vet walks in, and you should leave. You should go home, take a scalding shower, and sleep for a week. But you don't. You go to the break room, grab two lukewarm coffees, and walk back to the floor.
You sit down next to Leon again.
"You're still here," he notes, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"I’m a glutton for punishment," you mutter, handing him the cup.
For the next hour, the barriers crumble.
You find yourself telling him about the "soul-crushing" parts—the people who bring in their pets to be euthanized because they’re moving, the neglect cases that make you want to break things. But then you tell him about the good parts—the dog that woke up after three days of a coma, the kitten that beat the odds.
Leon listens with a terrifyingly focused intensity. He doesn't interrupt. He just watches you speak, his blue eyes mesmerized by the way you navigate the darkness of your profession without letting it turn you cold.
"You’re a lot stronger than you look," he says softly.
"I'm not strong, Leon. I'm just stubborn," you retort, nudging him with your shoulder. "But thanks. You’re not a bad listener."
──────•✦•──────
Leon is no stranger to stakeouts.
He’s spent weeks in cramped vans eating lukewarm rations, and he’s spent months in damp trenches waiting for a target to blink. But this? Sitting on a stool that’s three inches too short for his frame, staring into a plexiglass box at a creature that weighs less than his handgun? This is the most grueling mission of his career.
Over the next week, the clinic becomes Leon’s base of operations. He shows up at the start of your night shift and doesn't leave until the sun is high enough to make his eyes ache. He’s become a fixture in the kennel ward—the tall, brooding man in the leather jacket who looks like he could snap a neck but spends four hours straight whispering to a kitten with a congested nose.
You become the highlight of his vigil.
Whenever the clinic settles into that eerie, midnight lull, you find him. You don't just check the charts; you check on him. You start bringing him half of your sandwich—usually something with way too much sprout-to-protein ratio for his liking, but he eats it like it’s a five-star meal because you made it. You sit on the floor next to his stool, your shoulder occasionally brushing his knee, and the contact sends a low-voltage jolt through his system that he’s doing a poor job of ignoring.
"You look like you're trying to intimidate the pneumonia into leaving," you murmur one Tuesday at 3:00 AM, sliding a container of pasta toward him. "I hate to tell you, but bacteria doesn't care about your 'scary agent' eyes."
Leon takes the plastic fork, his thumb grazing yours in the exchange. He lingers for a second too long, his gaze dropping to your lips before he catches himself and looks back at the kitten.
"I’m just providing overwatch," Leon grunts, though his tone is fond.
The conversation drifts, as it always does, into the quiet, heavy things. You talk about the "little miracles"—the paralyzed dog that wagged its tail for the first time today, the elderly cat that finally started eating. You speak with a weary, glowing passion that Leon finds intoxicating.
He realizes he’s spent years surrounded by people who are hollowed out by their work, but you? You’re tired, sure, but your heart is still terrifyingly intact.
The weight of his own secrets starts to feel like a physical burden. He’s used to being a ghost, a name on a redacted file. But sitting here in the dim light of the clinic, with you looking at him like he’s someone worth knowing, the lie feels like a wall he’s tired of leaning against.
"I don't just do 'security,'" he says suddenly. The air in the room shifts. He stares at the oxygen monitor, his voice dropping into that professional, gravelly register. "I work for the DSO Division of Security Operations. Directly under the President."
He waits for the shift in your expression. He’s seen it before—the way people’s eyes go cold when they realize he’s a professional dealer of death, or the way they start prying for gruesome details like he’s a character in a movie. He explains the bio-terrorism, the BOWs, the constant cycle of violence that has defined his life since the night he drove into Raccoon City as a rookie cop.
He braces for the disgust. For you to realize that his hands, the ones that have been helping you bottle-feed a kitten, are stained with things you couldn't imagine.
Instead, you just take a slow bite of your sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. You look at him with a gentle, tired smile that makes his breath hitch.
"So, you fight bio-weapons," you muse, leaning your head back against the cold kennel. "I guess that means we have the same primary skillset."
Leon blinks, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Which is?"
"We both try really hard not to get bitten on the clock."
Leon stares at you. He waits for the punchline, for the horror, but all he sees is your playful, sparking gaze. A laugh bubbles up in his chest—not the dry, sarcastic bark he uses to deflect trauma, but a genuine, soft sound that echoes off the metal cages. It’s a sound he hasn't heard from himself in years.
"That’s... one way to put it," he says, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. The heavy weight he carries every day feels, for a moment, like it’s been halved.
"I'm serious," you say, laughing softly as you nudge his arm. "I've seen the teeth on a grumpy Malamute, Leon. I think I could handle a zombie."
"Don't test that theory," he says, but he’s smiling now—a real, lopsided Kennedy smirk.
He looks at you, and the tension that’s been simmering for weeks suddenly boils over. The ward is quiet, the only sound the hum of the oxygen machine and the soft rain against the window. You’re close—close enough that he can see the gold flecks in your eyes and the way your scrub top dips at your collarbone.
Leon reaches out, his hand hovering near your face before he loses his nerve and settles for tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger on the skin there, warm and soft, and he sees your breath hitch.
"You're a strange woman," he whispers, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy longing.
"And you're a very dramatic cat-dad, Leon," you whisper back, not pulling away.
For a second, the mission, the BOWs, and the world outside don't exist. There’s just the smell of antiseptic, the hum of a kitten’s recovery, and the terrifying realization that he’s falling for you faster than he ever fell into a trap.
──────•✦•──────
The dawn light is a sickly, pale yellow as it bleeds through the clinic’s high windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the surgical bays. You feel like a ghost inhabiting a body made of lead and caffeine. Your neck cricks as you stand up from the floor, your joints popping in a rhythmic protest that sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies.
Leon is still there. He’s slumped on that too-small stool, his head bowed, his hands clasped between his knees. He looks like a man waiting for a verdict from a hanging judge.
"Alright," you murmur, your voice sounding like it was dragged over gravel. "Let’s see if the little guy is ready to join the land of the living."
You walk over to the incubator. The hum of the oxygen concentrator has been the soundtrack to your week, a mechanical heartbeat that you’ve grown to loathe. You unlatch the plexiglass door with a soft click.
Inside, the orange scrap of fur is no longer a limp rag. He’s sitting up, his head wobbly, his copper eyes half-open.
"Hey, tough guy," you whisper. You scoop a tiny dollop of calorie-dense recovery mousse onto your finger and hold it to his nose.
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, a tiny, sandpaper tongue darts out. Then another. He starts to lap at your skin with a desperate, frantic hunger. A weak, high-pitched mew vibrates through his chest—a sound of life, demanding and stubborn.
"He’s eating," you breathe, and the sheer, ridiculous relief of it makes your vision blur for a second. "He’s actually eating. The little bastard made it."
You turn to Leon, a triumphant, sleep-deprived grin plastered on your face. "He’s actually eating. He’s—"
The words die in your throat.
Leon has stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the kennel ward. He’s staring at the kitten, but his face isn't the stoic mask of a government agent. His jaw is trembling, just a fraction, and his eyes—those piercing, icy blue eyes—are brimming with tears that he’s desperately trying not to let fall.
He looks shattered. Not because of the danger, but because of the hope.
Oh, Leon, you think, your heart doing a slow, painful squeeze. You really were ready to lose everything again, weren't you?
You don't think. Thinking is for people who aren't running on thirty minutes of sleep and pure empathy. You are about to do something wildly unprofessional. You don't care.
You step across the linoleum, closing the distance between you and the man who fights monsters, and you wrap your arms around his waist.
Leon goes rigid instantly.
It’s like hugging a statue carved from granite. He stays perfectly still, his breath hitching, his arms hovering uselessly at his sides. He feels like a man who expects a blow to follow the touch—someone whose only experience with physical contact in the last decade has been a struggle for survival or a professional handshake. It’s jarring, feeling the tension radiating off him, a high-voltage wire ready to snap.
"It’s okay," you mumble against his chest, squeezed tight. "He’s okay. You can breathe now."
Slowly, agonizingly so, the statue crumbles.
You feel a shudder rip through him, a deep shift of his shoulders. Then, his weight collapses into you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin, and his arms finally come around you.
They are heavy. They are massive. He wraps them around you with a crushing, desperate strength, as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. You can feel his heart thudding against your collarbone—slow, heavy, and raw.
He doesn't say anything, but the way he clings to you tells you everything. He isn't just relieved about the cat. He’s drowning in a decade of loneliness, in the weight of the bodies he couldn't save. He’s so touch-starved it feels like he’s trying to absorb the warmth of your scrub top through his skin.
It’s not just "he’s hot and I’m tired." It’s the feeling of two people who spend their lives in the trenches finally finding a place to put their packs down.
Your hands move up his back, rubbing small, soothing circles into the expensive fabric of his shirt. You feel the dip of his spine, the hard muscle of his shoulders, and the way he lets out a long, shaky exhale into your hair.
"You're okay," you whisper again, your voice softening, losing its sharp, sarcastic edge. "He’s got you."
Leon pulls back just an inch, his hands sliding down to rest on your waist. He doesn't let go. He looks down at you, his lashes wet, his face mere inches from yours. The air between you is thick, charged with the scent of his woodsy cologne and the clinical tang of the ward. His gaze drops to your mouth, and for a second, the world stops spinning.
"I don't... I don't know how to do this," he rasps, his voice a broken low-frequency hum.
"Do what? Hug? You're doing a C-plus job, Kennedy," you tease, though your voice trembles. "A little less 'death-grip' and a little more 'gentle human interaction' next time."
He lets out a watery, huffed laugh, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "I think I've forgotten what 'gentle' feels like."
"Well," you say, closing your eyes and leaning into him, savoring the solid, terrifying warmth of him. "Stick with me. I’ve got plenty of practice. Usually with Golden Retrievers, but I think I can make an exception."
He squeezes your waist, a silent, grateful pressure. In the quiet of the dawn, with a recovering kitten purring in the background, you realize you’re in a lot of trouble. Because Leon Kennedy isn't just a client anymore—he’s someone you’d fight a world-ending virus just to keep holding onto.
──────•✦•──────
Leon’s smartphone vibrates against the granite countertop with the persistence of a terminal alarm. He doesn't need to look at the ID to know it’s Hunnigan.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor; the moment his life gains a shred of stability—symbolized by an orange kitten currently trying to disembowel a feathered toy—the DSO decides it’s time for him to jump out of a plane.
"Yeah, Ingrid," Leon sighs into the receiver, his eyes tracking the kitten's chaotic movements. "Tell me it's a seminar on file organization. Tell me I’m being sent to Hawaii to count palm trees."
"It's a hot-zone extraction in the Balkan periphery, Leon. Transport leaves in four hours," Hunnigan’s voice is crisp, devoid of the sympathy he’s looking for.
"Four hours. Right. I’ll just tell the cat to order pizza and lock the deadbolt behind me," he mutters, his mind racing.
Panic, cold and sharp, stabs at him. He can’t leave Cheeto. Not after the pneumonia, not after the nights spent on a linoleum floor praying for a meow. The idea of a stranger from a boarding app—some teenager who might forget the water bowl or leave a window cracked—makes his skin crawl. He finds himself dialing your number before he’s even processed the thought.
When you answer, Leon’s cool persona is nowhere to be found. He’s just a man with a cat and a very specialized, very annoying career.
"I have a problem," he says, skipping the pleasantries. "Work called. I'm being... deployed. A week, maybe more. Do you know a medical boarder who doesn't mind a kitten with a God complex and a lingering cough?"
He hears you pause on the other end. "Leon, it’s short notice. Most medical boarding is booked out through the month. Is it somewhere... dangerous?"
"It’s never a spa day," he says dryly. "Look, if I have to, I’ll—"
"I’ll do it."
Leon freezes. "What?"
"I can stay at your place. I'm overqualified and I can keep an eye on his lungs. Besides," you add, your voice taking on that playful, blunt edge he’s grown addicted to, "your apartment probably needs a woman’s touch. Or at least someone to throw away the three-week-old takeout."
"You'd... stay here?" Leon asks, his throat suddenly tight.
──────•✦•──────
An hour later, you’re standing in his foyer. Leon is dressed in his tactical gear—dark, reinforced fabrics and heavy boots—looking every bit the agent he tried to describe to you. He holds out his keychain. The metal is warm from his palm. As he drops the keys into your hand, his fingers linger against your skin.
It feels like a surrender. He’s giving you the keys to his sanctuary, the only place on earth where he doesn't have to look over his shoulder.
"The alarm code is 1998," he says, a flicker of dark, self-deprecating humor in his eyes. "Try not to set it off. The response team is... unfriendly. And if he stops eating, call me. I don't care if I'm in a tunnel. Make them patch you through."
"1998? Creative," you remark, looking at the keys. "Go save the world, Leon. I’ll make sure the kitten doesn't burn the place down."
He lingers at the door, the weight of the mission pulling at him, but the sight of you standing in his living room—framed by his sterile, gray walls—makes him feel like he’s actually leaving something behind for once.
"Don't eat all my cereal," he says, a lopsided smirk appearing. "It's the only thing I have left."
──────•✦•──────
Leon’s apartment is exactly what you expected: a high-end, minimalist cave that screams 'I don't plan on being here for long.'
The furniture is expensive but looks like it’s never been sat on. The fridge contains three bottles of high-end bourbon, a jar of pickles, and enough Gatorade to hydrate an army. It’s a gorgeous space, but it’s inhabited by a ghost who clearly spends his life waiting for the next disaster.
"Alright, Cheeto," you sigh, dropping your bag on the granite island. "Let’s see if we can make this place look like a human actually lives here."
Over the next week, you start a quiet insurrection against Leon’s minimalism. You buy a soft throw blanket to cover the "ergonomic" sofa. You bring over a small succulent that Leon will almost certainly forget to water. You organize the chaos of his mail and make sure the kitten’s toys aren't just limited to "stray socks."
It becomes a semi-regular occurrence. Every time Leon gets the call, you get the keys. You’ve mastered the 1998 alarm code and you know exactly which floorboard creaks near the bathroom. You send him daily updates—photos of the kitten sleeping on his discarded hoodies, or videos of Cheeto "hunting" his toys.
When he’s home, you linger. You’ll stay for an hour after he returns, leaning against his kitchen counter while he tells you—in vague, redacted terms—about where he’s been. You find yourself liking the routine. The way he looks at you when he walks through the door, his eyes scanning you first before they even find the cat.
"You moved the blender," he notes one evening, leaning against the doorframe, looking exhausted but softer than you’ve ever seen him.
"I put it where a normal person would use it, Leon," you retort, not looking up from your phone. "You had it stored like it was a classified weapon."
"It's a high-RPM motor," he deadpans. "It’s practically a turbine."
You laugh, and you see his shoulders drop an inch.
The messages between you two have evolved from 'Is he breathing okay?' to 'Saw this and thought of you' and late-night Facetimes where you talk about nothing and everything. You’re becoming a permanent fixture in a life that was never meant to have any.
──────•✦•──────
The wind in the mountains is a serrated blade, cutting through his tactical layers and biting into his skin. Leon is crouched in a blind, his rifle steady, the world around him a monochrome blur of snow and gray rock. His breath mists in the air, his fingers numb despite the heated gloves.
It’s the kind of environment where his mind usually goes to dark places—to the faces of the people he’s lost, to the smell of burning plastic in Raccoon City, to the weight of the kills he’s had to rack up to keep the world spinning.
But today, his mind wanders somewhere else.
He thinks about you. He thinks about you sitting on his couch, probably wrapped in that fuzzy blanket you "donated" to his living room. He thinks about the way his apartment smells like your shampoo instead of gun oil when you’re there. You are currently three thousand miles away, probably complaining about a difficult client or a dog that wouldn't stop barking, and the thought is his only anchor to reality.
He pulls his phone from a secure pocket, shielding the screen from the wind. He has one bar of satellite signal. A photo from you has managed to crawl through.
It’s a picture of you on his bed—the kitten curled up on your stomach, both of you looking half-asleep. It’s a domestic, quiet image that has no place in his world of bioluminescent horrors and political assassinations.
"Hunnigan’s going to kill me if she sees I’m using secure bandwidth for cat photos," Leon mutters to himself, a tiny, genuine smile cracking his frozen face.
He wouldn't admit it to you—not yet, maybe not ever—but he’s stopped dreading the "end" of the mission. He used to hate coming back to the silence of his flat. Now, he finds himself checking his watch, calculating the hours until he can walk through his door and hear your voice.
He doesn't just have a cat to come home to anymore. He has a presence. He has a reason to stay sharp, to stay fast, to stay alive.
"Target in sight," his comms crackle.
Leon shifts his grip, his eyes focusing. He feels steady. The cold doesn't matter. He has a cat-sitter to get back to.
"Copy that," Leon whispers, his thumb flicking the safety off. "Let’s wrap this up. I’ve got a date with some bad takeout."
──────•✦•──────
The shift didn’t just break you; it ground you down into a fine, bitter powder and scattered you across the linoleum.
It started with a car crash that sent two mangled retrievers into your bay and ended with a client screaming at you that you were a "heartless gold-digger" because you couldn't perform a miracle on a sixteen-year-old cat for the price of a drive-thru burger.
You’d spent four hours in emergency surgery, your hands slick with blood and your back screaming in protest, only for the monitor to flatline anyway. You’d had to tell a ten-year-old boy that his best friend wasn’t coming home, and then you’d been reprimanded by management for the "negative impact on wait times" caused by you taking five minutes to cry in the supply closet.
By the time you let yourself into Leon’s apartment, you’re less of a human and more of a walking bruise. You don't even turn on the lights. You just drop your bag, kick off your clogs, and collapse onto the sofa—the one with the soft throw blanket you bought—and bury your face in your hands.
The kitten, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, trots over and lets out a concerned chirrup. He kneads your thigh, his tiny claws snagging on your scrubs, before curling up against your chest.
"I hate it, Cheeto," you sob into his orange fur, the tears finally bursting the dam. "I hate the people, I hate the blood, and I really, really hate the wait times."
The front door clicks. The 1998 alarm code beeps—one, nine, nine, eight—and then the heavy thud of boots hits the floor. You don't even look up. You’re too deep in the salt and the snot to care that the owner of the house is back early.
Leon freezes in the entryway. Even in the dim light of the city skyline peeking through the window, he looks like he’s been through a meat grinder. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, there’s a nasty, dark bruise blossoming across his cheekbone, and he’s limping slightly. He looks like a man who just survived a war, only to find a different kind of casualty in his living room.
"Hey," he says, his voice a low, startled rumble. "What—is the cat okay? Did something happen?"
"The cat is fine," you choke out, wiping your nose with your sleeve and failing miserably at looking composed. "Everything is fine. I’m just... Go away, Leon. You look like you need a medic and a gallon of ibuprofen."
He doesn't go away. He drops his duffel bag with a heavy thud and walks over, his movements stiff and cautious. He looks wildly out of his depth, his hands hovering at his sides as if he’s trying to remember the manual for 'Human Comforting 101.'
"You’re crying," he notes, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register.
"Astute observation. They really do pay you for the big brain, don't they?" You let out a jagged, watery laugh. "I just had a shitty day, Leon. A patient died after four hours of me playing God, and then some guy called me a bitch because he had to wait forty minutes for his dog's ear cleaning while I was doing CPR. I’m just... done."
Leon stands there for a beat, the blue of his eyes scanning your face with a terrifying intensity. He’s seen trauma, he’s seen death on a global scale, but seeing you falling apart on his couch seems to rattle him more than a BOW ever could.
"Move over," he says.
"Leon, you’re bleeding on my 'donated' blanket—"
"Move over," he repeats, firmer this time.
You slide over, and Leon sinks onto the sofa next to you. He smells like gunpowder, cold rain, and woodsmoke. He doesn't say anything at first; he just reaches out, his large, scarred hand hesitating before he pulls you tentatively toward him. You collapse against his side, your head landing on his shoulder.
"I've got you," he murmurs.
He wraps an arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and starts to stroke your hair. His touch is awkward—clumsy, even—as if he’s afraid he’ll break you, but it’s the most grounding thing you’ve ever felt. You grab the front of his torn shirt and just sob, letting all the bitterness and the exhaustion pour out of you and into his expensive, ruined gear.
"It’s just... so much sometimes," you whisper, your voice cracking. "I try so hard, and it’s never enough. The world just keeps biting."
"I know," Leon says, his voice vibrating against your temple. "Believe me, I know. But you did your job. You showed up. That’s more than most people can say."
He keeps stroking your hair, his calloused fingers snagging slightly on the tangles, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't try to "fix" it with a one-liner or a tactical solution. He just holds you. You realize, as your breathing finally starts to level out, that this is the first time in your life someone has held the weight for you instead of you holding it for everyone else.
"You look like hell, Leon," you mumble against his chest, feeling a flicker of your usual bluntness returning through the haze of grief.
"You should see the other guy," he retorts, a ghost of a smirk in his voice. "Actually, don't. He’s currently a smudge on a highway in Sarajevo."
You let out a tiny, genuine huff of a laugh, and you feel his arm tighten around you.
"See? There she is," he whispers.
You stay like that for a long time—a battered agent and a broken vet, curled up on a minimalist couch with a kitten sleeping between you.
In the quiet of the apartment, the monsters and the body bags feel a million miles away. You’re still tired, and your heart still aches, but as Leon rests his chin on top of your head, you realize that maybe the "ghost" has finally moved out of this apartment.
And for the first time in a long time, you don't feel like you're fighting the dark alone.
──────•✦•──────
The transition from "emergency technical support" to "semi-permanent fixture" happens so gradually that Leon doesn't even see the trap until he’s happily walking into it.
It starts with you dropping by after your shift to "check the kitten's weight," and then somehow you’re staying for a coffee, and then—suddenly—you have your own designated spot on his couch and a spare toothbrush in the guest bath.
Leon finds himself leaning against the kitchen island, watching you move through his kitchen with a grace that is utterly at odds with the clinical chaos of your day job. For years, this kitchen has been a graveyard for styrofoam containers and a shrine to a single bottle of high-end bourbon. His culinary skills are limited to reheating things and not burning the water.
"You know, the FDA suggests that a human being cannot actually survive on a diet of ninety percent spicy tuna rolls and ten percent Scotch," you remark, your back to him as you chop fresh parsley with a rhythmic, practiced speed.
Leon takes a slow sip of water, leaning his hip against the counter. "I’ll have you know I also eat the occasional multivitamin. And once, a piece of fruit that I'm reasonably sure wasn't plastic. I'm practically a health nut."
"You're a disaster," you retort, but the look you throw him over your shoulder is fond, lacking the sharp bite of your usual sarcasm.
You’ve taken over his stove, and for the first time since he moved in, the apartment doesn't smell like filtered air and gun oil. It smells like sautéed garlic, crushed basil, and browning butter. The scent hits Leon with a physical force, dragging up buried memories of a childhood —the sound of heavy pots clanking, the steam on the windows, the feeling of a home that was loud and full.
It’s a sensory overload that makes his chest ache with a sudden, sharp pang of nostalgia he wasn't prepared for.
"Is that... actual garlic?" Leon asks, his voice dropping into a low, slightly dazed register. "I forgot it came in cloves. I thought it was just a powder that lived in the back of the pantry until it turned into a solid brick."
"God, you're pathetic," you laugh, sliding a pan of chicken onto the burner. The sizzle is loud in the quiet room. "Go sit down. You look like you're having a religious experience over a bulb of garlic."
"I might be," he mutters, though he doesn't move.
He likes watching you. He likes the way your hair starts to frizz slightly from the steam and the way you’ve tucked your ID badge into your back pocket.
He realizes, with a dry, self-deprecating twist of his gut, that he’s become addicted to this. To you. The mission-driven part of his brain—the part that usually keeps him scanning for exits and checking his six—has gone completely quiet. He feels safe. Not "perimeter secured" safe, but actually safe.
He walks over, ostensibly to reach for a glass, but he lingers in your space. He’s still a touch awkward with the physical stuff, his hands hovering near your waist before he settles for gently bumping his shoulder against yours.
"Smells better than my grandmother's Sunday gravy," he admits, the honesty feeling like vulnerability. "And she would have hit me with a wooden spoon just for thinking that."
"Well, don't tell her ghost I'm trying to upstage her," you say, nudging him back. Your smile is gentle, and Leon feels the last of his professional walls crumbling. "I just figured since you're busy saving the world, someone should make sure you don't succumb to scurvy."
"It's a noble cause," Leon says, his blue eyes softening as they fix on you.
"Just doing my civic duty, Agent," you tease.
Leon watches you stir the sauce, and he feels a surge of protectiveness so fierce it surprises him. He spends his life in rooms with people who want to tear the world apart, but here, in the dim light of his kitchen, you’re putting things back together. You’re making a home out of a man who thought he was just a weapon.
"You're staying for dinner, right?" he asks, and he hates how much he hopes the answer is yes. "The cat gets lonely if you leave too early. And I... Well, I'm not great at talking to the furniture."
"I'm staying, Leon," you say, reaching out to pat his hand. "Relax. I'm not going anywhere."
Leon breathes out a sigh he feels in his very marrow. He looks at the garlic, the herbs, and the woman currently occupying his heart's center of mass, and he decides that if this is a trap, he never wants to be rescued.
──────•✦•──────
The blue light of the television flickers across the living room, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. On the screen, some generic action flick is playing at a low volume—something about a heist that Leon has already found sixteen tactical flaws in—but he isn't watching the movie.
He’s watching you.
You are out cold. Your head is tilted back against the cushion at an angle that looks like it’ll require a chiropractor by morning, and your breathing is deep and rhythmic. On top of you, Cheeto—who has graduated from a palm-sized scrap to a lanky, teenage chaos-agent—is sprawled across your stomach like a heavy, orange weighted blanket.
Leon sits in his armchair, a glass of bourbon sweating in his hand, and feels a strange, terrifying tightness in his chest.
He should wake you up. He should tell you that the movie is over and offer to call you an Uber. That would be the professional, just friends thing to do.
"Right," Leon whispers to the empty room, his voice a dry rasp. "Because I’ve always been so great at following the 'sane' path."
He sets his glass down with a soft clink and stands, his joints popping. He gently nudges the cat aside. Cheeto lets out an offended mrrp but settles into the crook of the sofa, watching with wide, glowing eyes as Leon slides one arm under your knees and the other behind your back.
He braces himself, expecting you to be dead weight, but as he lifts, he’s struck by how light you feel—and how perfectly you seem to slot into the space against his chest. You let out a tiny, sleepy sigh, your head rolling naturally into the hollow of his neck, and Leon freezes. His heart kicks against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Don't wake up, don't wake up, don't make this weird, he thinks, his internal monologue screaming in a way it never does during a fire-fight.
He carries you down the short hallway, his boots silent on the hardwood. His bedroom is the inner sanctum—a place that usually feels like a cold, utilitarian bunker. But as he lays you down on the mattress, the room feels different. It feels occupied.
He pulls the heavy duvet over you, tucking the edges in with a focused, military precision. He lingers there for a moment, his hand hovering over your face. He can't help it; his thumb grazes your temple, smoothing away a stray lock of hair, before his knuckles lighty brush the warmth of your cheek. Your skin is soft, a stark contrast to the rough, scarred texture of his own hands.
"Rest up, Doc," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath. "You’ve earned it."
He backs out of the room, closing the door with a click so soft it’s almost silent. When he turns around, Cheeto is standing in the middle of the hallway, tail twitching, staring at him with unblinking, judging eyes.
"What? I’m being a gentleman," Leon grunts, stepping past the cat toward the sofa. He doesn't go back to his chair. Instead, he collapses onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. The cat hops up onto his chest, pinning him down and staring directly into his soul.
"I’m a DSO agent," Leon tells the cat, his voice flat and defensive. "I’m stoic. I’m professional. I’m a guy who deals with world-ending threats and international conspiracies. I definitely don't have a 'crush' on the veterinarian who makes me eat kale salad."
Cheeto blinks slowly, looking entirely unimpressed by the lie.
Leon sighs, rubbing his face with both hands. The lie is thin. It’s paper-thin and tearing at the seams. He lies there in the dark, listening to the silence of the apartment. For years, he’s filled this silence with the burn of cheap whiskey, the hum of a background news cycle, and the crushing weight of old regrets—Raccoon City, Krauser, the faces of people he couldn't pull out of the fire.
But tonight, the silence feels... full.
He thinks about the way you’ve invaded his space. The way you cook him actual meals because you know he’d live on protein bars and spite if left to his own devices. Most of all, he thinks about the night you fell apart on this very sofa, and how holding you felt more important than any mission he’s ever been assigned.
He realizes then, with the terrifying, crystalline clarity of a man staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, that he isn't just "interested."
He is completely, hopelessly, and dangerously gone for you.
It’s a catastrophic tactical error. He’s spent his entire adult life running from attachments because in his world, attachments are liabilities. Attachments get turned into leverage. Attachments get you killed. But as he looks at the closed door of his bedroom, knowing you’re safe inside, he knows the truth.
He’d burn the whole world to the ground—he’d take on an army of Ganados with a pocket knife—just to make sure you wake up tomorrow without a care in the world.
"Great," he mutters, his hand dropping to scratch Cheeto behind the ears. "I’m officially a Hallmark movie protagonist with a body count. Hunnigan is going to have a field day with this."
The cat purrs, finally satisfied, as Leon closes his eyes and accepts his defeat.
──────•✦•──────
The air in Leon’s apartment has changed.
It’s no longer just the scent of high-end bourbon and your lavender shampoo; it’s thick, electric, and heavy with the kind of "will-they-won't-they" energy that usually precedes a season finale. Every time you’re near him, the space between you feels like a magnetic field, pulling you toward him until you can practically hear his heart thudding in sync with your own.
You’re not an idiot. You’ve seen him look at you when he thinks you’re not looking—that soft, guarded yearning that makes your own chest tighten. You’ve felt the way his hand lingers on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. He’s a DSO agent, a man who survived Raccoon City and global bio-terrorism, but apparently, asking a veterinarian on a date is the one mission that has him completely paralyzed.
And then, there’s the cat.
"You know, I was thinking," Leon starts, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that usually makes your knees feel like they’re made of cotton candy. He’s leaning against the kitchen island, his blue eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying intensity. He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out toward your arm. "I’ve been meaning to ask you—"
CRASH.
You both jump. Cheeto, now a lanky, orange blur of destruction, has successfully swiped a half-full glass of water off the side table. The glass doesn't shatter, but the water spreads across the hardwood in a slow, mocking puddle.
Leon closes his eyes, his hand dropping back to his side. He lets out a long, weary sigh that suggests he’s currently contemplating buying a kennel.
"He’s just expressive, Leon," you say, struggling to keep the smirk off your face. You grab a roll of paper towels, your internal monologue providing a dry commentary. Mission failed, Kennedy. The orange menace has you beat.
Ten minutes later, the puddle is gone, and the tension is back, sweltering and inescapable. You’re sitting on the sofa, and Leon is beside you, closer than usual. The movie on the TV is just background noise now. He turns toward you, his arm draped along the back of the couch, his fingers inches from your neck.
"Anyway," he says, his voice a breathy murmur. "What I was trying to say before we were so rudely interrupted by the feline Special Forces... is that I’ve really appreciated you being here. Not just for the cat. For me."
He begins to lean in. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of his woodsy cologne wrapping around you like a promise. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a frantic thump-thump-thump that screams finally.
"I was wondering if—"
Suddenly, there is a soft fump sound, followed by the sensation of four pounds of orange fur landing directly on Leon’s face.
Cheeto hasn't just jumped; he has launched himself from the top of the bookshelf with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. He is now perched on Leon’s head, his tail flicking rhythmically against Leon’s nose.
"Are you kidding me?" Leon’s muffled voice comes from beneath the cat.
You burst out laughing. You can't help it. The legendary Leon S. Kennedy is currently being used as a landing pad by a cat who still hasn't figured out how to bury his own poop correctly.
"It’s not funny," Leon grumbles, gently detaching the cat and setting him on the floor. Cheeto just looks at him, lets out a smug little mrrp, and starts grooming his shoulder like he didn't just ruin the most romantic moment of the year.
"It’s a little funny, Leon," you wheeze, wiping a tear from your eye. "I think he’s gatekeeping you. He knows you’re about to make a move and he’s not ready for a stepmother."
"I am a professional," Leon says, straightening his shirt, though his ears are a distinct shade of pink. He looks adorable—awkward, frustrated, and so deeply human it makes your breath hitch. "I have survived international conspiracies. I have navigated minefields. I can handle a five-pound orange domestic shorthair."
"Can you, though?" you tease, leaning back and watching him with a playful, expectant look. "Because so far, the score is Cheeto: two, Leon: zero."
Leon looks at the cat, then back at you, a lopsided, determined smirk finally breaking through his frustration.
"The night is young," he says, his voice regaining some of its cocky, one-liner edge. "And eventually, that cat has to sleep."
"Good luck with that," you retort, your heart singing even as your inner skeptic sighs. He’s going to chicken out again. I’m going to have to be the one to do it, aren't I?
You watch him settle back into the couch, his eyes fixed on you with a renewed focus. The tension is still there, humming under the surface, but now it’s tempered with the hilarious reality of your domestic life. You realize you don't mind the interruptions. If anything, they make the quiet, stolen moments feel even more earned.
You just hope the cat doesn't decide to launch a third offensive when things finally get interesting.
──────•✦•──────
The dinner is kind of a disaster.
Leon has spent the last hour trying to act like a normal human being, which is difficult when his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribcage like an escaping experiment. He’s made pasta—the one dish he can’t screw up—and the table is set, the wine is poured, and you are sitting across from him looking so devastatingly beautiful in the low light that he’s forgotten how to use a fork.
The air between you is thick enough to choke on. Every time your eyes meet his, Leon feels like he’s standing on the edge of a skyscraper with no parachute. He clears his throat, leaning forward, his hands clasped tight.
"So," he begins, his voice dropping into that low, serious register he uses for briefing the President. "I was thinking that maybe—"
Clank.
In one fluid, chaotic motion, the cat—who has apparently developed a taste for expensive Pinot Noir—swipes a paw at the wine bottle. Leon lunges, catching it before it tips, but the moment is shattered. The cat lets out a defiant meow and begins to weave through Leon’s ankles, tripping him as he tries to sit back down.
Leon’s patience, a resource he usually has in abundance when dealing with global catastrophes, officially hits zero.
"That's it," Leon mutters.
He doesn't hesitate. He scoops up the lanky, protesting orange blur with the efficiency of a man clearing a room. He strides to the hallway, ignores the indignant squawk from the feline, and gently but very firmly sets the cat on the other side of the door. He shuts it with a definitive thud and turns the lock.
Silence. Blessed, complete silence.
Leon turns back to you, leaning his back against the door. He’s breathing a little hard, his blonde hair a mess, and his face is flushed with a heat that has nothing to do with the stove. He rubs the back of his neck, the "cool agent" mask finally crumbling into a thousand pieces.
"I face bio-terrorists for a living," he starts, his voice rough and stripped of its usual bravado. He looks at his boots, then finally, desperately, at you. "I’ve survived things that defy the laws of physics and biology. But asking you out is officially the most terrifying thing I've ever done. My heart rate is higher right now than it was when I was being chased by a ten-foot-tall man in a trench coat."
He takes a step toward you, his hands trembling just enough for him to notice. "I don't want to just be the guy with the cat anymore. I don't want to be the guy who only sees you when things are bleeding or when I’m being deployed to some hellhole. I want to be... yours. If you’ll have me."
He braces himself. He’s ready for a "let’s just stay friends," or a polite laugh, or even a tactical retreat. He’s spent his life waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the mission to fail.
But you don't say a word. You just stand up, and the look in your eyes makes Leon’s knees go weak. You cross the kitchen in three purposeful strides, your gaze locked on his.
Scritch. Scritch. MEE-OWW!
From behind the door, the cat begins a frantic, rhythmic assault on the wood, accompanied by a series of yowls that sound like a siren. Leon flinches, his eyes darting toward the hallway.
"Dammit," he curses softly, his shoulders sagging.
He never finishes the sentence. You reach out, your hands snaking up his chest to grab the collar of his shirt. With a strength that catches him entirely off guard, you pull him down toward you.
You can feel the exact moment Leon’s brain goes entirely offline. There is no more DSO. No more missions. No more orange cats trying to sabotage his life. Beneath your hands, his chest seizes with the shock of a man who has finally stopped running and found exactly what he was looking for.
He freezes for a millisecond, his body going completely rigid. He is so utterly unaccustomed to physical contact that doesn't involve violence or a medical triage that he genuinely doesn't know what to do with his hands. But then, a low, fractured groan vibrates from deep in his chest, and the dam breaks.
His hands, clumsy and hesitant at first, suddenly scramble to find purchase at your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He kisses you back with the terrifying, unbridled hunger of a man who has been starving in the dark for years. It’s a searing, desperate collision that tastes like red wine and the heavy weight of shared secrets.
You can feel the slight tremor in his fingers as they dig into the fabric of your shirt, gripping you like a lifeline. Months of suffocating tension, of late-night FaceTime calls and lingering, aborted touches, all shatter in this frantic, messy connection.
He feels you smile against his mouth, and he forces himself to pull back just an inch, his breathing ragged as he rests his forehead against yours. He’s delightfully dazed, his blue eyes blown wide and glassy, completely stripped of his cool-agent armor.
"Took you long enough," you whisper, your voice breathless and playful, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I’ve been waiting for you to do that since I gave you my number."
Leon blinks, his mind clearly struggling to process the information. A slow, lopsided smirk finally pushes through his shock, accompanied by a faint, boyish flush on his cheeks. "You have? I thought... I thought that was really just for cat questions."
"You are so incredibly clueless," you laugh, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back down by his collar.
"Maybe," Leon breathes, his hands tightening possessively around your waist, completely ignoring the cat that has begun to scream and scratch at the hallway door. "But I think I'm starting to get the hang of it."
He kisses you again, and the second kiss is even better than the first.
Where the first was a desperate, panicked collision, this one is a slow, deliberate exploration. He’s a man carefully mapping out a territory he never thought he’d be allowed to claim. His initial awkwardness melts into a heavy, intoxicating rhythm.
Leon’s hands are surprisingly gentle as they slide up your spine, settling warmly at the small of your back. He pulls you in tighter until you can feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against your chest.
He’s so profoundly touch-starved that it aches; he chases your lips when you pull back to catch your breath, his mouth hot and insistent, sliding a hand up to cradle the back of your neck so he can tilt your head exactly how he wants it. His thumbs trace small, rhythmic circles against your skin.
Your inner monologue, usually a sharp-tongued critic, has finally been silenced. About fucking time, you think, your fingers tangling into the soft, blonde hair at the nape of his neck. I was starting to think I’d have to perform a personality transplant to get you to make a move.
The moment is perfect. It’s cinematic. It’s everything a slow-burn romance should be.
And then, there’s the scratching.
Scritch. Scritch. Mrow?
The sound of claws on wood is followed by a heavy thud against the door, as if the cat has decided to use himself as a battering ram. The rhythmic, indignant yowling has escalated into a sound that can only be described as a feline operatic tragedy.
You huff a laugh into Leon’s mouth, the vibration of it making him let out a low, frustrated groan. You reluctantly pull back just an inch, your hands still resting on his broad shoulders. He looks absolutely wrecked—pupils blown wide, lips slightly swollen, and a dazed expression on his face that you’re definitely going to tease him about later.
"He's going to tear through the drywall, Leon," you whisper, your voice breathless and playful.
Leon leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. "Let him scream. I’ve survived interrogations in darker rooms than this hallway. I can outlast him."
"He’s a cat, Leon. He has nothing but time and spite."
With a reluctant sigh, you disentangle yourself from his arms—feeling the immediate, cold void where his body heat was—and walk over to the door to pull it open.
Cheeto doesn't even hesitate. He streaks into the kitchen, his tail puffed out to the size of a bottle brush. He doesn't go for the food bowl. He doesn't go for the toy. He marches straight to the space between you and Leon, sits down, and begins to lick his paw with a level of smugness that is almost impressive.
"See?" you say, leaning back against the counter and crossing your arms. "He’s the third wheel we never asked for."
Leon watches the cat, then looks at you. The adrenaline of the confession is still fading, replaced by a soft, domestic glow. He walks over, invading your personal space again, and traps you against the counter with a hand on either side of your hips. He’s smiling now—that lopsided, cocky Kennedy smirk that usually means he’s about to say something incredibly cheesy.
"You know," he says, his voice dropping into a low, teasing rumble. "I just realized something. As a professional, I have to ask... is this even allowed? Isn't it a little unethical to be dating a patient's owner? I feel like there’s a code of conduct for this."
You stare at him, a deadpan expression flat on your face. Oh, here we go. Tactical awkwardness at its finest.
"Leon," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "The 'patient' is currently trying to eat his own tail. And his 'owner' is a man who carries a handgun to the grocery store. I think the ethics board has bigger fish to fry than us."
"I'm just saying," he continues, his blue eyes dancing with mischief as he leans in closer, his nose brushing yours. "I’d hate to be the reason you lose your license. 'Vet caught in scandalous affair with local cat-dad.' The headlines would be brutal."
"You are such a dork," you mutter, though you can feel the stupid, helpless grin breaking through your defenses.
"I have my moments," he murmurs.
"Shut up, Leon," you say softly, the playfulness fading into something warmer, something real. You reach up, grabbing the front of his shirt again to bridge the tiny gap he’s left between you. "And kiss me again. Before the cat decides to jump on the ceiling."
Leon doesn't need to be told twice. He closes the distance, his mouth finding yours with a renewed confidence. This time, there’s no hesitation, no tactical stalling—just the quiet, certain knowledge that the empty apartment isn't empty anymore.
And as the lanky orange cat finally settles on the floor to watch you both, Leon realizes that for the first time in his life, he isn't just surviving a day.
Synopsis: You and Leon have to pretend to be married for 72 hours to complete a mission. He goes a little crazy when he realizes just how much he actually wants that
Words: 1.3k
A/N: 100% will be doing a part 2. He's so cute, he deserves a cute little marriage with someone that can tease him when he's being silly
The first sweetheart is an accident, or at least that’s what Leon tells himself.
The two of you are standing in the polished lobby of some overpriced mountain resort under assumed names, your forged wedding bands catching warm chandelier light while a concierge smiles too brightly and asks how long Mr. and Mrs. Carter will be staying.
Leon’s hand is on the small of your back, purely tactical. Purely for appearances. His thumb is not supposed to move in reassuring strokes like it is.
“Two nights,” he says smoothly, sliding over the IDs. “Just us, sweetheart.”
The word leaves him in that low government-trained voice and lands directly in your spine.
You turn. Just a little, just enough to look at him.
Leon does not look back at you.
His face remains professionally blank, all clean lines and practiced indifference, but the tips of his ears go pink.
You smile. Oh, this is going to be fun.
By hour three, he has said sweetheart seven times. You were counting because every single one hit differently.
There’s the clipped, efficient sweetheart he uses in public when ushering you through doors or steering you away from security cameras.
“This way, sweetheart.”
“Careful on the steps, sweetheart.”
“Forgot your purse, sweetheart.”
Each one accompanied by his hand at your waist, your elbow, the center of your back, touches that are supposed to look casual but linger one beat too long because Leon is suddenly, catastrophically aware that he is allowed to touch you whenever he wants under the guise of maintaining cover.
Then there is the low murmur he uses when hotel staff are nearby.
“You cold, sweetheart?”
You nearly trip because that one sounds domestic. Familiar, like he has been saying it to you for years.
And Leon hears it too, judging by the way his jaw tightens immediately after.
You glance at him.
He is staring dead ahead like a man who just stepped on a landmine but cannot stop walking.
By dinner, the problem becomes obvious: Leon is getting too good at this.
Not at surveillance or gathering intel. At husbanding.
He pulls your chair out, orders your drink from memory, cuts into some overpriced chicken while discussing case details through clenched teeth, then absentmindedly slides the better-looking portion onto your plate because you always steal his food anyway.
Your amused stare makes him freeze. He looks at the plate then looks at you.
“…habit,” he mutters.
“Leon.”
“Don’t.”
“You fed me.” Your tone is lightly teasing. Like you know something he doesn't.
“It was tactical.”
“With the larger piece? The big juicy one we'd normally fight over?”
His expression says he wants the earth to open and swallow him whole.
You grin into your wine.
Sweetheart count: thirteen.
Sleeping arrangements are where it starts to ruin him.
One room. One king bed. Of fucking course.
You don’t even bother pretending outrage; both of you have done this dance before. Missions are uncomfortable. It happens.
What does not usually happen is Leon looking at the bed like it has personally betrayed him.
“It’s fine,” you say, already kicking off your shoes. “At least it's a king.”
“Yeah,” he answers too fast. “Fine.”
It is not fine because married couples do not build a pillow wall.
Married couples do not sleep rigidly on opposite edges of the mattress like Victorian strangers.
Married couples, if anyone is listening through the walls or watching through optics, sleep close.
So close that Leon can feel your body heat through the thin hotel blanket. So close that every shift of your leg brushes his. So close that when you roll over in your sleep and tuck unconsciously into his side, one hand splayed over his chest, Leon’s entire central nervous system exits the building.
He goes perfectly still.
Your breath fans warm against his throat. Your knee slots between his. Your wedding band - fake, fake, fake - taps softly against his sternum when your hand flexes in sleep.
Leon stares at the ceiling all night with the expression of a man being slowly executed.
Because now he has to call you sweetheart in the morning. Now he has to wake up with you draped over him and act like this is normal.
Now he has to survive thirty-six more hours of pretending you belong to him in front of witnesses while his body starts reacting to that fiction like it has found religion.
The second morning is fatal.
You are both in the breakfast lounge scanning suspects.
You lean over his shoulder to whisper an observation. Your hand lands on his thigh under the table.
It's tactical. Something about keeping up appearances, Leon remembers vaguely. You feel the muscle in his leg jump violently beneath your palm.
He turns his head just enough to glare at you.
You widen your eyes innocently.
“Something wrong, sweetheart?” you ask.
His pupils blow wide. There is a full two seconds where Leon forgets how language works.
Then, through gritted teeth, “You are enjoying this too much.”
“Enjoying what, honey?”
He makes a strangled noise. You have to bite the inside of your cheek not to laugh. This is no longer a mission for Leon, this is psychological warfare.
Every pet name from your mouth hits him like a bullet.
Honey.
Baby.
Darling.
One time, in the elevator, just to watch him malfunction, you smooth nonexistent lint from his tie and murmur, “You look handsome, sweet husband.”
Leon walks directly into the closing doors.
By the final night he is wrecked.
Forty-eight hours of sweetheart. Forty-eight hours of rings. Forty-eight hours of your head on his shoulder in public, your fingers linked with his, your smile tossed at him over breakfast like you’ve done this a thousand mornings before.
Forty-eight hours of pretending to be a man who gets to keep you.
The mission concludes at 11:37 p.m.
Target apprehended. Intel secured. Cover no longer necessary.
You close the hotel room door behind you and immediately start peeling off your ring.
“God, I’m ready to stop being married.”
Leon says, very quietly, “Don’t.”
You look up. He is standing across the room, jacket half unzipped, hair a mess from the rain outside, staring at your fingers.
At the ring.
At the small pale indent the metal left behind.
The room changes.
You lower your hand.
“Leon?”
His laugh comes out thin. Disbelieving. Ruined.
“I have called you sweetheart for two days,” he says, like this is an indictment, “and every time I did it, it sounded less fake.”
Your heartbeat stumbles. Leon drags a hand over his face.
“I know your coffee order. I know which side of the bed you sleep on. I know you steal the olives out of my drinks and leave me with the stupid toothpick.” He looks at you then, eyes dark and exhausted and frighteningly open. “Do you understand how bad it got in my head?”
Neither of you moves.
His voice drops. “By this afternoon I stopped pretending for them.” He swallows. “I was pretending for me.”
Oh.
Oh, that poor man.
He looks furious about it. Furious that two days of domestic theater exposed something he had apparently been keeping chained in the basement of his chest.
Furious that hearing sweetheart in his own voice made him want things.
A kitchen. Your shoes by his door. Arguments over laundry. Lazy Sunday mornings. A life he was never supposed to let himself imagine.
And now that he has imagined it, even by accident, he cannot force it back out.
“What do you want?” you ask softly.
Leon’s eyes drop to the ring still pinched between your fingers.
When he answers, his voice is almost wrecked enough to shake.
“I want you to put that back on before I do something stupid.”
Re9 has showed us that Leon will absolutely push himself when he's sick, so can I please request reader taking care of Leon when he gets the flu? That man does *not* know how to rest or just let himself be taken care of and I want to make him soup and give him blankets and cuddles. >.<
i love this sm! ty for ur request! it's a shorter one, but ihope u like it!! <3 now i want soup.
totally not sick
leon kennedy x reader [gender neutral, no y/n]
no warnings. lots of banter and taking care of leon. trope of not caring if you get sick and kissing/touching anyways. envisioned as requiemish leon, but could be anytime around/after re6, i suppose! i just mention his wrinkles and he's much more settled in this <3
It’s Sunday. Usually the two of you would have a late breakfast, then go on a walk. Today, Leon had only managed some bites of cereal after finally waking up well after noon. You’d let him sleep as long as he could, because you suspected either something was wrong or he’d been extra tired from work. Either way, he deserved the rest.
By the time he emerged from the bedroom, he still looked exhausted. And he didn’t grumble that you should’ve woken him up like he normally does when you’ve been up for hours without him. So, you have one conclusion.
Leon’s sick.
You know it, and you know he knows it, even if he still hasn’t said anything. Aside from his sleeping habits, he’s sniffling, “allergies,” he hasn’t worked out or went on a run in two days, “I just don’t feel like it, it’s no big deal,” and now he’s downing water like he’s been in the desert for a week.
“Thirsty?” You raise an eyebrow as he gulps down his fourth glass of water. Leon shrugs, and his throat bobs as he seems to swallow repeatedly.
“I know what you’re thinking, babe, but I’m fine. Really.”
“Uh huh,” you reach out with the back of your hand. His forehead is radiating heat. His hairline is even a little damp. “You’re burning up.”
“It’s summer.”
“It’s not even halfway through April, Leon,” you stand and go for the bathroom. You call a command over his shoulder. “Stay.”
“I’m not a dog.” He grumbles when you return with an arm full of supplies. You leave briefly to fill another glass of water for him, with a side of two ibuprofen tablets.
“You’re sick as one,” you cross your arms as he takes them like a moody teenager. You wait for him to swallow before uncapping the thermometer. “Open.”
“Bossy.” He does what you say anyway.
“Good boy.” If the thermometer wasn’t in his mouth, and he didn’t have a thousand pounds worth of fatigue on his muscles, he’d be grinning and tackling you to get you back for that. Instead, he stays put and waits for his temperature to be taken. His acceptance is hesitant, but it’s beginning to settle as you put your foot down. He knows better than to fight you when you’ve got your mind set on something; never mind something that has to do with his well being. God forbid you get your hands on any of the BOWs that have tried to kill him. He’s not sure anything could stop you.
You dab the cool washcloth you’d thrown over your shoulder on his forehead. His eyelids flutter shut at the relief and you can’t help the smug smile on your face.
“Not sick, my ass,” Leon pinches your hip in retaliation. The thermometer beeps. 99.8. You sigh. “You’re ridiculous. How long have you been feeling sick? Since Thursday?”
“...Yeah,” he finally admits. He looks like he’s been caught stealing. “How’d you know?”
“You stopped kissing me more than twice a day,” you say, like it's obvious. It is to you. Every habit he has is ingrained in your mind. At home, Leon's predictable. He likes his routine. You assume he's trying to make up for when his employment will inevitably throw a wrench into it. “And you also took two naps on Friday. And a couple other things.”
“My stealth’s not as good as I—,” he stops short with a scrunched nose. A sneeze explodes once, twice. You hand him a tissue, another one of the supplies you’d laid out on the coffee table, and he murmurs a thanks. Something guilty crosses his expression as he looks back at you. The tip of his nose has started to redden, and he looks much like a little kid in a Kleenex commercial. Unfortunately, it’s very cute. “I hope I don’t get you sick.”
“I’ll be alright,” you press a kiss to his clammy forehead and follow it with another press of the cool cloth. “You can repay the favor then, hm?” His smile is small, but his crows feet deepen just enough from it in a devastatingly handsome expression. “Even when you’re sick you’re hot, you bastard.” That really makes him smile big, and a laugh erupts from his chest. It quickly turns into a cough.
“Can you—” He glances behind you as if he’s trying to prevent himself from asking for help. “Do we have cough drops?”
“It’s okay to ask for help, old man,” you tease and reach for the packet. You even unwrap it for him. He watches you like you’re an artist and your medium is doing the simplest things to make his life easier. Not a second thought or a single question. He considers that maybe you’re something otherworldly. All for simply handing him an unwrapped cough drop. “Especially if you’re not feeling well, baby. Just because I’ll find out eventually, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t rather know the second you feel off. You’d do the same for me, so let me do it for you.”
“Next time,” he murmurs, pressing a hand to your cheek. It’s not quite clammy, but is warmer than usual. “Swear.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” you lean in to kiss him, but he yanks his head away like you’re a hot stove. You narrow your eyes. “C’mon, you’ve been kissing me all week. If I’m going to catch something, I would have already. I don’t care.” You take his cheeks in your hands and hold firm. He runs a thumb over your forearm and stops arguing. It’s a short kiss; Leon’s congested sinuses don’t have much room to breathe for a longer one. “Hm. Honey," it’s an observation of the taste of the cough drop lingering on his lips, something that's an absent-minded thought. The right corner of his mouth quirks upwards like it always does before a smartass joke.
“Yes, sweetheart?” You sigh. It's a loving exhale.
“You really never stop, do you?”
“Well, normally, you're begging me not to stop—”
“Alright, enough of you. I'll start dinner and leave you to your wiseass commentary," you cut him off before he starts coughing from making himself laugh. Another kiss finds the top of his head as you head to the kitchen. You don’t ask; you know what Leon likes the rare times when he’s under the weather. Homemade chicken noodle soup with lots of veggies to replenish his vitamins. And some toasted garlic and rosemary brioche on the side. He doesn’t care if it’s some recipe you found on the internet a long time ago; to him, it’s your soup. Prepared by your gentle hands, served to him with a kiss while he shrinks into the couch in a fever.
You’re nearly done by the time Leon hobbles over to you from his tomb of tissues and medicine on the couch. His arms find their way around your waist and he squeezes you. He kisses the crown of your head like he always does, and tucks his face into your neck. You can barely understand the words as they fall against your skin. He’s a touch warmer than usual, but not as concerning as before.
“Thank you,” another kiss lands on the curve of your shoulder and collarbone. First on the fabric of his shirt that you’ve stolen, then he pulls the collar aside to expose bare skin. He adorns this with a kiss as well. “Love your soup.”
“I know,” him saying it aloud still makes you feel warm, and you spin in his hold to look at him. His hair is limp, not plush and styled like it normally is. You push the strands hanging in his face away, out of his tired eyes. The cold has fully set in now, and he looks pretty damn miserable. His shoulders sagging and the crease long set in his brow deepened. “How you feeling, baby?” He sniffs and tilts his head, a small movement but a token of the way he softens when you call him a pet name. It’s something like a cat pushing its eager head into a palm.
“Better now that I’m looking at you,” he rasps, raw from the soreness. He clears his throat aimlessly. “But still crap.” Your chest aches just a little. Even if it means taking care of him, a Leon who isn’t feeling like himself breaks your heart. You try to cheer him up, tucking more of his hair behind his ears. His gaze is fixed on you, gentle and sticky sweet.
“I can’t fix everything, can I?”
“You get pretty close,” he shrugs. Your cracked heart flutters. Leon glances over you at the pot. “I’m pretty sure that soup makes up for the fraction you lack, so you’re not missin’ anything, sweetheart.”
“Flirt.”
“It’s the truth,” he clears his throat again, and it stirs another coughing fit. You rub his back while he works through it. It’s not wet, just dry and irritated from his sore throat. He looks back at you once it subsides, almost sheepish. As if being sick is an embarrassing affair. He’s really all gas. You suppose you’re something like his emergency brake. And even if you know as much, it’s still something that truly stuns you every time he pushes himself too much. And then, like clockwork, his next sentence is another rev of his rattling engine.
“You need help?”
You nearly laugh. He’s a walking bucket of snot and coughs and he’s trying to help with dinner.
“Yeah,” you take his shoulders and push him to the dining room. He lets you sit him in a chair, amusement across his features at your bossiness. “You can start by resting, Leon. Just sit there and look pretty, I’ll get you a bowl. Bread’s almost done toasting.”
“I’m not sure I’m entirely prepared for the looking pretty part,” his eyes track you as you move around the kitchen, preparing two bowls. “I think you’ve got that covered.”
You come home to Leon drunk, AGAIN, and you realize you just can't do this anymore.
TW + tags: Vendetta! Leon x DSO! Gn! Reader; use of y/n im sorry 😞; 4k+ words; leon is an alcoholic; mentions of reader self harm; angst; denial of addiction; leons kinda a dick for a sec; DESPERATE LEON MMMM; reader has a past with alcoholics, happy ending,
a/n: Uhhh I know this kinda butchered the timeline of vendetta I’m sorry i had to do it for the sake of the story
Although i do proofread my work its still prone to errors because I’m dyslexic ^_^
You sighed, slipping your key into the lock, twisting it until you heard a click. It was another grueling, demanding day of work. A three hour briefing of an upcoming mission for a couple of agents had drained the social battery out of you and stolen your night away.. Your watch read 12;27. You were ready to go inside, heat up some leftovers, collapse onto your bed, and cuddle up against your husband till sleep consumed you.
You pushed the door open and leaned against the wall, lazily slipping off your shoes and pushing them out of the way into a previously existing unordered pile. You closed the door behind you and locked it, rubbing your eyes and placing your jacket onto a coat hanger above the pile of shoes.
“I’m home!” You shouted into an empty abyss. You knew Leon was around here somewhere, you saw his car in the driveway, and his shoes were also messily placed by the door. But where he was in the house was beyond you. You slipped into the living room, tossing up a blanket on the couch to see if he was under it (although it was very obvious he wasn't)
You started to walk towards his office when out of the corner of your eye, you saw a dark shadow sitting at the kitchen island. You turned your head, and noticed his slumped over, unconscious body, presented in the dim warm light of the kitchen. A smile crept over you, as you walked over towards him. You stood running your hand through his hair, watching his small quiet breaths in and out.
You ran your eyes over the scene in front of you, your initial reaction was to assume he passed out some paperwork while waiting for you to come home. Before you could come up with another domestic scenario, you noticed it. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey sitting beside him on the counter. No glass (nor decency to not drink straight out of the bottle) just a bottle with a couple of drops congregating at the bottom.
You felt your face heat up, not with embarrassment, or sadness, but with anger. This was the 12th time you’d come home to him like this. By now you should’ve just assumed if he was passed out at an unconventional spot, he was passed out drunk.
The past 12 times, You’d tried to be sympathetic, kind, understanding, and help him break this unhealthy habit before it became worse. Before past situations reformed and became present ones. You’d seen this all before. Clearly your words of advice weren't getting to him. But this was getting ridiculous. There was only so much help a person could offer, so much patience before things boiled over with words that were thought but left unsaid.
So… like any rational person would, you picked up the glass bottle residing beside him, and slammed it onto the floor. The bottle shattered and broke onto the wood. Leon practically jumped out of his skin, immediately into fight mode.
He fought through the exhaustion and fuzzy vision, immediately calming down as he noticed your form towering over him. His gaze drifted to the bottle on the floor then back at you.
“The hell-”
“This is ridiculous. This has become ridiculous. You want to know how many times I’ve come home to this? 12 times. 12 times, Leon.”
“What…” He slurred, his tone bordering on irritation.
“I have been patient, I have been kind, I’ve tried my best to be sympathetic” You rattled off, counting on your fingers. He stared at you with a stare and an expression that continued to swap between blunt confusion and annoyance. Right as he was about to open his mouth to speak, you started to ramble more.
“Is it just not enough? Am I not enough? I want to help you, I know the shit you’ve gone through is worse than the average human can comprehend, but I want to help! I want to do something. I’ve spoken to you personally, and I’ve tried to let you talk to me on your own time. But now? Now I don't know what to do. I just can't keep coming home to this.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” He asked, his brows furrowed, his body relaxing against the kitchen counter again.
“The drinking, Leon!” You yelled at him, finally letting it all boil over into a volume that wasn't used for everyday conversation. His body tensed again and he sat up once more. “I’m not gonna keep coming home to a man that's slumped over, covered in his own drool, and that smells like pure whiskey. Its one thing to let loose every once in a while, but this is fucking ridiculous. Sure, it was in the vows to be there for you, and help you through stuff- sickness and in health-, but how the hell am I supposed to help you if you wont let me! I can't do this shit anymore, this cat and mouse game! You need help!”
His silence was deafening and he just stared at you with a dumb stare that couldn't tell you if he was really listening and contemplating your words, or if everything was going in one ear and out the other. What could you expect from a drunk guy? Both of you looked at one another for a long while, your chest rose with heavy frustrated breaths. It was a long time before he said anything else.
“You’re over exaggerating. I don’t need help. Just cause a guy gets drunk every now and then doesn't make it a problem.” God you had never wanted to slap him harder in your life.
“I’ve met alcoholics Leon. I’ve lived with them. You're an alcoholic. This isn't an every now-and-then thing. Ive come home to this twelve times in two months! I can't imagine what goes on when I'm not around” You explained with a sigh, trying not to yell at him again.
“Because you have a past with alcoholics doesn’t make me one. You’re just freaked out. You're making this into something its not.” His words made you feel belittled, like your previous experiences were nothing. Like this whole thing was nothing. Your next words practically poured out of you before you could even think.
“The entire DSO can smell you before you even enter a room because you wreak of alcohol. The rest of us? Your friends, Leon, were not stupid. It doesn't take a genius to figure out you have a problem. We all know youre not stupid, so stop playing dumb and get some fucking help! I’ve already been through this shit once. I’m not gonna sit here and wait for one of us to get hurt waiting. You need help! This isn't a healthy way to cope!”
You stood there, your mind was vexed and all you wanted to do was get him to understand. Clearly he needed a reality check, and If screaming at him for the next hour and a half would help, you would continue doing it.
But of course, his mouth worked quicker than his intoxicated mind.
“Oh yeah cause you know all about healthy coping mechanisms. I’ve seen the shit you've done to your legs.” Almost immediately as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. It didn’t require a sober conscious to know he fucked up in 9 words. He sat there, unmoving, watching as you stood in front of him, your eyes wide and quickly glazing over with tears.
You hummed, your frustration dissipating and embarrassment replacing it. Embarrassed that you had trusted him enough to let him in on a vulnerable part of your life, just for it to be used against you when all you wanted to do was help. You stood up straight, your throat was tight and it was hard to swallow.
His irritated expression quickly resorted to a guilty one. He opened his mouth like he wanted to speak. You stared at each other once more before you decided you had TRULY had enough of this. Your threats of abandoning him were about to become reality. You turned on your heel, making a beeline to the bedroom, wiping away the tears before they could even fall. He frantically stood up, stumbling over his feet trying to follow you, trying to fix this.
“I’m sorry. Y/N I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean it” He tried to grab your wrist as you both made it to the bedroom. You fumbled with the closet door and pulled out your suitcase. He watched, trying to support himself against the door frame.
You unzipped the bag and started to pile miscellaneous clothes into your bag, some underwear, shirts, jeans, a couple office wear outfits for work (that may or may not have matched). Leon staggered his way in front of you, gently trying to grab at your shoulders.
“Please, I'm sorry. Don’t leave. I didn’t mean it.” He slurred. Maybe it was the alcohol or his guilty conscience, but he wiped himself of his dignity and slid onto his knees. His eyes bore into yours and he pleaded with you. You continued to ignore him, sliding your necessary skincare and makeup into a small travel bag and zipping that up too. You ripped your phone charger and laptop charger out of the wall, threw that on top of all your clothes chaotically placed in your luggage.
“Y/n please stop..” He begged, desperation in his dilated eyes. He watched as you walked around the bedroom, grabbing whatever you needed. The small and miscellaneous items that he rarely noticed but made the room felt devoid of life. He felt helpless, and he knew this feeling was nothing more than the consequences of his own actions. Now he had to sit here and watch as it unfolded.
Finally, you zipped up the bag and tossed it onto the floor. You knelt down, grabbing his chin and forcing his pathetic face to look at you. You studied his flushed cheeks and dilated pupils, the dark circles under his eyes and dry lips; no doubt the result of the immense quantity of alcohol swarming around in his blood stream.
“I’m leaving for a couple of days. By the time I’m back you better have your shit together or you can consider this, done.” Tears strolled down his eyes as he looked at you, and you were pretty sure this was the first time you’d ever seen him cry. As much as you wanted to coddle him and tell him he would be fine, that you weren't going to leave, you’d given him his chance. Multiple chances, infact. You’d tried to help him. If he wanted you to stay bad enough he’d fix it himself.
You let go of his face and stood up. pulling your luggage behind you, past him, past your shared bedroom, and passed the shards of glass. He pushed himself up off the floor, tripping and gripping the open dresser drawers as he struggled to follow after you.
“Please.. don't leave!” He shouted, not in an angry tone, but in a desperate, last pathetic attempt. Like you were his lifeline and he just couldn't bear to part with you. But It certainly hadn't felt that way the past 12 times you'd come home to him drunk. You ignored him and pulled your keys off the counter. You were out the door before you could make the terrible decision to stay.
By the time you even made it to a hotel you had 23 messages on your phone from Leon. All of them read something along the lines of: I’m sorry, please come back, where are you staying? when will you be back? Can I come see you?
You turned off your location because the last thing you needed was for him to drive in his intoxicated state.
By the time you made it to your room- which was about 13 messages later- he seemed to have given up (or passed out drunk), and it was now radio silence. You continued your nightly routine without his presence by your side, and although the weight of the argument was on your mind, it couldn't overpower your need for sleep.
Your morning was also fairly normal, still no new texts or calls from Leon. The only thing your routine suffered from was a lack of color coordination the night before when you hurriedly stuffed a couple of outfits into a bag. You arrived at work as per usual, and PRAYED Leon wasn't waiting in your office for you. You let out a sigh of relief when you finally sat down at your desk, no flowers, no card, no mile long email, and best of all, no leon- at least yet.
You went about work as you normally would, the argument the night prior lingered on your mind. Were you too hard on him? Should you have tried to comfort him again? insecurity started to creep into your mind. Despite what your mind telling you, in your heart you knew you weren't wrong. It wasn't wrong for you to not want to live with an alcoholic again, to suffer abuse again. Leon knew your past, and you just couldn’t help but think he wasn't taking it seriously.
By lunch you were starting to get concerned. As much as you were dreading another confrontation with Leon, at work nonetheless, you hadn’t received another text since around 1:30 last night. Was he okay?
“Whatever” You mumbled to yourself, trying not to let your anxiety get to you. You swiped your keys off your desk, taking long strides through the building towards the elevator. Coincidentally, Leon's secretary, Amanda, also happened to be making her way towards the elevator too.
She was a nice lady, only a couple years older than you and Leon. She wore Red framed glasses with the thickest lenses you had ever seen. So thick that without looking you could swear her ID read “legally blind”. She had gorgeous dark red hair that ran all the way down to her thighs. But most of the time she kept it tied up in a bun. She was pale as a ghost and god forbid she stood in the sun, she could burn to a crisp in 5 minutes if she decided to not wear sunscreen on a cloudy day.
The elevator arrived at your floor with a ding. You and Amanda entered, offering each other a smile, your polite expressions mirrored on the metal grey door as it slid shut.
“Out for lunch?” She asked, fumbling with a couple folders in her arms.
“Yea. You?” You replied, a yawn following at the end of your sentence. It seemed your lack of sleep last night was getting to you.
“Nah. Copy room on this floor is too busy. First floors copy room is never busy” She hummed, and silence fell over the two of you, you stared at the blurry reflection of yourself on the metal doors, before deciding to take advantage of this moment with Amanda.
“Have you seen Leon yet?” You questioned, turning to her. As you conversed with her you could see your reflection in her thick lenses. You prayed it was just a warped likeness and you really didn’t look that terrible.
“Nope. Why? Do you need me to send him a message or something?”
“No, quite the opposite actually.”
“Uh oh, trouble in paradise?”
“More like a hurricane in paradise.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Not really. You know where he's at though? So I can avoid him?”
“He's on a mission. He was sent through the BSAA to New York City around 30 minutes ago. I figured he told you-”
“Shit.” You cut her off unintentionally, running your hand down your face. The elevator made it to the first floor and you practically stormed out of there the moment those doors opened.
15 minutes later you found yourself sitting at a table of a locally owned cafe waiting for your food. You stared daggers at your phone resting on the table. Leon's contact page wide open. A blank text message and his desperate texts from last night displayed. That stupid cursor blinked back and forth as if challenging you to say something. You were caught between sending him an instantaneous apology text; or leaving him in bitter silence until he got back. That was IF he got back.
You knew whatever the hell you typed wouldn’t be sincere. Though you did not feel guilt for calling him out on his bullshit behaviour. You felt guilt for your abrupt leave being his potentially last encounter with you. That argument being his last words shared with you. Anything could happen on a mission. You knew that very well from the frequent funerals of DSO agents you attended.
Those words you wanted to say never transcribed into a full sentence. Many messages went unsent then were deleted. Your head screamed at you to text him something, anything so your absence wouldn't be the last thing you said to him. The day went by and although your work was completed that message was the only thing that remained unaccomplished.
So now you sat, watching the week go by. With each passing hour you felt guiltier for not saying anything. That unresolved guilt became anger very quickly. You were angry with him, yourself, the whole world. You consulted with your friend to help with the text but to much avail you never sent anything. You bugged Amanda every other hour for an update on Leon and the mission status, but after he arrived in New York City he went off the radar.
You wished the static of radio silence filled your head. So that sound could overpower the doubt and guilt in your mind. You prayed Leon would come home just so you could yell at him one more time. So he could pass out drunk and you could wake him with the vengeful destruction of a bottle. So You could see those icy blue eyes of his disappear behind the dilation of his pupil. Him on his knees begging for you to stay. This time it would be different. He would listen to your concerns and take them to heart. Realize you were right and that this anger you expressed was for his well being.
Was it selfish to want that? To have the same scenario reoccur and expect a different outcome?
You lay awake in bed at night, staring at the ceiling wondering where he was. If he was alive. Was he dying, staring at his phone, rereading previous text messages whilst silently praying you would send him one final text?
Finally after two weeks you stopped asking Amanda about Leon’s whereabouts.
You treated his absence as if he were already dead. Life went by in one long never ending stream. You couldn’t remember when this feeling of nothing began and when it would end. To forget it all you embraced work. Staying up till the wee hours of the night and beginning in the quiet hours of the morning.
You thought about the immense amount of work you were doing. You laughed to yourself at the irony and realized maybe you were just as bad as Leon. He drowned himself in alcohol to forget his thoughts and to forget your thoughts you drowned yourself in work.
It was going on a month since you had last heard and seen Leon. At least, that's what your calendar said. In your mind it felt like months, a year even. You drove home in the quiet of the night, your phone read 2:00 AM. Music played from your car's speaker at an unhealthy volume. Some bland pop song blasting throughout the vehicle because you heard somebody say once “it's hard to feel sad when you're listening to pop music” which in a way was right. (but you were pretty sure this was the 18th time you had heard this song this week)
You parked your car, and as you cut the engine the music cut as well, leaving you with an overwhelming feeling of silence. You walked to the front door, the solar porch light buzzing at a low frequency. You slid your key into the lock and hummed the tune to the pop song you were previously listening to. Curse that obnoxiously catchy beat now you were going to have that song stuck in your head for the whole night.
You locked the door behind you and kicked off your shoes. You threw off your jacket and hung it up on the coat rack. You sighed and made your way towards the kitchen, but halfway there you froze. Through the silence of the night you heard a sound behind the front door. Whoever was behind it attempted to turn the door handle, only to be stopped by the lock.
You turned around slowly, trying not to move suddenly and make any noise that might alert the intruder. You heard the sound of something sliding into the lock. Presumably a lock pick. You ran to the bedroom, already recalling the safe’s code that held Leon's emergency gun. You opened the closet doors, shoving aside Leon's jackets. The safe made a quiet beep with every number typed in.
It clicked open and before your fingers could wrap around the gun you heard your name being called.
You froze, convincing yourself that wasn’t who you thought it was. You were hearing things and this was just a part of the grief process. Your fingers gently wrapped around the gun, clicking off the safety. Footsteps thumped and became closer and closer.
“Y/n?” You turned your head slowly. You told yourself you were hallucinating. Or a nightmare crossed over into a dream. Somewhere in reality you were passed out at your desk still at the DSO. Regardless of your doubts, you still stood up and ran to him. Abandoning the gun and enveloping yourself in Leon’s arms. You stayed quiet and allowed yourself to feel his breath along your neck, his heartbeat against your chest, his hands around your back.
If this was a hallucination you still took advantage of the feeling of him next to you. Even if it was your mind playing tricks on you. Who knows when you might meet him again in your dreams.
“I’m so sorry.” He mumbled against your neck, the vibration carrying itself through your skin. “I shouldn’t have said those things. I should’ve listened to you. I fucked up and I’m so sorry for it.”
You said nothing but your appreciation wasn't lost in the way you held him tighter. You two stood like that for a while longer. His warm breath caressed your skin and his hands greedily pushed you closer to him to hold you tighter. That's when you knew then that this wasn't a hallucination.
“I have something for you..” He mumbled into your shoulder. You two separated and he guided you to sit down on the edge of the bed. He flicked on the lamp on the bedside table, both of you blinked rapidly as you adjusted to its light.
You watched intently as he pulled something out of his pocket. Now that you could both see you noticed something about him. You leaned in closer, studying his face. His skin was clear, His hair was brushed neatly, and most importantly he smelled clean. And it wasn’t that he didn’t normally smell clean. But for the first time in a while, his presence wasn't laced with the stench of whiskey.
“Here we go.” He muttered, pulling out a small coin. He held your wrist and turned it over with all the care in the world. Your palm faced upward, forbearingly he placed the coin in your hand. Your gaze slowly descended to the chip in your hand. Handling it as if it were the most precious diamond in the world, you brought it closer to your face to read.
In clear Ariel fonted words it read “One Week Sober”.
Your eyes looked into Leons again, then back at the chip.
“Are you serious?” You pondered, staring into his eyes for clarification. He smiled softly, eyes glaring into yours.
“I’m serious.” He professed, grabbing your free hand. He smiled, one that finally met his eyes. One that wasn’t weighed down by the side effects of alcohol.
You grinned and launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and forcing him into a tight embrace.
“I’m so proud of you.”
Uhm would anybody want to read part 2 and its reader helping leon with alcohol withdrawal and possible relapse i feel like nobody talks about the withdrawal and recovery part of an addiction enough :(
TW. fratboy / fuckboy leon! alcohol use. mentions of drugs (weed) language. 69 position. oral receiving (m & f) fingering. partying. mdni. title from 2 u by 2hollis. read previous chapters first!
series masterlist
Two weeks later after your study session, Leon Kennedy passes his psychology exam by three miserable points.
“You passed?” you repeat slowly over the phone while sitting cross-legged on your dorm bed with notebooks and pens scattered around.
“Comfortably.” leon remarks.
“You got a seventy-three… that doesn’t seem very comfortable..”
“A pass is a pass.” You can hear shouting behind him already, music thumping through the speakers. He must be celebrating.
“What’s happening over there?”
“Pool party.” Leon says easily. “Starts this afternoon. Goes all night. You’re coming.”
You lean back on your bed slowly looking up at the ceiling. “Leon-“
“No excuses.” he interrupts immediately. “You’re literally the reason i didn’t fail.”
“That feels academically dishonest.” you mumble.
“It feels romantic.”
You snort a laugh, lower belly filling with butterflies from his words.
“will you come?” leon asks softer, his voice low like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.
“Yeah. sure.” you whisper back teasingly, hearing leon scramble around in his kitchen.
“oh, and bring Claire.” he adds. “I need a witness when I publicly dedicate my success to you.”
By sunset the frat house looks insane.
Music pounds loud enough to shake the windows, colored lights strung around the backyard while half the campus crowds around the pool with drinks in hand. Someone’s already doing backflips off the roof into the deep end which honestly feels medically concerning.
“This feels illegal.” claire says pulling her sunglasses down to rest on her nose.
“It probably is.”
“You know what?” she says thoughtfully as somebody nearly falls off the roof holding a beer bong. “I actually feel better about my own life choices now.”
You laugh quietly, scanning the backyard automatically and immediately find Leon. its almost like your brain’s developed a problem, looking for him first everywhere you go.
He’s standing near the pool in black swim trunks and no shirt, toned abs and sharp v line damp already like somebody shoved him in earlier. The second he sees you his entire face changes to that stupid soft smile.
“There’s our scholar!” someone yells as Leon walks over but he ignores them completely, his entire focus on you. His eyes drag slowly over your swimsuit and for a second it looks like he genuinely forgot how to speak.
“You look…” He exhales once through his nose. “Jesus.”
Heat rushes to your face. “Hi to you too.”
Claire gags loudly. “I need alcohol immediately.” she watches the interaction carefully beside you like she’s still waiting for him to reveal himself as a manipulative supervillain. Instead Leon points toward the coolers near the patio.
“Claire.”
She narrows her eyes. “Kennedy.”
“There’s malibu in the blue cooler before Luis drinks all of it.”
“…You remembered what I drink?”
Leon shrugs. “You yell at me a lot. Makes you memorable.”
Claire opens her mouth then shuts it like she wants to say ‘thank you’ but knowing her ego, she wont.
“…That was almost nice.” she says flatly.
“Don’t spread it around.”
You hide your laugh against your hand as Claire walks off muttering something about “confusingly decent men.”
Leon watches her leave before leaning closer to you slightly.
“I think she hates me less.”
“She tolerates you now.”
“Progress.”
The pool water glows blue beneath the lights as people crowd around the edges dancing badly, the smell of weed and booze filling your senses. Somewhere behind you someone starts chanting for a cannonball competition.
You glance toward the water. “so.. are you actually going swimming or are you just hosting?”
Leon smirks slowly. “You challenging me?”
Before you can answer he grabs your waist suddenly and throws you over his shoulder.
You shriek immediately, legs kicking out in the open air. “LEON—”
He’s laughing full-on now as he carries you toward the pool.
“Oh my god put me DOWN—”
“Too late.”
“leon! i swear to god!-“
Then water crashes around you both and you come up sputtering and gasping while people around the pool cheer obnoxiously.
“You asshole!” you yell with a laugh, throwing your now wet hair over your shoulder. Leon surfaces beside you laughing so hard he can barely breathe.
“You should’ve seen your face—”
You splash water directly into his face.
The pools warm from the heat outside, music echoing across the backyard while lights shimmer against the surface around you. Leon pushes wet blonde hair back from his forehead, still grinning at you like he can’t help it.
He drifts closer in the water until his hands settle loosely against your waist beneath the surface, his chest inches away from yours.
You having fun yet, sweetheart?”
“…Maybe a little.” you reply even though you are having a lot of fun.
“Damn.” he says softly. “I’m winning you over.”
Claire eventually joins you both after enough alcohol and peer pressure, though she spends the first five minutes threatening violence if Leon splashes her.
He does anyway. She nearly drowns him for it.
But by the end of it Claire’s sitting beside him at the shallow end arguing about basketball while he laughs at her dramatic hand gestures.
Traitor.
You drift farther toward the middle of the pool, lying on your back and watching the sky turn dark, the party slowly quiet down. Its freeing being surrounded with the people you love. No more tests. No more studying for awhile.
The music feels muffled underwater. The lights around the yard blur gold against the darkening sky.
Later when the air turns colder and people start moving inside, you sit beside leon at the edge of the pool with your feet dangling in the water.
“You know,” he says eventually looking down. “I probably still would’ve passed without you.”
You stare at him flatly. “Liar.”
“Okay…” he admits. “I definitely would’ve failed.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I’m glad you came over that night.” he says quietly, so quietly you almost dont catch it. but you do.
“…Yeah?”
“yeah.”
Leon’s hand brushes yours before slowly intertwining your fingers together like he’s testing whether you’ll pull away, you dont.
you knew Claire was wrong about him. everyone else just never looked long enough to see past the act.
The pool lights cast blue reflections across his face, softening the sharpness of his features. His hair’s still damp from swimming earlier, hair falling slightly into his eyes.
You really want to kiss him again.
His shoulders straighten slightly, eyes darkening just enough to make heat crawl up your neck. “You keep doing that.” he mumbles.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
“You’re very confident.” you whisper.
“Not confident.” he says softly. “Hopeful.”
And god that does something to you, knowing leon’s as desperate for you as you are for him.
You don’t let yourself think after that. You grab his shoulders and pull him down into a kiss.
Leon makes a quiet surprised sound against your mouth before kissing you back immediately. Like he’s been waiting for it.
His hand slides to your waist fast, fingers tightening there as the kiss deepens. Warm and dizzying and nothing like the rushed chaos of the closet at the party. This is different.
Leon exhales sharply through his nose, thumb brushing against your side beneath the thin fabric of your cover-up.
“Jesus.” he murmurs against your lips.
You barely have time to breathe before he kisses you again. Your fingers slide into his damp hair instinctively and Leon reacts by pulling you closer against him with a quiet groan.
“You have no idea..” he says quietly smirking. “how long I’ve wanted to do that properly.”
“You kissed me first.” you mumble weakly.
“In a closet” he points out. “Very different environment.”
His eyes flick between yours before glancing toward the house. Then back to you.
That look alone nearly ruins you.
“You wanna go somewhere quieter?” he asks.
The question hangs in the air because you know exactly what he means, and you want it too.
“y-yeah.”
The bass from the party downstairs thumps through the floorboards, a dull rhythmic heartbeat that vibrates up through your palms as you brace yourself on Leon’s mattress.
The door is locked- you made sure of that when he pulled you inside, his lips already on your neck, his hands already fumbling with the buttons on your jeans muttering “i need you now..” and “i cant wait any longer.”
You’re naked now, both of you. The dim light from a single desk lamp casts long shadows across his torso, highlighting the lean muscles in his shoulders, the slight happy trail that disappears beneath his shorts- which are already kicked off somewhere on the floor.
His hands grip your bare hips, watching you with half-lidded eyes that gleam with a mix of hunger and lazy confidence. His cock stands hard and thick against his stomach flushed and already glistening at the tip.
“Come here..” he murmurs voice rough from shouting over the music downstairs.
You hesitate, mouth opening and closing shut with pink flushed cheeks watching as leons eyes scan your whole body.
He hands curl around your wrist and tug you forward until you’re straddling his chest. His breath hitches when you lower yourself, your knees sliding against the sheets as you position yourself over his face.
He guides you down slow until his mouth is inches from your cunt. The warmth of his breath ghosts over your folds and you shudder, already slick and aching for him.
“mmmf- leon..”
“Lean forward..” he mutters with a grin in his voice. You obey bracing your hands on his thighs, your face hovering over his erection. The tip of his cock brushes your cheek, hot and velvet-soft. You take him in your hand stroking once, twice, feeling the pulse beneath the skin, the way he tenses when you squeeze.
Then his tongue touches you.
It’s a flat wet stroke from your entrance to your clit, slow and deliberate, tasting you. A moan escapes your lips muffled against his thigh. He does it again and again each pass firmer, more insistent, until your hips are rocking back against his mouth of their own accord. He hums against you- a low appreciative sound.
“Tastes so fuckin good’ baby.. s’ sweet..”
you answer by taking the head of his cock into your mouth. He’s salty and warm on your tongue. You swirl around the tip, tasting the pre-cum that beads there and his grip on your hips tightens.
“Fuck-..” he breathes, the word hot against your folds. His hips twitch pressing himself deeper into your mouth but he doesn’t thrust. He lets you set the pace, lets you take him inch by inch while his mouth works you with practiced skill.
Your cheeks burn as you suck his cock, thinking about what your doing and how good it feels.
His tongue circles your clit, flicks it then presses flat again. He sucks gently drawing the sensitive nub between his lips and your knees buckle. You have to pause, pull your mouth off his cock with a wet pop to gasp for air. “f-fuck… mhmf.. leon-“
“Don’t stop.” he says, his voice muffled but commanding. He pushes your hips down harder burying his face between your thigh and the pressure of his nose against your clit, his tongue fucking into your entrance makes you cry out.
You grip his cock again stroking him as you take him back into your mouth, deeper this time until the head hits the back of your throat.
He groans long and low, the sound muffled by your flesh. His tongue thrusts into you, curling tasting and fucking you while your mouth works his shaft.
You set a rhythm- suck, swallow and breathe, coordinated with the roll of your hips against his face.
The party downstairs is a distant hum, the bass a throb that syncs with your heartbeat and the pulse of his cock on your tongue.
Sweat slicks your skin. His hands slide from your hips to your ass kneading and spreading, his fingers teasing the edges of your hole. One finger presses against your entrance slick with your own wetness and you moan around his cock. He pushes in, only the tip and you clench around him while your mouth mirrors the motion on his shaft.
“y’ like sucking my cock baby, huh?” He groans and you whine, pussy clenching around his digit.
His finger sinks deeper, curling and hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. His mouth latches onto your clit sucking hard, his tongue flickering in rapid strokes.your orgasm builds sharp and bright and you cry out against his cock as you cum your body shuddering with your thighs clamping around his head.
He licks the slick greedily moaning against your clit, his own hips bucking as you milk him with your throat.
When the waves subside you lift your head gasping, drool and pre-cum stringing from your lips to the tip of his cock. He’s still hard and throbbing as his eyes meet yours from between your legs. He grins, lips and chin still covered in your juices.
Leon manhandles you back and you laugh, his lips meeting yours softly as he tucks you under his arm, flushed cheek smushed against his chest.
“… was that okay?” Leon mutters looking into your eyes, his pupils blown wide with lust and something else.
You nod curling your arms around his torso to pull him closer. The music still beats low below you both, the room smelling like sex and filled with heavy pants from the both of you.
As you both lay looking up at the ceiling holding eachother, you know.
your completely in love with him.
dang it they are so cute i hope nothing bad happens..
✶ Convinced Umbrella was in your past, everything changes when you're tapped as a consult on a mounting bioterrorism case. Things are complicated further when the agent in charge has some warming up to do.
[fem!reader x post-re4!leon kennedy]
a/n: this has been hidden in the drafts for a while, so i’m just gonna release it at an ungodly hour and run. i'm planning for multiple parts! intended to take place shortly after the events of RE4 with some canon bending.
cw: minor mentions of trauma; wc: 2.7k
tags: a short not-necessarily-enemies to lovers start, “you’re annoying but i like you” slow burn, is leon mean or just traumatized, luis serra mentioned, reader has a complicated past.
A soft, rhythmic ticking echoes into the quiet, the sunlight filtering through the wall of windows confirming the clock’s read of early afternoon. The plush leather of the chair beneath you groans as you adjust, uncrossing and recrossing your legs, pins and needles trailing like an electric current along your thighs. Your gaze falls to the closed office door, the open space beyond—the “cube farm” they’d called it—bustling and busy, confirmed by the silhouettes through the frosted glass. Mostly black suits, hunched over stacks of papers or laptops, the scent of burnt coffee permeating every inch of the space to the point where, even here, door closed, you could smell it.
Your stomach grumbles and you bring a placating hand to rest atop it. Burned or not, you could use a strong cup, or really anything, right now.
The smell hits again in a wave when the door opens as if on cue, revealing a tall man, built and seeping with authority. Following him, another, younger and tactically dressed.
The first closes the door behind him before turning to you, hand outstretched. "So nice to finally meet you, ma'am. Anthony Klein, Director.” His handshake is unsurprisingly firm, steady.
You look when he gestures to his companion. “This is Agent Kennedy.”
His eyes—steel blue—capture you first, sharp and unforgiving against the hard planes of his face. When he takes your hand, though, his grip is gentle. “Leon.”
“Pleasure." You nod once, quickly turning your gaze back to Klein, both out of a pressing need to move things along and to break eye contact.
Your hands move up and down along your thighs, nervous.
“So, they didn’t mention much of why I’m here.”
“And we’re sorry about that.”
Klein indicates the collection of chairs from where you’d just risen. Sitting, he continues. “We had to keep things discreet prior to this meeting.”
Coming here had already been enough to encourage the anxiety buzzing beneath your skin. Now, your internal alarm blares, nerves peaking in a rush that challenges your fight to keep it all under control, hidden. Your hands, tightened into fits, come to rest in your lap.
Klein leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped before him, whether with a sense for your uncertainty or simply for his own comfort.
“It’s to do with your background.”
Right. Something cold and uncomfortably solid makes it way to your gut and settles there. Leon, who up until this point had been observing you cooly, looks from you to Klein with renewed interest like he, too, was hearing this for the first time.
Klein nods once, solemnly, focused. “You were a virologist?”
The heavy feeling in your stomach only grows, and you pull at the inside of your cheek with your teeth. “Yes. Was. Not anymore.”
He seems inclined to ignore that. “In truth, you are one of the few researchers still alive with ties to Umbrella. Specifically, it’s Raccoon City operation.”
Leon straightens and you note it, eyes flicking to him. A new tightness cuts his features, suddenly tense, and you meet him with a barely furrowed brow, your attention drifting back to Klein.
“I still don’t understand what that means for me being here.”
He nods again, leaning back and crossing his legs, ankle coming to rest atop his opposite knee, hands steady against the chair’s armrests. Casual, controlled.
“I’ll spare you the minor details. Agent Kennedy just returned from an operation where he gained intel on new parasitic and viral bioweapons. We’ve consulted with others, analysts and experts here, but we need fresh eyes on it.” He taps his armrest with a pointer finger. “Your name was pitched.”
Despite yourself, your gaze once again falls to Leon. His intensity unchanged, you relent, eyes flitting to your lap. A quiet, deep breath, then another.
“I’m a teacher now.” You lift your head to meet Klein’s level stare. “Umbrella, the research… that’s all behind me.”
He inclines his head. “We understand you’re no longer involved. And we’re not trying to accuse you of the opposite.”
Leon shifts beside him.
“However,” a glance to him, then back to you. “We wouldn’t be asking for your help if we didn’t need it.”
Your heart thrums in your chest, a matched rhythm to the ticking of the clock into the silent pause. To say it was a lot was an understatement. Terms you hadn’t heard directed at you in years. The idea of it a knife threatening cut into the paper-thin wall you’d only just built against that portion of your past.
Resigned, you look from Klein to Leon, then back again.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Agent Kennedy is taking point on this case, so you’ll be paired with him as his consult. The disruption to your life, your job, will be minimal. A few meetings, if that.” His fingers again beat a steady drum against the armrest. “We only ask that if you have any documentation from your time there, you gather it.”
You hesitate, eyes traveling to where streaks of sunlight illuminate the deep red of the carpet, a collection of dust specs traversing a lazy path in the still air. The sudden need to be anywhere but here, to return to the moment you picked up the phone to accept this call and instead throw it through the window of your apartment, overwhelms you.
An exhale, deep and cleansing, leaves you, then you nod, turning back to them.
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Excellent.” Klein brings his hands together, overly cheery for his initial disposition. “Agent Kennedy will reach out to schedule a meeting in the next few days. Again, they’ll be discreet to avoid any questions from those in your personal life.”
You knew that wouldn’t be a problem. Not for you, anyway.
Patting the armrests of his chair once, Klein rises, sticking his hand out a final time. You oblige. “We truly appreciate what you’re doing here.”
Your returned nod is cautious, your eyes traveling to Leon as he stands, only to nearly choke under his expression. Distant, cold. One that said he would rather be anywhere but in front of you.
Mercifully, he turns toward the door, following behind Klein as he makes his way out.
With one sparing glance over his shoulder, he says, “I’ll call in the next day or two,” before exiting without another word, leaving you to stand alone in the office behind them.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It wasn’t a hard guess from Leon’s initial reaction that he had reservations. Truthfully, you understood. Umbrella wasn’t a name uttered lightly. Any association, large or small, was a precursor for scrutiny. You’d grown used to it at this point—deflecting whenever you could, ready with an elevator pitch of a story when you couldn’t.
Still, you hadn’t gone into your first meeting expecting a relentless interrogation.
“You’re saying you had no idea about Umbrella’s true operations?”
“How could you not have known anything of what was going on?”
“You realize what they started? How much harm they’ve caused?”
By the end of it, you’d wanted to bow your head, cover your ears, and scream. It didn’t help the way Leon looked at you—like you’d escaped detection the first time, like he was going to rip whatever it was you were hiding out of you one way or another.
You’d nearly slammed the door of the private, windowless room when he’d finally released you, fighting the tight fury coiled deep in your chest.
As If you weren’t aware of what was done. As if you weren’t also a victim of Raccoon City, of Umbrella.
The frayed nerves, the cold edge of self-loathing threatening to seep in, lingered even days later.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Two meetings, the same script. No matter how you tried to assuage him, Leon clung to his personal belief of your innocence.
Finally, you lost it.
Hands gripping the edge of the table, you lean forward, teeth bared. “I’m fucking tired of this.”
For his part, he closes his mouth but maintains his casual seat, ankles crossed, forearm resting on the table where he idly twirls a pen between his fingers. His neutral expression only fans your fire.
“I’m not going to keep coming in here just to endure another trial. I did that. I said my piece. It’s done. Over.”
You push up to standing, forearms locked. “I don’t know how many ways I can answer the same questions to get you to believe me, but I can’t sit here and let you make me feel worse than I already do. I’m supposed to be your consult, not your fucking punching bag for whatever it is you have going on.” You flourish a hand at him and he scoffs, lips quirking into the barest sneer.
The water cup beside you is in your hand and launching across the table before you can stop yourself.
He dodges it with a choked “jesus”, too slow to avoid soaking his left side. When he turns back, you’re already gone, the finality of your pounding footsteps reverberating down the hallway.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Admitting when he’d gone too far was a work in progress.
With the seventh anniversary fast approaching, though, he was on edge. The nightmares were relentless; his sheets regularly steeped in cold sweat. The screams, the bodies, the uncertainty of living through the night, all still as fresh as if he’d made it out yesterday. A constant in his life, yet there was always some failure on his part to prepare.
And you were—or had been—one of them. Umbrella. Right at the very heart of where everything had changed.
Then, Luis Serra. The grief of his murder by Krauser still stung, brought on heavier by his already primed emotional state. He served as an opposition, an argument in your favor even in death. The parallels weren’t lost on him. Luis had changed. Tried to right Umbrella’s wrongs, in his own way. Had succeeded in doing so in the end.
Yet Spain, the European branch, wasn’t Raccoon City. Different spheres of the same overarching entity, but one had dropped a bomb on the life he thought he knew.
His sigh is deep, measured, elbows on his desk, palms together in front of his face as he thumbs the inner corners of his eyes in a comforting rub. Your file lies open before him.
He’d spent the last few weeks replaying it all over and over again: the meetings, the questions, the little voice inside of his head telling him to lay off.
As repentance, he’d obsessed over the smallest, redeeming details of your life. Now a teacher at a local school, to elementary kids, all of whom seemed to love you based on glowing reviews from their parents. Conversations with closer contacts, your colleagues, were the same. Recon conducted over the years was crystal clear. Not a single misstep or red flag.
He’d really, truly fucked up.
A knock interrupts his rumination and he sits up, tipping your file closed as the door opens.
“Kennedy? Can I run something by you?”
The conversation isn’t long, just report updates, but he’s pulled out of it completely when his gaze snags on you as you’re escorted past the open office door, along the wall of windows.
“What’s she doing here?”
“Who?”
Leon indicates your disappearing form, and the agent nods with an ah, recognition there.
“Intel meeting, I’m guessing.”
“But I didn’t schedule one.”
The other agent looks to him, hesitant. “I thought you were off the case? Someone else picked it up.”
Leon opens, then closes his mouth.
Right. Ok.
“Give me a second.”
You sense him before you see him trudging across the floor, head visible above the lines of cubicles.
He comes up alongside you, matching your pace, and you pointedly refuse to acknowledge him.
“You asked for a reassignment.”
A click of your tongue, irritated. “That’s none of your business.”
“It is, actually.”
“I highly doubt that.”
He laughs, but low, bitterly. “You could’ve talked to me first.”
You ignore him and follow security through the door to the interrogation rooms, quietly satisfied as he stops short when you let it slam in his face.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Steam follows you out of the bathroom as you emerge, the chilled fall breeze from your open window scattering goosebumps along your exposed skin. Your phone is buzzing relentlessly, and you move to the bed to flip it over to expose your screen.
You scoff, flipping it back and returning to the bathroom.
Again, it buzzes. Again, you ignore it.
A third time and you’re stomping across the wooden floor of your bedroom, wrenching it from its charger.
It had been two weeks since your last interaction at the office. Not a word since.
“Can I help you?” Abrupt, wholly annoyed.
“I need to know why you asked for a reassignment.”
“It feels a lot like you’re overstepping a professional boundary by calling me right now.”
His returned huff, barely a laugh, holds no pleasantries.
You snort. “I’m hanging up.”
Finger hovering over the button, his tinny, soft reply comes through your speaker. “Let’s get dinner.”
It’s shock that clangs through you first. Frozen where you stand, brow creased and deepening, you look at your phone like it’s threatening to explode.
The silence is long enough that he’s impatient, uttering “hello?” as you again bring your phone to your ear.
You straighten, collecting yourself, shock blanketed by annoyance.
“Why?”
“I want to apologize. Properly.”
There’s no laughter in his voice, no hint of a joke. Just genuine certainty.
You hesitate, irritation fizzling under something softer. Unsure.
“This isn’t a setup? You’re not trying to lure me into some government hot water so you can lock me up?”
An image comes to mind of him rolling his eyes, and his pause is enough that for a moment, you worry he’d been considering it.
“No. I promise.”
More silence. You toy with the edge of your lip, then purse them, tilting your chin to the ceiling and closing your eyes.
“Ok. Where? When?”
You can almost hear the smile in his voice. “Great. Fantastic.” There’s a shuffling—papers, from the sound of it—before he continues. “Gaudino’s on Friday? 7? I can pick you up.”
“No,” you blurt, then quickly amend, “I mean, yes to everything but picking me up. I’ll meet you there.” You drag your hand across your face, shaking your head, and he laughs, the sound strangely light coming from him.
“Alright. Sounds like a plan.”
“Okay.” A pause, then: “Now I’m hanging up.”
And you do before he can respond, chucking your phone a distance across the bed. You stare at it for a moment, stunned, before cinching your towel tighter around yourself and returning to the warmth of your bathroom.
Epilogue - Leon Kennedy x quiet! Reader (Part 35) (Final)
Summary: A slow, beautiful morning.
Authors Note: I really hope that ya'll enjoyed the fic! I'm going to spend a week or so working through the asks I've been sent, and then I'm going to start two series side by side with each other. I'll hopefully send out a sneak peak to those soon!
Thank you all so very much for all the love and support. It's been insane in the best of ways.
Oh, also, I went ahead and cross posted the whole work to ao3.
Cheers!
-Angel
Masterlist | Playlist | AO3 Link
8 Months Later…
Morning arrives slowly these days.
Not because either of you sleep in, but because neither of you is in a hurry to leave bed anymore.
Sunlight spills through the apartment curtains in soft gold stripes, warming the comforter tangled around your legs. Somewhere in the kitchen, the coffee maker gurgles quietly to itself. The entire apartment smells faintly like coffee grounds, detergent, and the bakery scented candle you forgot to blow out the night before.
Leon wakes to the feeling of your hand curled loosely against his chest. For a long moment, he just lies there.
Months ago, mornings used to feel sharp. Abrupt. Another mission briefing. Another flight. Another body being shoved back into motion before his mind could catch up. He used to wake up tense without realizing it, muscles already preparing for catastrophe before his eyes had even opened. Now?
Now he wakes up warm.
His eyes drift downward toward you. You’re still half asleep, face pressed into his shoulder, hair a mess against the pillow. One of your legs is tangled carefully between his, the healed one resting comfortably while the injured side stays stretched out straighter beneath the blankets. Even after all this time, you still move around it instinctively in your sleep.
The scar tissue doesn’t hurt as often anymore.
There are still bad days. Rainy days. Long days. Days where the muscles tighten too much and your limp becomes more noticeable by the evening. But the crutches are gone now, retired permanently to the back of the closet after months of physical therapy and stubborn determination. Leon couldn’t have been happier to put them there.
Your fingers twitch lightly against his shirt as you finally begin waking up. A sleepy little hum leaves you, muffled against his chest.
“Morning,” he murmurs.
One eye cracks open. You look at him for a second before lazily lifting your left hand. The silver ring catches the morning sunlight instantly. Even now, weeks later, the sight of it still makes something in Leon’s chest go painfully soft.
It hadn’t been some dramatic proposal. No fancy restaurant. No speech rehearsed in advance.
Just the two of you in the kitchen at two in the morning after a nightmare had dragged him awake, shaking hard enough that you noticed immediately. The apartment had been dark, barely lit by the moonlight streaming in through the windows. He remembers standing there, barefoot while you made tea, exhaustion heavy in both of your faces. He remembers looking at you and realizing there was no version of his future anymore that didn’t have you in it.
So he had asked.
Half awake. Terrified. Honest. There wasn’t a ring prepared. He didn’t even drop to one knee. No, it was just him, laid bare and raw, asking for you to be his forever. You had started crying before he even finished the sentence.
Now, you wiggle your fingers at him sleepily, silently demanding attention toward the shiny jewelry. Like you were just as proud to have it as he was to give it to you.
Leon snorts softly. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”
Your grin widens immediately. God, he loves you.
The alarm clock finally goes off on the nightstand. Neither of you reacts for several seconds.
Then Leon groans dramatically into the pillow. “Think the DSO would notice if we just didn’t come in today?”
Your eyebrows raise.
He sighs. “Right. Dumb question.”
The desk job adjustment had been… strange at first. The DSO still feels vaguely surreal sometimes without a gun strapped to his thigh or blood drying on his hands. Most days are paperwork. Threat assessments. Training younger agents. Reviewing reports from the field instead of being the one sent into them. Oddly enough, he doesn’t miss it. Not really.
Sometimes he still catches himself watching the door too carefully. Sometimes loud noises still make his pulse jump. Sometimes he still wakes up reaching for a weapon that isn’t there anymore.
But then you’ll touch his hand beneath your shared desk at work. Or hand him coffee exactly how he likes it. Or smile at him from across the office while arguing with Sherry over printer issues.
And suddenly the world feels survivable again.
The transition hadn’t exactly been smooth. The DSO had fought him on it harder than he expected. Agents like him weren’t supposed to retire quietly into office chairs and briefing rooms. Men with his record got sent back into the field until they died, burned out, or became too broken to hold a weapon steady. The DSO had tried to compromise at first. Limited deployments. Advisory positions with occasional field work. Short assignments “only when necessary.” Leon had shut every single suggestion down.
The final meeting had ended with him staring across a conference table and saying, with exhausted calm, that if they forced him back into active deployment, they could accept his resignation instead. And judging by the silence afterward, everyone in the room understood there were uglier alternatives he wasn’t saying out loud. Somehow, that had done it. Maybe it was his reputation. Maybe it was the fact that he’d spent years bleeding for them without complaint. Or maybe someone high enough up had finally looked at the medical files, the psych evaluations, the body count, and realized they couldn’t keep asking him for more.
Whatever the reason, the paperwork had eventually gone through.
You sit up slowly, stretching carefully before reaching for the glass of water resting on the nightstand beside you. Leon watches you take a sip, before finally dragging himself upright too. His arm brushes yours automatically.
Domesticity still feels bizarre on him sometimes. Not unwanted. Just precious. Like something he spent years believing belonged to other people.
The kitchen is quiet while you both get ready. You make breakfast while he pours coffee into travel mugs. There’s a grocery list stuck to the fridge beneath a magnet shaped like a daisy flower. One of your physical therapy schedules still hangs nearby out of habit, though the appointments are less frequent now. Moreso a reevaluation of your mobility rather than a full appointment.
Leon catches sight of you limping slightly while reaching for something in the cabinet. Immediately, he’s moving. Your eyes lift just in time to watch him grab the plate from the higher shelf before you can strain your leg further.
“…You know I can do that myself, right?” he says automatically, mimicking your usual expression.
You stare at him flatly. Then you point at the cabinet, like something about either it or him offended you.
“Okay, rude,” he mutters.
Your laugh fills the apartment warmly. A few minutes later, the two of you stand near the front door gathering your things for work. Leon reaches for your coat while you scribble something quickly into your notebook. You hold it up toward him, pink paper drawing his eye with ease.
Did you remember your lunch this time?
He freezes. Slowly, he looks back toward the kitchen counter. “…Damnit.”
Your shoulders shake silently with laughter as he stalks back toward the kitchen, grumbling under his breath. Behind him, he hears you laugh again, soft, breathless, alive.
It’s still his favorite sound in the world.
And as Leon grabs his forgotten lunch and turns back toward the woman waiting for him by the door, engagement ring glinting softly beneath the morning light, he realizes something simple.
For the first time since Raccoon City, he isn’t just surviving anymore.
