Summary: They loved each other at the wrong time, in all the wrong ways. You weren't supposed to call. Leon wasn't supposed to answer. Now he has someone waiting for him in the next room, and you're still the only voice that feels like home.
Warnings/tags: emotional infidelity, toxic relationship, unresolved feelings, angst, mentions of past arguments, no happy ending
I didn't have a specific Leon in my head, so please use your imagination! Based on the song Lips Of An Angel by Hinder. Not proofread.
The apartment was quiet enough for Leon to hear the second hand of the kitchen clock. It wasn't late by his standards. Missions had trained his body to function at impossible hours, but tonight felt different. Peaceful. Normal. Ada had kissed him goodnight almost two hours ago. The bedroom door was cracked just enough for warm light from the hallway to spill across the hardwood floor. He could hear the faint rustle of blankets every now and then, followed by silence again.
It felt strange sometimes. For years, he'd wanted something like this. A place that felt lived in. A beautiful woman waiting at home instead of another government briefing or another hotel room. A life outside of missions.
His phone buzzed against the coffee table. Unknown number. Leon frowned. Most people who needed him had secure lines, which means this could only be one person.
His thumb hovered over the screen before he answered. "...Hello?"
There wasn't an answer right away. Just quiet breathing before he finally heard someone call his name. "...Leon."
Every muscle in his body went rigid. He hadn't heard your voice in a little while. He stood from the couch so quickly the whiskey in his glass sloshed onto his hand.
"...Honey," he said quietly, disbelief softening his voice. "Why're you calling me so late?"
You laughed weakly through tears. "I don't know, Lee."
He checked the hallway toward the bedroom. "It's kinda hard to talk right now."
"I'm sorry, I can go."
"Please don't." He answered too quickly. He closed his eyes. "Don't hang up."
Silence settled between you. It was comfortable... familiar. Dangerous. You tried to steady your breathing, but another shaky sob slipped out anyway. Leon heard it immediately.
"Hey... talk to me, baby."
He didn't even register the pet name he used. Concern replaced every trace of surprise he had from your call. You pressed your forehead against your bedroom window. The rain slid down the glass in crooked lines.
"Is everything okay?" Leon asked again.
You wanted to lie. You'd always lied to Leon when you were hurting. When he was hurting you.
"I'm fine."
"Fine doesn't call me at two in the morning, sweetheart."
Another tear rolled down your cheek. Leon hadn't always been good at this comforting part. When you'd been together, it was a toxic and heated love-hate relationship.
"It doesn't matter. I don't know why I called."
Leon sighed into the phone. He knew you like nobody else. He knew at some point you'd call him or see him, and every emotion he'd ever felt for you would come back.
"It matters to me because you're crying."
You covered your mouth. God... he still knew exactly how to break through every wall you'd built.
"I..." You laughed bitterly. "I miss you, baby."
Leon looked back toward the bedroom again. Ada moved around in her sleep, blankets shifting above her. He instinctively lowered his voice.
"Uh... I... miss you." Leon said breathily, barely moving his mouth.
"What? I can't hear you."
"Uh, sorry, I gotta whisper cause I can't be too loud."
"...Why?"
He leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. "My girl's in the next room."
The words landed like someone dropping a bucket of ice water on your head. Your heart sank. Fuck. The room around you suddenly felt too quiet. Your fingers tightened around your phone until your knuckles ached.
You'd seen the pictures. Not because you'd gone looking for them. At least not the first time. A mutual friend had posted one after some charity gala. Leon stood in a tailored black suit, one hand tucked into his pocket while Ada rested comfortably against his side. She looked effortlessly elegant. He looked... happy. Or as close to happy as Leon Kennedy ever looked in front of a camera.
After that, you'd made the mistake of searching. One picture became five. Five became an hour of convincing yourself that smiling for a photograph didn't mean anything. Leon had always hated cameras. Half the pictures from when you'd dated caught him rolling his eyes while you laughed beside him, or trying to hide behind the hood of his jacket because you'd insisted on taking "just one more."
You'd told yourself people online loved inventing stories. You'd told yourself maybe she was just another partner. Another contact? Another assignment? Now there wasn't any room left to lie to yourself.
"She lives with you?" you asked, barely above a whisper.
Leon's eyes squeezed shut. He hated admitting it to you. Hated that you were hearing about this life from him instead of living it with him. Somewhere deep down, a selfish part of him still imagined what it would've looked like if you'd been the one waiting behind the bedroom door.
"Yeah."
Nothing else. He didn't offer any details. He just said that one word. Somehow that hurt more than if he tried to explain it. He didn't want you to know details. It isn't your business. And yet, it felt like it was.
You laughed quietly, though there wasn't an ounce of humor in it. "I picked a hell of a night to miss you then."
Leon's chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt. There it was. The sentence he'd been terrified of hearing. The quiet admission that, after everything you've done to each other, you still missed him.
"Don't do that." He shook his head left and right.
"Do what?"
"Don't pretend you don't care." He said a little louder than before.
You looked at the ceiling, wondering what you should even say to him now. You called him because you missed him. You called him because you thought maybe the girlfriend thing was a fluke and you could weasel your way back in. You called because you thought he would miss you too.
"I'm trying not to care."
"You're terrible at it, sweetheart."
"That's funny, I'm pretty sure I learned that from you."
---
"You disappeared again," you said.
Leon didn't answer. He just looked at you.
"It's been three months, and you didn't even call."
"I'm sorry, baby."
"You couldn't even send a fucking text?"
"I know... I know, but I'm here now."
"You show up with flowers and think it erases everything?"
"I'm trying, though," he says, stepping forward.
"You let me think you were dead and gone."
"I'm sorry."
The mission had gone sideways before anyone even realized they were compromised. Communications had been cut. Debriefings had stretched into weeks. When he'd finally been cleared to go home, he'd spent three days sitting in his apartment staring at your number without pressing Call. He hadn't known how to explain another disappearance. Another lie. Another apology. By the time he'd found the courage... You'd already packed your things again. It was a nasty pattern.
---
"Leon..." you whispered, pain seeping deep into your chest. "You remember what I said last time we saw each other?"
Leon's jaw tightened. He hated thinking about it. "Every word."
"Go find someone who can actually love you."
The sentence tasted poisonous coming back. You'd thought about it regularly. It hurt you, and you know it destroyed him so much, but here you are, calling him. Because the only person you've ever been able to love is him.
"Seems like you listened."
Leon laughed once, but it was hollow enough to make your chest ache.
"Did I, though?"
Silence answered him. The truth? He hadn't. He found someone. Ada was kind and mysterious. She was beautiful and patient. Steady when it came right down to it. You and Leon had been anything but steady. Ada didn't beg for his attention. She gave him space. She trusted him. She deserved every piece of him.
Instead, he was standing in a dark hallway of his house whispering into a phone at two in the morning because the woman he'd never stopped loving missed him. Because she called and he felt everything he'd ignored after the breakup.
"I hate you sometimes," you admitted.
"I know."
"I hated waiting for you."
"I know, sweetheart."
"I hated wondering if every knock at my door was going to be someone telling me you were dead," your voice broke.
Leon's breathing caught in his throat.
"I hated loving someone who belonged to everybody except me."
The words carved straight through him. You'd never said them before. At least not like that. Not without yelling or anger to cushion the blow.
"But leaving you? I'm just stuck in that same loop. Except now, you're really gone."
Your words were simple and true. Leon covered his eyes with his free hand.
"I'm sorry."
You sniffled. "You've apologized enough, Lee. Clearly you've moved on."
"I've never apologized the right way."
"It doesn't matter now." You shook your head.
"I kept asking you to forgive me for things I never stopped doing."
Your heart broke a little more. He understood now, but it was too late. It was always too late with him.
"I miss you," he whispered so you could hear him this time.
You let out a shaky breath. "I know."
"I don't mean the idea of you," his voice cracked. "I miss Sunday mornings."
You frowned. "What?"
"The pancakes."
Despite everything, you laughed. "You couldn't make those suckers to save your life."
"I still can't... burn every single one." He smiled into the phone. "But you always ate the crispy edges."
"Those are the best part, dude!"
"You always said so..." he sighed.
A warmth settled over both of you for the briefest moment. Long enough to remember what it had felt like before everything became so complicated. The memories made him feel nothing but happy. Even though the bad times were really bad... the good times were the best he's ever felt. After everything he'd been through, you were always the best part of his day and the last thing he thought about before going to bed.
Leon swallowed. "Sometimes..."
His voice was barely above a breath again. "Sometimes I wish..."
He stopped himself. You waited patiently... something he'd noticed you'd developed since you last spoke. The silence stretched long.
"...Sometimes I wish she was you."
The words slipped out before he could catch them. His eyes flew open. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to think it. He certainly hadn't meant to give it a voice. The apartment felt impossibly still. From the bedroom, he could see Ada moving again. Guilt crashed into him with enough force to make his stomach turn.
They lingered in the silence between you, impossible to take back, impossible to pretend you'd imagined them. His pulse pounded in his ears. He could still hear Ada breathing down the hall. Every steady inhale was another reminder that he'd crossed a line he'd promised himself he never would. She trusted him. She'd built a home with him, given him pieces of herself without asking for much in return. She had no idea that a single phone call had unraveled months of careful restraint.
Because that was the truth Leon had spent so long burying beneath missions, routine, and the comfort of something stable. He'd fallen in love with Ada. He cared about her. He wanted a future with her. But none of it had erased you. It had only taught him that a heart could carry more regret than he'd ever thought possible.
His eyes drifted shut. If he'd met Ada first... If Raccoon City had never happened... If he'd chosen you instead of another classified assignment. If he'd stayed. His life was littered with "ifs," and every single one of them somehow led back to you.
You realized your hand was shaking. Leon looked at his phone in disbelief, almost as if someone else had spoken through him.
"I'm sorry."
Across town, you couldn't breathe. Your chest tightened until it physically hurt.
For months you'd convinced yourself you were mourning a relationship. You weren't. You were mourning the version of Leon Kennedy that had only ever existed when the two of you were alone together.
The man who danced barefoot in your kitchen while pancakes burned on the stove. The one who absentmindedly reached for your hand whenever the two of you crossed a street. The one who smiled without realizing it because you were laughing at something stupid. That Leon had never completely disappeared. He'd simply learned to hide himself beneath duty, guilt, and impossible choices.
Now, hearing those words, you realized something that frightened you more than any breakup ever had. Your eyes filled with tears instantly. "Don't say sorry..."
"I shouldn't have..."
"Stop, Leon." Your voice trembled. "Don't apologize for telling me the truth."
"It's not fair to either of you." Leon sighed.
"It isn't." You agreed.
"I don't deserve even half of her. And I didn't deserve even half of you either."
Another silence settled over the call. You turned onto your side in bed. Leon slid down the wall and outstretched his legs. The guilt sat in his chest like wet concrete. You were the first to speak.
"...Does she make you happy?"
The question caught him off guard. It wasn't bitter. It wasn't meant to trap him. You genuinely wanted to know. He stared toward the bedroom door.
"I think..." He paused, choosing every word carefully. "I think she gives me the life I've always wanted."
You closed your eyes tight, seeing splotches of color against the back of your eyelids.
"A home?"
"Yes..."
"A chance to stop looking over your shoulder?"
He nodded before realizing you couldn't see him. "Something like that."
A small smile found your lips. It almost brought you comfort. "I'm glad, Lee."
"You don't sound glad."
"I'm really trying to be..."
Silence drifted between you again. You laughed quietly to yourself.
"Remember when you told me we'd end up eighty years old still arguing over whether pineapple belongs on pizza?"
Leon smiled despite himself. "I do."
"I guess you were wrong..." You trailed off.
You'd imagined it many times. Growing old with Leon. Finally making up for the lost time when he retired. Finding his first gray hair and getting wrinkles together. Seeing parts of the world that weren't burdened by the government's secret missions. Buying a house together... maybe raising some kids. Now it's the opposite.
"We don't know that, sweetheart," Leon said again, not realizing what kind of emotions that would put on you.
"You get this peaceful life with her... and I get to be alone." You bit your lip to stop another sob.
"You won't always be alone. You'll find someone," Leon said, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.
"I already found him. There's no getting over Leon Kennedy. It will always be you."
You let that sink in. You're not sure whether you're trying to convince him to change his mind or just to help you feel some closure. Maybe both?
"You deserve better than me," he said, shaking his head.
"I've never wanted better. I've only ever wanted you," you wiped at your eyes with the back of your free hand.
Leon covered his eyes. Every instinct screamed at him to tell you to come over tomorrow, to tell you he'd figure it out, to tell you this wasn't over. But he looked toward his bedroom. Ada trusted him enough to sleep soundly while he did whatever this was. She trusted him enough to live with him. She trusted him enough to build this life. He couldn't destroy that because he'd spent twenty minutes remembering the woman he'd never truly let go.
He swallowed hard. "I can't do this to her."
The words came out broken. He loved you. But he loved her too, and she was the easiest choice.
"You always knew what kind of man I wanted to be."
"And what kind is that?" you asked.
"The one who doesn't keep hurting people."
Your tears finally spilled over again. It's him saying goodbye, though his words make it seem doubtful. That maybe, just maybe, something could come of this in the future.
"That's funny... you're hurting me right now." You cry softly. "You should go back to bed, Leon."
He didn't move. He didn't even know what to say.
"I don't want to hang up, though. I missed hearing your voice."
"I know."
"I forgot..." He smiled sadly. "I forgot what it sounded like when you laughed."
You wiped your eyes. "I guess this is goodbye."
Leon leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "This has to be the last one."
You covered your mouth to stop the sob from ripping out of your lungs. Your phone lay on speakerphone now, his contact picture an old one of you both. It's like you're torturing yourself by staring at it. Neither of you believed him, though. That was the cruel part. Every breakup had been the last one. Every goodbye had been forever. Until they weren't anymore.
"I'm never going to stop loving you," you choked out. "I'll always be here."
"I know..."
No 'I love you, too.' No promise that you'll ever hear from him again. No impossible hope. Just the quiet acknowledgment of something that had existed for years and probably always would. Leon listened as you exhaled slowly.
"...Goodbye, Lee."
His eyes closed. He hadn't heard that nickname in over a year. You'd been the only person who called him that. And it was probably the last time he'd hear it from your mouth.
"Goodbye, honey."
The line went dead. Leon remained on the floor long after the call ended, staring at his reflection in the phone's black screen. Eventually, he turned it over, tucked it into his pocket, and walked back to the bedroom. When he got there, he plugged it in and crawled into bed.
Ada stirred the moment the mattress dipped beneath his weight. Still half asleep, she instinctively reached for him. Her fingers found his hand under the blankets. She smiled without opening her eyes.
"There you are."
Leon intertwined his fingers with hers and kissed the side of her head.
"Sleep tight, sweetheart."
He stared into the darkness. Your voice still echoed in the corners of his mind. He wondered if it always would.
Ada shifted closer in her sleep, her forehead brushing against his shoulder.
"Love you," she murmured, her voice barely more than a dream.
Leon's throat tightened. "...Love you too."
The words came automatically, and they should've felt comforting. Instead, all he could hear was another voice calling him Lee over a phone line.
Thanks for reading! <3 I hope you enjoyed.
Special thanks to @pixopix for the dividers. Direct link here!
It's been almost a whole month since you've heard from me! I took a little break to focus on some summer classes and enjoy the World Cup matches.
I'm here to tell you I have some WIPs, and I'll give you a little glimpse at what they'll be.
Short Leon x Reader World Cup (gn reader, any country)
Song fic: Lips of an Angel by Hinder
Leon x High School English Teacher!Reader: Girls in your class fangirl over Leon when he brings you lunch
Convincing Leon to go on vacation
Lips of an Angel by Hinder Fic (pls listen to the song to understand!)
Leon x Reader: Ada calls Leon
Leon x Ada: Reader calls Leon
Voting ended onJun 29
I'm hoping to post some of these soon! Thanks for sticking with me, everyone. I got so many nice messages after the other stuff. Seriously, I'm so grateful to those who sent me kind submissions, requests, DMs, and comments on both posts. I appreciate all of you so much. <3
Hello. Different anon. Just came across this while looking through a different tag. I don’t want to be rude but if this is not ai writing you may want to start changing the way you write because it looks like ai. I didnt get far enough down to see where the em dashes make me think of ai and in reality that is not a huge red flag for me personally but I read a few of your fics and the way they’re worded and the structure is reminiscent of how ai likes to speak. If you don’t want to hear this anymore I would suggest trying different techniques. I know it’s just fanfiction and you can do whatever you like but don’t be surprised if people call you out for writing like that. Good luck in your future endeavors!
Doesn't want to be rude but does exactly what I said was rude in the OG post. Yawn. This'll be my last post about the whole thing.
I don't use AI. I'm vehemently against the use of AI in every creative spaces. AI is literally built by humans to replicate humans so sometimes work will resemble it.
Suggesting I change the way I've been writing since I was about 14 is insane. I don't know what else to say. Straight up motivation killer honestly. I'll be closing my asks until further notice. See you guys later. ✌🏻
This is the first time anyone has ever accused me of using AI, and the answer will always be no. It's insulting as fuck. Suggesting that someone who works hard on their writing isn't actually doing the work is downright rude. Some people stop writing altogether when they get accused of this.
AI is a harmful tool for artists of all calibers. There are people who work incredibly hard to produce fics. They spend hours writing, reading, rewriting, and rereading. It's important to keep in mind that AI is built on human writings. They're trained to mimic human beings. This is why fics can "appear" to be AI-written.
It begs the question—what do you think AI writing looks like?
I'm describing scenery, I'm describing wounds, I'm describing literally anything you can think of that belongs in my story. I'm describing stuff that took place in a video game or a movie that already exists in many fics. I sometimes use em dashes. I write long, descriptive paragraphs. I do a lot of writing in advance because I can be busy.
You're allowed to stop reading my work. You're allowed to scroll on by and not even give it a second thought.
I'm not surprised you're submitting this anonymously. I'd block you in an instant if I knew who you were.
hey!! ive been going back thru re4r recently and that scene where ashley is forced to point the gun at leon has been holding me hostage… i wanted to ask if i could request a similar situation between leon and the reader? (with a good ending…. please…..) i absolutely love the way u depict leon’s internal monologue, and i think u could bring something interesting to that kind of scenario! :D
This doesn't follow the exact events of RE4R, but I did use the scene you asked for. Just added more to it! Thanks for your patience, anon <3
Warnings: mind control, guns & deaths, angsty af, Leon uses nicknames sweetheart & my smart girl, happy ending i promise <3
Friendly Fire
The island felt alive in the worst possible way. Not alive like breathing. Alive like rot under floorboards. Like something wet and infected pulsing beneath the concrete walls. Golden light spilled down the corridor in uneven flashes, staining Leon's shirt yellow. The torches on the walls burned hot.
Somewhere deeper in the facility, metal groaned. Then came Ashley's scream. "Leon!"
The sound ripped through the hallway hard enough to make your pulse jump. Leon turned instantly toward it, boots skidding against the grated floor.
"Ashley!" he shouted back.
Static crackled faintly through the comms device in his ear. Nothing coherent. Just noise. He swore under his breath and started forward again, one hand already reaching toward the pistol holstered at his thigh.
Then the headache hit. White-hot agony split behind your eyes so violently your knees nearly buckled. You stumbled into the wall with a sharp gasp, fingers clawing against cold concrete as something foreign slithered through your skull. It felt alive. Moving around. Digging deeper every second.
A man steps out of a doorway at the other end of the room with two others following suit. He carries a staff of what looks like wiggling worms. He's wearing a hooded robe with gold and silver detailing. He has a large gold necklace with a ruby in the middle, which looks like a symbol you've seen here before. Leon instantly unholsters his gun and points it toward him.
"Welcome, my children." The man begins.
His hood is removed by a grey-skinned cultist behind him. You gasped as his head now reflected the light. Its black veins startle you, and the lumps at the back look alive.
"I am Osmund Saddler. The speaker of our Lord." He claims, lightly bowing his head.
"Tell someone who gives a shit," Leon responds.
He instantly fires a bullet straight at Saddler. It pierces his eye, and he stumbles backward. You flinch at the sound of the gun and grab onto Leon's arm.
"Foolish lambs..." he mutters. "Why do you deny grace?"
Saddler begins to stand up straighter. His once closed eyes open, and there's no sign of a bullet wound. The only thing on his face is dripping blood from where the bullet entered.
Did he just... heal himself?
Suddenly, you're both jerked forward. Leon lands on his knees and catches himself on his palms. His gun falls to the floor in front of him. Saddler has his hand outstretched, commanding this to continue. You stumble forward slightly, one hand catching yourself on Leon's back as you straighten, your legs pulling you forward slowly.
"Now, abandon your body!" Saddler commands.
Your body straightens completely. It isn't listening to you anymore. It's been pioneered by whatever this man is saying.
"Obey. Obey the voice of our Lord."
Your body continues to betray your wishes. Leon gets back to his feet, but he's stuck, too. As you move forward, Leon is fighting with everything he can to stop this. He only notices your movements when you make it by him. His eyes follow you forward.
You start to panic as tears stream down your face. Your body resists your pleas to stop. As you start to turn to face Leon, you finally understand what's going to happen.
"No... no, no, no!" You cry as you begin to bend down.
Kill him.
The voice wasn't heard with your ears. It bloomed directly inside your mind, smooth and terrible and absolute. Your breathing hitched. Your fingers twitched uselessly at your sides.
Kill him.
Another pulse of pain tore through your body. Your hand moved before you could stop it. Leon's pistol was in your hand before you could do anything about it. The sound of the gun sliding up off the floor rang out.
It looked wrong in your hands...too heavy. Too violent. The weight of the pistol felt monstrous. Your arms locked straight as the barrel pointed directly at Leon's chest.
No, no, no, no...
Terror surged through you so hard that tears burned your eyes. "Leon—" Your voice broke apart.
Leon had stared down plenty of guns before. Terrorists. Cultists. Monsters wearing human skin. None of it felt like this. None of them had ever looked at him with tears in their eyes. None of them had been the love of his life, against her will, pointing a gun straight at his chest. His pulse slammed hard against his ribs the second your arm lifted. Training kicked in instantly, cruelly efficient. Distance. Angle. Line of fire.
Nine millimeter handgun. Center mass. Can't even move if she pulls the trigger now. Fuck me...
Fear hit him sharply and immediately. Cold sweat prickled instantly at the back of his neck as the barrel settled at his chest. And the worst part wasn't the gun. It was your face. Tear-soaked cheeks and watery eyes held his gaze. You looked terrified, like you were still inside yourself somewhere, pounding helplessly against locked doors while Las Plagas puppeteered your body. Leon could barely stand it. His chest physically ached at the sight of it.
Jesus Christ...
For one horrible second, he imagined what this must feel like for you. A front row seat to your own body turning against him. The thought nearly unraveled him on the spot. He knows you wouldn't do this... knows you won't forgive yourself for this even though it's not your fault.
"Stop! No!" You tried desperately to claw at anything that might get this to stop.
The parasite twisted again. Your finger tightened against the trigger.
"Sweetheart," Leon said carefully.
The nickname nearly shattered you on the spot. Your grip faltered for half a second before the parasite forced your arms rigid again. Leon saw it happen. Saw the hesitation. Saw the tears rolling helplessly down your cheeks while your body held him at gunpoint against your will. And somehow, impossibly, his expression softened.
Keep fighting it, sweetheart.
"Look at me," he said quietly.
Ashley screamed again somewhere nearby, her voice echoing through the facility. "Please! Help!"
Every instinct in his body had to be screaming at him to move. To run toward her. To disarm you. To survive. But he couldn't. Your pulse thundered so loudly you could barely hear yourself breathing.
"Fight it," he murmured.
The parasite seized control harder. Your arms snapped upward, aiming directly between his eyes now.
A sob tore out of your throat. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can." His voice stayed low. Steady. Warm in a place that felt stripped of humanity.
You were close enough now that you could see the sweat dampening the strands of blond hair falling across his forehead. Close enough to see exhaustion carved deep beneath his blue eyes. And still, he looked at you like you were something worth saving.
"There you are," he whispered when another tear slipped down your cheek. "I know you're still in there."
The parasite shrieked through your skull.
Shoot him.
Your finger tightened involuntarily. Leon saw it happen. Still, he couldn't move away. His heartbeat lurched hard enough to hurt. Fear flashed hot through his bloodstream. He did want to live, contrary to the popular belief. You had so much left to do together, so much life left to live together... but beneath that instinct, louder somehow, came another thought.
Don't scare her, Leon.
Because you were already panicking. He could see it in the violent shaking of your hands. The tears spilling down your cheeks. The tiny, broken sounds of your breathing. You wanted to scream at him to run. Wanted to beg him not to stand there looking at you like that while your body became a weapon aimed straight at his heart.
If I look scared, she's gonna spiral.
"Leon," you choked out weakly.
His jaw tightened at the sound of your voice.
"It's okay," he said immediately, like he could hear every terrified thought ricocheting through your head. "It's not your fault, okay?"
You pulled the trigger. The gunshot exploded through the corridor. Your ears rang. The bullet slammed into the head of a cultist behind Leon's right shoulder, and it exploded in a violent spray of matter.
Thank fucking god, we have more time.
"Sweet child, do not resist!" Saddler chanted.
You began to move the gun back toward Leon, hands still shaking. The gun went off again, killing another cultist over Leon's left shoulder. You're sobbing now. The only person left in your line of sight is the man you would do anything to save. The man who brings you peace... the man who risks it all just to see you happy.
Leon was shaking now, too. He swallowed hard, keeping his eyes glued to yours. There were black veins showing under your eyes and down your arms. He no doubt had the same thing.
"Keep fighting," Leon said. "We're going to be okay."
His voice was shaky, but it was all he could muster. He knew he had to keep talking to you, and he was doing everything he could. You were looking at him like you were drowning.
Every pull of the trigger looked like it hurt you. Your breathing turned ragged. Tears streaked helplessly down your cheeks while your hands trembled harder around the pistol. Your eyes met his then, wet with panic and pleading so raw it shattered his heart where he was stuck.
Don't make her do this.
You could see every tiny tremor running through his hands, too. He could only be strong so long before he knew it was the last time. You were fighting the parasite with everything you had left.
The gun fired, but the sound was wrong. It clicked. You fired again, and it clicked again. For one disbelieving second, nobody moved. The gun was jammed. Leon stared at the pistol in stunned silence before realization crashed through him all at once.
Your grip... your resistance did that. I knew you could do it.
A broken sound escaped your throat immediately afterward, halfway between a sob and a gasp. Saddler dropped his hand. Finally, you slowly felt control come back to you. Your hand went limp, and the gun fell back to the floor in front of you with a sharp metallic clatter. Still shaking, you kept your eyes locked on Leon.
"Pray, forgive these wicked sinners," Saddler said. "My faithful disciple shall deliver to you your... penance."
Leon's entire focus stayed locked on you. On the tears running helplessly down your face. On the way your free hand shook like you were trying to physically stop your own body from moving.
For one fractured second, the entire chamber fell silent except for your ragged breathing. Saddler's pleasant expression had finally cracked. Only slightly. But Leon saw it. Saw the irritation tightening around his mouth as his gaze dropped briefly toward the jammed handgun at your feet. Around you, the remaining cultists shifted uneasily, their robes whispering against the floor as the torches flickered overhead.
You were still shaking. Not the parasite now. Exhaustion. Pain. Resistance. Leon's chest ached violently at the sight of it.
She stopped it.
Not luck. Not faulty ammunition. You. Somehow, through all of Saddler's control, all that agony splitting through your skull, you'd fought hard enough to save him anyway. And Leon couldn't do a damn thing except stand there trapped inside his own body, fingers twitching uselessly against the parasite's grip.
Saddler stepped toward you slowly. Disappointed.
"Such devotion," he mused softly. "Even now."
Your body went rigid again instantly. Leon's stomach dropped.
No.
Saddler's fingers curled slightly in the air, and pain tore visibly across your face as the parasite obeyed him again. A broken gasp escaped your throat. Your hands clenched at your sides hard enough to tremble, though it looked like you were reaching for something.
Your own weapon sat holstered just inside your jacket at your waist.
Saddler wouldn't have seen that... my smart girl.
You turned, not toward Leon this time, toward the cultists. Your hands slowly moved to your gun.
"You don't look like such a fighter..." Saddler teased.
Leon would laugh at that if he could.
Little does he know...
You moved as quickly as you could. Gunfire erupted. The nearest ganado dropped instantly, blood spraying across the stone wall behind him. Another shot. A second cultist collapsed with a wet choking sound. The room exploded into chaos.
Leon stared at you in shock. Not because you were attacking. Because he could see what you were doing. You weren't obeying correctly anymore. Saddler wanted control restored. Submission. Punishment. Instead, you were fighting like your body couldn't decide who it belonged to.
Every movement looked wrong. Jagged. Violent. Like the parasite was forcing one command while you twisted it into another at the last possible second. Another cultist lunged toward you. You shot him point-blank.
Saddler's voice sharpened suddenly. "Enough."
You flinched hard. One hand flew to your head as agony ripped visibly through your body again. The pistol nearly slipped from your fingers.
Leon's pulse hammered painfully against his ribs.
Move... MOVE...
His muscles strained violently beneath the parasite's restraint. Across the room, you staggered sideways, breathing in shattered little gasps while Saddler advanced toward you again.
And then your eyes lifted toward Leon, just for a second, but he saw it. Fear. Apology. And underneath both of them, something desperate and determined. You were still fighting... but you were telling him something else, too. I'm sorry if I don't make it, but I'm going to save you.
That realization hit Leon like a lightning strike straight through his chest. The parasite wanted obedience. But emotions complicated things. Luis had said as much. Strong enough willpower could interfere with control. And right now? You were tearing yourself apart trying to protect him.
Leon forced his hand to move. Pain shot violently through his arm. But this time, his fingers actually twitched upward. Saddler noticed immediately. His expression darkened.
"You continue to resist," he said coldly.
The pressure inside Leon's skull intensified instantly, sharp enough to blur his vision. Across the room, you cried out weakly and doubled over. Then another cultist grabbed your arm from behind. The knife at your thigh flashed free before Leon even processed the movement. You drove it backward into the cultist's throat with brutal force. Warm blood splattered across your sleeve. The body collapsed at your feet.
Saddler's patience finally snapped. The building trembled violently as alarms suddenly began blaring somewhere deeper in the island facility. An explosion boomed in the distance. For the first time, uncertainty crossed Saddler's face. Not fear. Annoyance.
The island was destabilizing faster than expected. Ashley was still secured elsewhere. And now both infected hosts were becoming unpredictable. Saddler stepped backward toward the massive metal doors.
"You delay the inevitable," he said calmly, though irritation still sharpened the edges of his voice.
You raised the pistol again instantly. This time, directly at him. Leon's breath caught. Saddler smiled faintly. Then the heavy metal doors began sliding shut between you. You fired. The bullet sparked violently against the narrowing gap just as the doors slammed closed with a deafening boom.
Silence crashed into the room afterward. The second Saddler disappeared from sight, the pressure inside Leon's skull vanished. Completely. Leon staggered hard, catching himself against a nearby pillar as his body suddenly became his own again.
Across the room, you dropped the pistol. It hit the floor a second before your knees did. Leon moved instantly. By the time you hit the ground, he was already there. His hands caught you hard against his chest while you shook violently in his arms, breaths breaking apart into panicked gasps.
"Hey," he breathed immediately.
One hand cradled the back of your head. The other tightened around you like he thought you might disappear if he loosened his grip.
"You're okay."
Your fingers twisted desperately into the front of his shirt.
"I couldn't stop it, Leon," you whispered brokenly. "I'm so sorry."
Leon's chest physically hurt hearing that. "You did. You did that."
His voice came out rougher than intended. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his hands framing your face again despite the blood smeared across your cheeks.
"You fought him the whole time," he said firmly. "You hear me?"
Your eyes filled instantly. Leon swallowed hard. God. Seeing you cry now, fully yourself again, nearly undid him worse than the gun ever had.
"Hey," he breathed. "I'm so proud of you."
The softness in his voice hurt worse than the parasite did. Your vision blurred. His forehead nearly touched yours now, his breathing uneven from adrenaline he was trying very hard not to show.
"You with me, sweetheart?"
Another sob broke loose from your chest. This time, when you looked at him, you were really looking at him. Recognition flickered across Leon's face so fast it almost looked painful.
"There you are," he whispered again.
Leon didn't let go of your face right away. His hands stayed cupped around your cheeks like he was afraid the second he moved, something would take you from him again. The torches on the wall pulsed across his features in uneven flashes, painting exhaustion into the lines of his face. Up close, you could see how hard he was breathing now. How tightly wound every muscle in his body had become. Not fear for himself. Fear for you.
"Talk to me," he said softly.
Your throat felt scraped raw. "I'm here."
Relief flickered across his expression so quickly it almost hurt to look at. Then Ashley screamed again. The sound snapped both of you back into reality.
"Leon!"
He cursed under his breath and finally pulled away, though one hand lingered briefly at your shoulder like he needed the reassurance that you were still standing there. Still yourself.
"You okay to move?"
You nodded too fast. The motion made the room sway unpleasantly. The parasite still writhed somewhere deep inside your skull, quieter now but not gone. Waiting. Watching. Leon noticed immediately.
His brow furrowed. "Hey." His voice dropped again, gentler this time. "Don't push yourself."
A shaky laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "Little late for that, don't you think?"
For the first time since this nightmare started, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. Tiny. Brief. Fragile as paper. Then another distant crash echoed through the facility, and the moment shattered.
Leon grabbed the pistol from the floor, quickly clearing the jam with practiced hands before reholstering it. His movements were efficient, automatic, but you noticed the way his fingers trembled afterward. Barely noticeable. The kind of thing most people wouldn't catch. You caught it. His eyes met yours for half a second. Neither of you mentioned it.
"C'mon," he said, already moving toward Ashley's voice. "Stay close to me."
The corridors twisted endlessly through the island facility, all cold steel and flickering lights. Somewhere overhead, alarms blared in uneven bursts. The entire structure felt unstable now, like the island itself knew it was dying.
You stayed at Leon's side while the parasite clawed at the edges of your thoughts the entire way. Sometimes it was only whispers. Sometimes it was worse.
A cultist lunged from a side hallway, screeching in Spanish as he swung a rusted pipe toward Leon's head. Leon dropped him with a single shot before you could even react, the gunfire deafening in the narrow corridor. The body hit the ground hard. Your stomach twisted violently. Not from the blood. From the sudden pulse of hunger that wasn't yours.
Your face must've betrayed something because his expression sharpened with concern. "You still with me?"
You swallowed hard and nodded once. "Yeah."
It wasn't a complete lie. He studied you for another second before offering his hand. Not because you couldn't walk alone. Just because. You took it, and somehow that made it easier to breathe.
By the time you found Ashley, the facility was falling apart around you. The deeper levels groaned like a sinking ship, stone walls shuddering at distant explosions that sent pale gray curtains of dust raining from the ceiling. Emergency sirens wailed overhead in harsh, uneven bursts.
Leon moved fast through it all. Even exhausted, even infected, he cut through the collapsing facility with relentless focus. One hand stayed near his pistol while the other kept brushing against your arm, your shoulder, the small of your back. Quick grounding touches. Little silent checks to make sure you were still there. Still yourself. Every time the parasite stirred inside your head, those touches became anchors.
Ashley's voice echoed somewhere ahead. "Leon!"
Relief flashed across his face so suddenly it almost looked painful.
"There," he said, already breaking into a run.
You followed close behind him through another narrow corridor before the hallway opened into a security checkpoint lined with overturned equipment and flickering monitors. Sparks showered from exposed wiring near the ceiling, filling the air with the sharp smell of burning metal.
Ashley stood behind a heavy security gate at the far end of the room. The second she saw Leon, she stumbled toward the bars. "Leon!"
"I'm here." The words left him instantly, firm and reassuring despite the exhaustion grinding through his voice.
Ashley gripped the metal bars so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her blond hair was disheveled, strands stuck to her damp cheeks, and her breathing came too fast. Fear still clung to her visibly. Then her eyes found you standing beside him. The relief on her face faltered. Not because she was afraid of you. Because she recognized the look in your eyes.
"Oh no," she whispered.
You knew exactly what she saw. The lingering haze. The exhaustion. The terrible awareness of something foreign moving beneath your thoughts like a parasite swimming under skin. The black veins that had taken over your face.
You nodded once. A distant explosion shook the room hard enough to rattle the bars between you.
Leon was already moving toward the nearby control panel, scanning it quickly. "Lock's electronic," he muttered. "Give me a second." His fingers flew over the damaged keypad while sparks hissed overhead.
You leaned heavily against a nearby desk, suddenly dizzy again. The parasite twisted sharply inside your skull. Pain lanced behind your eyes. Your breath caught.
Not now. Please not now.
You squeezed your eyes shut hard enough to see bursts of white across your vision. The whispers started immediately afterward, slithering through your thoughts in a voice that wasn't a voice at all.
He cannot save you.
Your stomach turned violently. Across the room, Leon glanced back instantly. The gate unlocked with a loud metallic clunk at the exact same moment Ashley pushed through it.
"Hey," Leon said sharply, abandoning the control panel the second he saw your expression. "Talk to me."
You tried, but nothing came out except a weak gasp. Ashley reached you first. Her hands caught your arms gently before your knees could give out completely. "It's okay," she said quickly, though her own voice shook. "I know. I know."
Leon crouched in front of you a second later. The concern in his eyes hit harder than the pain did. "Look at me, sweetheart."
The parasite writhed furiously at the sound of his voice. You forced yourself to focus on him anyway. On the familiar scrape of stubble along his jaw. The loose strand of blond hair falling over his forehead. The steady warmth of his hands gripping your shoulders. Reality.
You clung to it desperately. "I'm okay," you lied weakly.
Leon looked unconvinced in the most Leon Kennedy way possible. Quietly. Intensely. Like he was cataloging every tiny fracture in your expression and deciding which ones scared him most.
Before he could answer, the facility lurched violently again. The shake of the walls blew out a few of the torches. For one fleeting second, the softer light made Leon look less like a government agent and more like a tired man being asked to carry far too much.
"Okay," he said, standing quickly. "We move now."
None of you argued. The three of you pushed deeper into the facility together, weaving through collapsing corridors and abandoned houses while the island crumbled around you piece by piece. Ganados still wandered the halls in scattered groups, their movements jerky and violent under the parasite's control.
Every encounter felt uglier now. More desperate. Leon protected both of you almost mechanically at this point. A knife buried into a cultist's throat before they could grab Ashley. A quick gunshot to another's knee when it lunged toward you from the shadows. Every motion efficient. Precise. And it killed you that you couldn't help like before.
But exhaustion was catching up to him. You noticed it in the slight delay before he lowered his gun after each fight. The heavier rise and fall of his chest. The way his left hand occasionally pressed against the wall for balance when he thought neither of you were looking. The parasite inside him was getting worse, too. Nobody said it aloud. Nobody needed to.
By the time you finally reached the laboratory, all three of you looked half-dead. The surgical room waiting beyond the steel doors looked cold and inhuman beneath fluorescent lighting. Metal instruments gleamed from nearby trays. Wires coiled across the floor like nests of snakes.
Ashley stopped short beside you. "This place..." she whispered.
Leon stared toward the operating machine at the center of the room. Then he looked back at both of you. For the first time since this nightmare began, real uncertainty crossed his face. Not fear. Something quieter.
"You don't have to do this alone," you said softly.
His eyes snapped to yours. Something shifted there immediately. Something fragile, exhausted, and deeply human. Then Ashley stepped forward too, swallowing hard before forcing a nervous little smile.
"We'll get through it together," she said.
Leon looked at both of you for a long moment. Then he exhaled quietly through his nose, almost like he was letting himself believe that for the first time.
"Yeah," he murmured.
The operating room smelled sterile, yet couldn't quite hide the rot beneath. Bleach. Burned wires. Old blood. The machine at the center of the lab loomed beneath dim lights, all metal restraints and mechanical arms, humming softly with dormant power. It looked less like medical equipment and more like something built to interrogate people until they stopped being human.
Ashley stared at it with open dread. Leon stared at it like he was already calculating survival odds. A low tremor rolled through the facility again, rattling trays of surgical instruments hard enough to make them clatter against one another. Somewhere far above, another explosion boomed through the island. Time was running out.
Luis's notes were scattered across a nearby workstation, pages covered in frantic handwriting and half-finished diagrams. Leon moved toward them immediately, scanning through the information with narrowed eyes while Ashley hovered anxiously beside him.
You stayed near the doorway for a moment, one hand pressed against the wall to steady yourself as another pulse of nausea rolled through your body. The parasite was angry. You could feel it, like it knew what was coming.
Leon flipped through another page before speaking quietly. "The machine uses focused radiation to kill Las Plagas."
Ashley swallowed hard. "Radiation?"
"It's our only shot," he said. "And we need it before she... kills me."
You noticed the hesitation there. The uncertainty. None of this came with guarantees. It made you feel awful, but he wasn't wrong. Any minute, that parasite, Saddler, could make you do something unspeakable.
Leon looked back toward you then, and the guarded expression on his face softened immediately when he noticed how pale you'd gotten. "We need to hurry."
You nodded weakly. "I'm dizzy."
That wasn't the truth, exactly. The truth was that it felt like something inside your skull was clawing desperately to survive. Every thought hurt. Your heartbeat felt wrong. Your skin burned with fever one second and chilled the next. And underneath all of it lived the horrible fear that maybe you were already losing too much of yourself.
Leon crossed the room before you could drift any further into the thought. His hand settled carefully against the back of your neck. Warm. Steady.
"Hey," he murmured. "Stay with me."
The softness in his voice nearly undid you.
You looked up at him, exhausted enough now that it hurt to keep pretending you weren't terrified. "What if it doesn't work?"
The question came out smaller than you intended. Ashley looked down immediately, her expression tightening. Leon didn't.
His thumb brushed lightly against your neck once before falling away. "It will."
You searched his face for even a shred of doubt. Found none. Maybe he was lying. Maybe he believed it because he needed to. Either way, you held onto the certainty in his voice like a lifeline. Another violent tremor shook the room. Dust sifted from the ceiling.
Leon straightened immediately, survival instincts snapping back into place. "Ashley goes first."
"What?" she said quickly. "No, you should."
"Ashley." His tone ended the argument before it could start.
Reluctantly, she climbed onto the machine. The process was awful to watch. The mechanical arms locked into place around her while harsh light flooded the chamber, forcing Ashley to bite back cries of pain as the parasite fought violently inside her body. Leon stayed beside the controls the entire time, jaw tight, eyes fixed on her with unwavering focus. And when it was finally over, Ashley nearly collapsed stepping off the platform.
Leon caught her immediately. "You okay?"
Ashley laughed weakly through exhausted tears. "I think so."
Relief flickered across his face. Real relief this time. One down. Then his attention shifted toward you. The room suddenly felt colder. You stared at the machine while dread pooled heavily in your stomach. Leon noticed. Of course he did.
"Sweetheart."
Your eyes lifted toward him.
"It's gonna hurt," he admitted quietly. "But I need you to trust me, okay?"
God. Even now, he asked instead of demanded.
You nodded slowly. "I trust you."
Something moved across his expression at that. Quick and almost wounded. Then he helped you onto the platform. His hands stayed on your arms longer than necessary while he adjusted the restraints carefully, like he hated every second of this already.
"You ready?" he asked softly.
No. Not even close.
But you looked at him anyway and whispered, "Yeah."
The machine roared to life. Pain hit instantly. A scream tore from your throat before you could stop it. Every nerve in your body ignited at once as the parasite fought desperately to survive, thrashing violently inside your skull like something drowning. Your vision blurred white-hot. You could hear yourself crying out somewhere far away.
And through all of it, you heard Leon's voice. "You're okay."
Another surge of agony ripped through you.
"C'mon, sweetheart."
Your hands strained uselessly against the restraints.
"It's almost over."
The parasite shrieked inside your head. Then suddenly, horribly, wonderfully... Silence. Its absence nearly hurt more. The machine powered down slowly. Your body went limp instantly afterward, trembling violently from exhaustion.
"Easy," Leon said quickly.
Strong hands caught you before you could fall off the platform entirely. For a second, all you could do was breathe. No whispers. No pressure behind your eyes. No foreign thing twisting your thoughts into knots.
"It's gone," you whispered hoarsely.
Ashley laughed somewhere nearby, sounding half on the verge of tears herself. Leon didn't answer right away. You looked up just in time to catch the expression on his face. More relief. Pure, overwhelming relief. Like he'd been holding his breath this entire time.
His forehead dipped briefly against yours before he seemed to realize he was doing it. "You scared the hell outta me," he murmured.
The confession slipped out so quietly it almost sounded accidental.
Your chest tightened painfully. "I'm sorry, Lee."
His brows pulled together immediately. "Don't do that."
"What?"
"Apologizing."
His hand rose to your face again automatically, thumb brushing beneath your eye where tears had dried against your skin.
"You fought it," he said softly. "I know you did."
"Your turn." Ashley pointed at Leon.
You squeezed his arm before he lay down on the table. He took a few deep breaths before the machine did its job. Leon bit back a yell for fear of startling you and Ashley. When it was over, he sat up and looked between you.
"Let's get the hell outta here."
The escape from the island blurred together afterward in flashes of chaos. Collapsing walkways. Smoke choking the air. The roar of distant explosions shook the cliffs beneath your feet, while Leon kept all three of you moving forward through sheer stubbornness alone.
By the time you finally reached the shoreline, dawn had started bleeding slowly across the horizon. The sky over the water glowed soft blue and pale gold, the first real sunlight any of you had seen in what felt like years.
Ashley collapsed into the boat first with a groan. "I am never coming to Europe again."
Leon snorted quietly as he helped you in after her. The engine sputtered to life beneath his hands. Then the island began collapsing behind you for real. Fire climbed into the morning sky in massive waves while the distant facility crumbled inward piece by piece, swallowed by smoke and ocean spray. Nobody spoke for a while. There wasn't anything left to say.
The cold wind coming off the water tangled through Leon's hair while he guided the boat forward across the open sea. Exhaustion sat heavily across his features now that adrenaline was finally fading. Still, every few seconds, his eyes drifted toward you. Checking you out. Making sure you were still there with him.
Eventually, Ashley fell asleep curled against the side of the boat, worn out beyond consciousness. The engine hummed steadily beneath the silence afterward. You shifted slightly closer to Leon without really thinking about it. His gaze flickered toward you immediately.
"You okay?"
You smiled faintly despite yourself. "You ask that a lot."
"Pretty sure that's in both job descriptions somewhere," he murmured.
You smiled faintly. "Yeah?"
A small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Federal agent and boyfriend."
The tiny joke sounded rough around the edges from everything you'd just been through. There was another long stretch where neither of you spoke. Then Leon finally exhaled quietly and leaned back in his seat, eyes drifting toward the horizon.
The sunrise painted gold across the ocean around you. It was peaceful, almost impossible after everything that had happened just hours before. He looked handsome... the light hit his face so beautifully.
"You know," he said softly, "when you pointed that gun at me..."
Your stomach twisted instantly.
Leon noticed and shook his head before you could say anything. "I wasn't scared of you."
The words settled heavily into the space between you. "I knew you were fighting it."
Emotion clogged painfully in your throat. "You could've died. I could've... I could've killed you."
"Yeah." A tired little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Wouldn't be my first bad day."
You let out a weak laugh that turned suspiciously emotional halfway through. Leon's expression softened immediately. Then, very gently, he reached over, took your hand, and pulled it to his mouth. Just a gentle kiss to the back of your hand, full of warmth. His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles while the boat carried all three of you farther away from the nightmare behind you.
Safe. Finally safe. Leon looked at you for a long, quiet moment beneath the growing morning light. Then he smiled. Small. Real. And devastating enough to make your chest ache.
"Told you we'd make it," he murmured.
-
Thanks for reading! My requests are open! I'd love to hear from you.
Summary: Years after surviving Raccoon City, you and Leon are still living with the infection left behind. When Leon is sent on the mission that could finally cure both him and Sherry, he promises to bring a second dose home for you.
Warnings/tags: RE9 spoilers, Leon retires, terminal illness, heavy angst, blood, mentions of infection/virus, brief injection descriptions, hurt/comfort, lots of crying, domestic fluff at the end, happy ending version!!
Original story here!
Rain dragged itself down the windows of their apartment in crooked trails, blurring the lights outside into watery streaks of gold and red. The city below still moved with the restless pulse of late-night traffic, but inside the apartment, everything felt hushed beneath the soft hum of the television and the occasional rattle of Leon coughing into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The sound came rough and deep from his chest.
From the kitchen counter, you looked up immediately, fingers still curled around the ceramic mug you'd been drying. "You're supposed to be resting," you said quietly, though there wasn't much bite left in the words anymore. Worry had worn itself smooth over the years.
Leon leaned deeper into the couch cushions with his eyes half-closed, one arm draped across his stomach. The veins beneath the skin of his hand curled darkly beneath the lamplight, blackened tributaries crawling over pale flesh before disappearing beneath the cuff of his sleeve. The splotch spreading along the side of his neck looked darker tonight, too, bruised violet against tired skin.
"I am resting," he muttered.
"You fell asleep sitting upright again."
"Occupational hazard."
A soft breath escaped you at that, halfway between amusement and exhaustion. You set the mug aside before crossing the apartment toward him. Even after all these years, Leon still watched you like you were something grounding. Something untouched by all the rot clinging stubbornly to him.
Your fingers brushed carefully against the side of his neck, just beneath the stain spreading there. Leon tried not to flinch beneath your touch.
"Tender?" you asked softly.
"No worse than usual."
That was the lie both of you used now. No worse than usual. It covered everything from sleepless nights to coughing blood to the way Leon occasionally lost his breath climbing the stairs after missions that once wouldn't have even quickened his pulse.
You studied him for another moment before moving toward the medicine cabinet near the kitchen. The apartment smelled faintly of soup and disinfectant, a strange combination that had followed you home from the hospital for years. Leon used to tease you about it back when things felt lighter. Back before every quiet moment carried the weight of wondering how many were left.
Now the smell only reminded him of how exhausted you looked lately. You tried to hide it well. Most days, you still tied your hair back neatly before work. Still ironed your scrubs. Still left sticky notes near the coffeemaker, reminding Leon to eat something green while you worked late shifts. To anyone else, you probably looked fine.
Leon noticed the small things, though, they're not that small. The way you paused before standing too quickly. The faint tremor in your hands when you thought nobody was watching. The shadows beneath your eyes growing darker every week. And the coughing. God, the coughing.
You returned with his medication and a glass of water before settling beside him on the couch. "You missed another dose this morning."
Leon accepted the pills from your hand. "I was busy."
"You were unconscious for fourteen hours."
"Exactly."
You rolled your eyes faintly, though exhaustion softened even that reaction. When Leon swallowed the medication, you rested your head carefully against his shoulder, fitting there like habit. Outside, thunder murmured somewhere far away.
For a little while, neither of you spoke. Leon could feel the warmth of you pressed against his side. Too warm. His jaw tightened.
"You should've called out today," he said eventually.
"And told them what?" you asked softly. "Sorry, I can't come in because my husband and I are both slowly mutating."
A tired sound escaped him that almost resembled a laugh.
"Was it bad today?" he asked after a moment.
You stayed quiet long enough for him to know the answer before you finally spoke. "My hands cramped up during an IV insertion," you admitted. "Mrs. Holloway noticed."
Leon stared ahead at the flickering television screen without really seeing it. "You shouldn't still be working."
"We've had this argument."
"You almost collapsed last week."
"And you came home coughing blood three days ago."
That silenced him immediately. The rain thickened harder against the windows. You shifted slightly beside him, curling your fingers carefully around his infected hand despite the ugly black veins webbing beneath the skin. Leon remembered the first time you'd seen them appear. He'd expected horror. Fear. Distance.
Instead, you'd taken his hand exactly like this and whispered, "Still you." It nearly ruined him then. It still did.
"We're running out of time, aren't we?" he asked quietly.
The question lingered between you like smoke. You didn't answer immediately. Leon knew you were choosing your words carefully, the same way you always did when trying not to hurt him.
"There are people who lasted longer," you said at last.
"That's not what I asked."
Your fingers tightened slightly around his. Leon finally looked at you then, really looked. At exhaustion you couldn't hide anymore. At the faint discoloration creeping beneath the collar of your sweater. At the fragile steadiness, you wore like armor because somebody in the apartment had to stay calm. You gave him a small smile that broke his heart on contact.
"You know what scares me the most?" you asked softly.
Leon frowned. "What?"
"That you keep looking at me like I'm already gone."
The words hollowed something inside his chest.
He turned toward you fully despite the ache pulling through his ribs, one hand rising to cup the side of your face. "Don't," he murmured immediately. "Don't say that."
"But you are."
"I'm trying to fix this."
"I know."
"No," Leon said, more fiercely this time. "I am. I'm close."
Your expression flickered then. Hope and grief colliding in equal measure. You believed him because you loved him, and that somehow made it worse.
Leon rested his forehead carefully against yours, breathing shallowly through the pressure tightening in his lungs. "I'm not losing you to this," he whispered.
"I don't want to lose you either."
Morning arrived gray and slow, the kind that barely deserved to be called morning at all. Rainwater still clung to the fire escape outside the apartment windows, dripping steadily beneath a sky the color of bruised steel. Somewhere below, traffic hissed across wet pavement while distant sirens blurred into the rhythm of the waking city. The television had long since shut itself off overnight, leaving the apartment wrapped in soft silence broken only by the uneven sound of Leon breathing beside you.
You woke first. Not because you were rested, you honestly couldn't remember the last time you'd felt rested. Your body ached before you'd even fully opened your eyes. Heat coiled beneath your skin in restless waves, feverish and familiar, while your joints protested the simple act of shifting beneath the blankets. For a moment, you stayed still, staring hazily at the dim light filtering through the curtains while your heartbeat thudded heavily behind your ribs.
Then Leon coughed. The sound tore violently through the quiet room. You pushed yourself upright immediately, the motion making dizziness swim unpleasantly through your vision. Beside you, Leon sat hunched forward at the edge of the mattress, one hand braced against his chest while the other covered his mouth. His shoulders trembled beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Leon," you said softly, voice still rough with sleep.
He held up a hand without turning toward you, the universal signal for wait. Another cough wracked through him hard enough to make your stomach twist. By the time he finally lowered his hand, there was blood smeared faintly across his knuckles. Your chest tightened painfully.
"Jesus Christ," you whispered, already reaching for the tissues on the nightstand.
"I'm fine."
"You're coughing blood."
"It's not that much."
"That sentence stopped comforting me months ago."
Leon let out a tired breath through his nose as you handed him the tissues. Morning light spilled weakly across the side of his face now, illuminating the darkened veins stretching along his throat and disappearing beneath his collarbone. The discoloration had spread farther during the past few weeks. Neither of you mentioned it anymore.
You sat beside him carefully, one hand resting between his shoulder blades, while the coughing finally subsided into shallow breathing. His skin felt burning hot.
"You should stay home today," you murmured.
Leon gave you a look that could only be described as exhausted disbelief. "You said the exact same thing last night."
"And I meant it last night, too."
"I can't."
"You can barely breathe."
"I've been worse."
You closed your eyes briefly at that. The problem with Leon was that he genuinely meant it. Somewhere along the line, his definition of manageable had become horrifyingly distorted.
When you opened your eyes again, Leon was already trying to stand. The movement almost immediately betrayed him. His breath caught sharply, and he grabbed the edge of the dresser hard enough for his knuckles to whiten beneath the black veining spreading across his skin.
"Leon."
"I'm okay."
"Are you sure?"
"I said I'm okay."
The irritation in his voice wasn't directed at you. You knew that. It came from frustration. From humiliation. From the unbearable reality that his own body was becoming something unreliable. Still, silence settled heavily between you afterward. Leon stared at the floor for several long seconds before finally exhaling shakily and sinking back onto the edge of the bed. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders as he rubbed a hand over his face.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I just hate this."
The honesty in his voice hurt more than the coughing had.
You moved closer until your shoulder brushed his. "I know."
"No, I really hate it." He laughed once under his breath, bitter and tired. "I used to go days without sleeping during missions. Now I get winded walking to the kitchen."
You watched him carefully. Leon rarely spoke about the fear directly. He covered it with sarcasm, deflection, stubbornness, anything that kept the terror from fully surfacing. Seeing it now, raw and exhausted in the dim morning light, made something ache deep inside your chest.
"You're still you," you said softly.
His jaw tightened immediately, "That's part of the problem. I don't think I will be for me much longer."
You looked down at your own hands resting in your lap. The faint tremor had returned sometime during the night. Tiny involuntary movements beneath skin that looked normal enough until someone paid close attention.
At the hospital last week, one of the newer nurses had asked if you were feeling alright after you'd nearly dropped a tray of syringes. You'd smiled. You'd lied. You were getting very good at lying. Leon noticed your hands before you could tuck them away.
His expression shifted instantly. "How long?"
You hated that question because he always sounded so afraid of asking it. "Just this morning," you answered carefully.
"That's not what I asked."
You swallowed. The truth sat heavily behind your teeth. "A few weeks."
Leon went still beside you. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows again.
"You should've told me," he said quietly.
"And what would that have changed?"
His silence answered for him. Everything. It would've changed everything.
Leon leaned forward suddenly, elbows braced against his knees, while one hand pressed hard against his mouth. You could practically see the guilt chewing through him in real time, relentless and familiar.
"This is my fault," he muttered.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. "Don't do that."
"If I'd gotten you out faster that night..."
"Leon."
"If I hadn't left you alone at the hospital..."
"Stop."
His voice roughened sharply. "You got infected because of me."
The words struck the room like shattered glass. Neither of you could move after those words left his mouth. You reached out for him after a moment, sliding your hand carefully against his jaw until he finally looked at you. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, shadows buried heavily beneath them.
"You listened to me very carefully back in Raccoon City," you said softly. "So listen to me now."
Leon's breathing stayed uneven beneath your touch.
"You did not infect me," you continued. "You did not fail me. You did not ruin my life."
His expression cracked slightly at that, pain flickering openly across his face.
"You saved my life," you whispered. "I got years with you that I never should've had."
Leon looked away immediately like the words physically hurt him.
"That's not enough if one of us dies," he says hoarsely.
Your chest tightened. That was the tragedy of loving Leon Kennedy. No matter how much he gave, he still believed he should've found a way to give more.
The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light Leon had forgotten to turn off. A single yellow glow spilled weakly across the counter and into the living room, cutting through the early morning dark in tired slants. The digital clock on the microwave read 2:17 AM in harsh green numbers. Rain had finally stopped sometime during the night, leaving the city outside damp and quiet beneath a low blanket of fog.
You should've been asleep. Instead, you stood barefoot near the hallway entrance with one hand braced against the wall, trying to steady the dizziness rolling unpleasantly beneath your skin. Exhaustion clung heavily to your limbs after another twelve-hour shift at the hospital, but the silence in the apartment had dragged you awake the second you realized Leon wasn't beside you.
At first, you thought he might've gone outside to smoke again. He'd picked the habit back up months ago despite your endless arguments about it. Then you noticed the light, and the sound of paper shifting.
You moved quietly toward the kitchen, the cold hardwood floor creaking faintly beneath your steps. Leon sat hunched at the table still wearing yesterday's clothes, shoulders rigid beneath his gray sweatshirt while files and photographs lay scattered around him in uneven piles.
Medical reports, autopsy images, government seals.
Your stomach tightened immediately. Leon didn't notice you at first. His eyes stayed locked on the papers in front of him, jaw clenched hard enough to twitch beneath the dim light. One hand pressed against his mouth, while the other gripped a photograph so tightly the edges had bent beneath his fingers.
He coughed suddenly, the sound tearing violently through the quiet apartment. Leon turned sharply away from the table, coughing hard into his sleeve while his free hand braced against the countertop nearby. The force of it nearly doubled him over.
"Leon."
He froze instantly. For one terrible second, guilt flashed across his face before he smoothed it away too late for either of you to pretend you hadn't seen it.
"You should be sleeping," he said roughly.
You ignored the comment entirely, eyes drifting instead toward the files spread across the table. Photographs stared back at you. Five different faces. Five different civilians. Every single one labeled deceased.
Cold unease curled through your stomach. "What is this?"
Leon went very still. The silence lasted long enough for dread to start settling into your bones.
Finally, he leaned back in the chair with a slow exhale, exhaustion hollowing out his features. "Cases connected to dormant viral exposure after Raccoon City."
Your pulse thudded unevenly. You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, gaze catching on dates and medical terminology scattered across the reports. Progressive organ failure. Neurological deterioration. Respiratory collapse. One victim had been only thirty-two. Another had survived nearly ten years before symptoms resurfaced.
You felt sick. Leon watched you carefully the entire time, like he was waiting for something to shatter.
"How long have you had these?" you asked quietly.
"A while."
"A while," you repeated softly. "Leon."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't want you seeing them."
"Why?"
The question came out sharper than you intended. Leon pushed a hand through his hair roughly before standing from the table. The motion looked unsteady, exhaustion dragging visibly at his body. He crossed toward the sink and gripped the edge of the counter hard enough for the tendons in his infected hand to stand out beneath the dark veins.
"Because none of them survived," he said flatly.
The walls felt like they were slowly closing in around you. You stared at his back in silence while the refrigerator hummed quietly nearby.
"Were they all infected the same way we were?"
"Similar strain."
"And you've just been reading this alone?"
Leon laughed once under his breath, bitter and exhausted. "What exactly was I supposed to say to you?" he asked. "'Hey, sweetheart, I found six years of autopsy reports proving this thing eventually kills civilians slower than it kills everybody else'?"
"You found five reports."
His shoulders stiffened immediately. The realization hit both of you at the same time. Five victims. You would be the sixth. Leon turned away sharply before you could fully see his expression, but not before grief cracked visibly across his face. That hurt more than the files did.
You crossed the kitchen slowly until you stood a few feet behind him. "Leon."
"I'm figuring it out."
"You don't know that."
"I said I'm figuring it out." His voice came harsher now, fraying at the edges beneath exhaustion and panic.
You watched him brace both hands against the counter, head lowered while his breathing turned uneven again. The dark veins stretching across the back of his hands looked almost black beneath the kitchen light now.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then your eyes drifted back toward the table. Toward the notes. Toward the highlighted sections and handwritten annotations covering nearly every page. Leon had memorized these people. Every symptom. Every timeline. Every death.
Your chest tightened painfully. "You're preparing for me to die," you said softly.
Leon's head snapped upward immediately. "No."
"You are."
"No, I'm not."
"You know all their timelines, Leon."
"Because I need to."
"You know how long they lasted after symptoms progressed."
"I need to know what we're dealing with."
"You organized them by stages."
"Because there's a pattern."
Your voice finally cracked. "Because you're trying to predict when I'll die."
Silence slammed into the room. Leon looked stricken like you'd reached into his chest and dragged something ugly into the light before he could hide it.
"That's not..." He stopped hard, swallowing visibly. "That's not what I'm doing."
"You're trying to figure out how much time we have left together."
His composure finally broke. "I'm trying to keep you alive!"
The words exploded out of him loud enough to echo through the apartment. You flinched slightly. Leon stared at you immediately afterward like he hated himself for it. His breathing turned ragged.
"I can't lose you," he said hoarsely, quieter this time. "I can't sit here and pretend this isn't happening while you get worse every week."
You felt tears burning painfully behind your eyes now. "I know."
"No, you don't." Leon dragged a shaking hand over his face. "You don't know what it's like watching you cough and wondering if that's the moment it starts getting bad. You don't know what it's like hearing you come home exhausted and thinking about those files every time you look tired."
His voice cracked hard on the last sentence. For a second, he looked less like a government agent and more like a man drowning slowly in anticipatory grief.
"You think I'm preparing for you to die?" he whispered. "I'm trying to find the point where I can still save you."
The raw desperation in his voice hollowed something inside your chest. You crossed the remaining distance between you carefully before resting your hands against his face. Leon's skin felt fever-warm beneath your palms. His eyes closed immediately.
"I'm still here," you whispered.
Leon's expression tightened sharply, grief flickering across it so fast it almost looked painful.
"That's what scares me," he admitted quietly. "Because they were too. Until they weren't."
After that night, every day after felt fragile in a way cracked glass still technically holds together until the exact wrong amount of pressure finally splinters in apart.
Gray daylight spilled weakly through the apartment windows while the coffee maker sputtered in the kitchen, filling the air with the bitter smell of burnt grounds. Leon stood at the counter in sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, one hand braced against the edge of the sink while he waited for another coughing fit to pass.
You stood nearby pretending to butter toast while listening carefully to the uneven rasp dragging through his lungs. Every cough sounded painful now. Wet. Heavy. The kind of cough that settled deep in bone and refused to leave.
He finally spit blood into the sink.
You closed your eyes briefly, "Leon."
"I know," he muttered hoarsely.
"You can barely stand."
"I'm standing right now."
"You're leaning like a seventy-year-old chain smoker."
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, though it disappeared quickly beneath exhaustion. He rinsed the sink carefully afterward, watching diluted pink swirl down the drain before gripping the counter again when dizziness hit him too fast.
"Sit down, Lee."
"I'm fine."
"You almost folded in half."
Leon exhaled sharply through his nose before finally relenting, dragging himself toward one of the kitchen chairs with the slow stiffness of someone twice his age. The movement alone seemed to drain him. By the time he sat down, his breathing had already turned shallow again.
You'd watched this man sprint through collapsing streets with barely a second thought for his own survival. Now, climbing out of bed looked like it cost him something.
You slid a plate toward him anyway. "Eat."
Leon looked down at the toast like it had personally offended him. "You made enough for an army."
"You need protein."
"This isn't protein."
"You're lucky I didn't make eggs."
"You almost burned water last week."
"That happened once."
"It absolutely did not happen once."
Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you. Leon's expression softened immediately at the sound. There it is, his eyes seemed to say.
It almost felt normal again. Then your hand started shaking. The knife slipped slightly against the countertop with a sharp metallic scrape. Leon noticed instantly. The warmth vanished from his expression so quickly it physically hurt to watch. You curled your fingers inward automatically, but it was too late.
"How bad?"
You hated how quietly he asked that now. Like every symptom had become another brick added carefully to the wall of terror building inside him.
"It's fine."
"That's not an answer."
You set the knife down carefully before your trembling hand could drop it entirely. "Just tired."
Leon stared at you across the kitchen table. The silence stretched long enough to become unbearable. Finally, he pushed himself upright despite obvious effort and crossed toward you slowly. The dark veins creeping beneath the skin of his arms stood out starkly beneath the weak kitchen light.
"You're pale," he murmured.
"So are you."
"You're shaking."
"You coughed blood into our sink thirty seconds ago."
For one brief moment, frustration flashed across his face before exhaustion swallowed it whole again. Leon rested both hands carefully against the counter on either side of you, head lowering slightly.
"I got a call last night," he said quietly.
Your stomach tightened instantly.
"A mission?"
Leon nodded once.
Something cold slipped beneath your ribs.
He hadn't mentioned work in weeks unless absolutely necessary. The government had already reduced his field involvement after his symptoms worsened, but "reduced" still meant they dragged him back whenever things became dangerous enough.
"When?"
"Tomorrow night."
You looked down immediately. Not because you wanted to avoid his eyes. Because you already knew what his expression would look like. Guilt. Fear. Determination sharp enough to cut himself open on.
"What kind of mission?"
Leon hesitated. That terrified you more than the answer probably would have.
"There's a lab in Raccoon City," he said carefully. "They think they found something."
Your heartbeat stumbled unevenly. "What kind of something?"
Leon's jaw tightened faintly before he answered. "A cure."
"You're really going back there?"
"I have to."
The entire apartment suddenly felt suspended in place around that single word. Cure. Not a treatment, not a symptom management, a real cure.
"You're sure?" you whispered.
"They think so."
That was the dangerous thing about hope after years without it. Even the smallest amount hit like a flood.
"There's a facility connected to the original research," he continued softly. "That's where they're sending me."
Of course they were sending him. Because whenever something impossible needed surviving, the government always handed it to Leon Kennedy like they'd forgotten he was human years ago.
The thought settled heavily into your chest. Leon watched your expression carefully, and suddenly you saw it. Beneath the exhaustion. Beneath the coughing and the dark veins and the constant fear. Hope. Real hope. You hadn't seen it in him for months. Maybe years.
"This could work," he said quietly.
The words sounded almost fragile coming from him. Leon rarely allowed himself optimism anymore unless he absolutely believed it.
You swallowed hard. "For you?"
"For me," he agreed.
Then his eyes met yours.
"And for you."
The ache that followed nearly split your chest open. Because suddenly you could see it happening too. The fever gone. The coughing stopping. Leon finally sleeping through the night without waking breathless and shaking beside you. A future that didn't end in hospital reports and autopsy photos.
Leon stepped closer carefully, one hand brushing against your wrist. "They only confirmed enough doses for Sherry and me," he admitted quietly. "But if this works..."
You frowned slightly. "Leon."
"I'll bring one back for you."
His voice carried absolute certainty. Not hope. Not maybe. Certainty.
Your eyes burned immediately. "You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can."
"You don't even know what you're walking into yet."
"I don't care."
The answer came sharp enough to cut. Leon's fingers tightened slightly around your wrist while exhaustion and desperation flickered openly across his face.
"I don't care what that place looks like," he said roughly. "I don't care how bad it gets. If there's a cure in that facility, I'm bringing one home for you."
The conviction in his voice hurt. Because this wasn't just another mission to him anymore. This was the first time in years Leon genuinely believed he could save someone he loved before it was too late.
You reached up slowly, brushing your fingers against the darkened skin along his neck. "Leon..."
"I mean it." His voice softened then, cracking slightly beneath the weight of everything sitting between you. "When this is over," he murmured, "you're gonna get better."
By the time Leon's departure day arrived, the apartment had settled into the kind of quiet that made every sound feel important. The radiator clicked softly beneath the windows. Rain slid steadily down the glass in silver trails, distorting the city lights outside into blurred streaks of gold and white. Somewhere several floors below, a car horn echoed briefly through the wet streets before disappearing again. Everything beyond the apartment kept moving normally, while inside, time felt painfully suspended.
Leon was in the bedroom packing. Or pretending to. You stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him fold the same black long-sleeved shirt for the third time in less than ten minutes, before setting it back into the duffel bag with visible frustration. His movements lacked their usual sharp efficiency tonight. Exhaustion dragged heavily at him now, dulling the careful precision he normally carried before missions. The veins stretching along the backs of his hands looked darker beneath the lamplight. You hated how often you noticed things like that now.
Leon finally glanced up after sensing you watching him. "What?" he asked quietly.
A faint smile tugged weakly at your mouth despite everything. "You packed that shirt already."
His eyes flickered downward toward the bag before he exhaled softly through his nose. "Right."
The answer sounded distracted. Tired. You crossed the room slowly, your body protesting every step with deep aches spreading through your chest and limbs. The fever simmering beneath your skin hadn't broken in almost two days now. Even walking across the apartment left you slightly breathless, though you'd spent the entire evening pretending otherwise. Leon noticed immediately anyway. He always noticed.
The second you stopped beside him, his expression tightened faintly. "You're overdoing it again."
"I walked across one room."
"You got winded doing it."
You rolled your eyes softly, though the motion lacked any real energy behind it. "You say that like you're not coughing up pieces of your lungs every morning."
"That's different."
"How?"
Leon opened his mouth before immediately seeming to realize he didn't actually have an answer. A tired breath escaped him instead.
You smiled faintly. "Exactly."
For a moment, silence settled between you again. Rain tapped steadily against the windows. Leon looked at you then. Really looked at you. His eyes lingered too long. On the shadows beneath your eyes. On the exhaustion you couldn't fully hide anymore. On the slight tremor in your hands where they rested against the bedroom dresser. Something fragile flickered across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness. He was memorizing you. The realization hollowed your chest.
You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, hands settling carefully against the front of his shirt. Beneath your palms, you could feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing. His lungs had sounded worse all week.
"You're scared," you murmured softly.
Leon laughed once under his breath, tired and humorless. "That obvious?"
"You reorganized your bag four times."
That finally pulled a real smile from him. Small. Exhausted. But real.
God, you loved him. Even now. Even with sickness hollowing both of you out from the inside. Even with fear sitting heavy between every conversation and every quiet glance. You loved him so much that it sometimes physically hurt.
Leon's hands settled carefully at your waist.
"You should rest before I leave," he murmured. "You look exhausted."
"So do you."
"Occupational hazard."
"You already used that line this week." A weak laugh escaped you before fading again almost immediately.
The reality of the evening settled heavily back over the room. Tomorrow, Leon would be gone. Tomorrow, you'd wake up alone in this apartment with your worsening symptoms and too much silence. The thought sat sharply beneath your ribs.
"You know," you said quietly, "I used to hate when you left for missions."
Leon's brow furrowed slightly. "Used to?"
"Well," you murmured, "now I really hate it."
The fragile composure he'd been holding together all evening cracked slightly around the edges. Suddenly, Leon looked less like a broody, hardened man preparing for deployment and more like a man trying very hard not to fall apart in front of the person he loved. He stepped closer until barely any space remained between you.
"I'll come back," he said softly.
You looked up at him carefully.
He believed that.
Not because he thought the mission would be easy. Not because he underestimated whatever nightmare waited for him out there.
Leon believed he'd come back because he'd attached your survival to the outcome.
He wasn't going after a cure for himself anymore.
He was going after you.
Your throat tightened painfully.
"You better," you whispered.
Leon's hands slid upward slowly until they cupped your face with aching gentleness. His palms felt warm despite the infection darkening beneath his skin.
"You wait for me," he murmured.
The words nearly undid you. Not because of what he said. Because of how desperately he said it. Like he was trying to bargain with fate itself.
Your eyes burned sharply. "Leon..."
"I mean it." His forehead rested carefully against yours while his breathing turned shallow again. "You wait for me, and I'll come home with that cure."
Emotion climbed painfully into your throat. You wanted to promise him. God, you wanted to. But deep inside, beneath all the fear and hope and denial, your body already knew something the rest of you was still trying not to face. You were getting worse too quickly.
So instead of answering, you reached for him. Leon kissed you immediately. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just heartbreakingly familiar. One of his hands cradled the side of your face while the other settled against your back, pulling you gently against him like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you. The kiss tasted faintly of coffee and exhaustion and everything that had always been uniquely Leon. You melted into him despite the ache spreading through your chest.
For a few precious seconds, the world outside the apartment disappeared entirely. No infections. No missions. No looming grief waiting just beyond the horizon. Just Leon. Just the steady warmth of his hands and the careful way he kissed you like something precious.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead remained resting against yours. His eyes stayed closed for a moment longer, like he was gathering strength simply from being near you. Slowly, he lifted his head enough to look at you again.
The exhaustion in his face nearly broke your heart open. Dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. The infection staining his neck had spread farther over the past month, curling beneath the pale skin in ugly, blackened veins. Even breathing looked exhausting now.
And still, he was leaving tomorrow to walk directly into another nightmare because somewhere at the end of it waited the possibility of saving you. The realization hurt so badly you could barely breathe around it.
You reached up carefully, brushing trembling fingers against the side of his face. Leon leaned into your touch immediately, like it was instinct.
"I love you," you whispered.
The words filled the room softly. You can see how terrified he is beneath all the determination. His hand covered yours against his cheek.
"I love you too," he said quietly. "More than anything."
Tears burned painfully behind your eyes now. Leon kissed your forehead gently before pulling you into his arms again, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. You could hear the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his chest. Fast. Unsteady. Afraid.
Your arms wrapped around him carefully while exhaustion settled heavier and heavier into your bones. You wondered briefly if he could feel how weak you'd become. If he noticed how hard it had become for you to hold onto him for long periods now. If he realized you were memorizing him, too.
It's rained for a week straight. The night Leon left, it finally stopped...ironic, right?
Clouds still hung low over the city in heavy gray sheets, but weak sunlight filtered through the apartment windows for the first time in days, washing everything in pale gold that made the quiet feel almost unreal. Dust drifted lazily through the light near the couch. Somewhere outside, water dripped steadily from fire escapes and rooftops onto the streets below.
You stood near the kitchen counter wrapped in one of Leon's old sweatshirts while he checked his weapons at the dining table. The sweatshirt smelled like him. Laundry detergent. Cigarettes. Faint traces of gunpowder that never seemed to fully leave his clothes anymore.
You'd stolen it from the bedroom sometime during the night, after another fever woke you, shivering so hard your teeth hurt. Leon noticed immediately when he came out of the shower earlier, but all he'd done was stare at you for a long moment before quietly saying, "Keep it on."
Now he sat across the apartment, slotting magazines into place with practiced movements while tension coiled visibly beneath his skin. His jaw stayed tight. His shoulders tighten. Every few seconds, he looked at you. Checking. Always checking. You pretended not to notice.
The truth was, standing upright already exhausted you. Your chest felt heavy this morning. Breathing took conscious effort in a way it hadn't before. Even the short walk from the bedroom to the kitchen had left your pulse hammering unevenly beneath your ribs.
"You should sit down," he said without looking away from the pistol in his hands.
"I'm fine."
"You almost tripped over absolutely nothing ten minutes ago."
"There was a rug."
"There has been a rug there for three years." A weak laugh escaped you despite yourself.
Leon's expression softened instantly at the sound, and for one brief moment, he looked less exhausted. Less haunted.
God, you wished you could keep him here. The thought arrived suddenly and sharply enough to hurt. You could ask. You knew you could.
If you looked Leon Kennedy in the eyes right now and said don't go, he wouldn't. The government could burn down outside the apartment windows, and he'd still stay beside you.
And that terrified you. Because if he stayed, there would be no cure. Not for him. Not for Sherry. Not for anyone. So instead, you tightened your fingers around the sleeve hanging over your hands and swallowed the fear clawing up your throat.
Leon finally stood from the table, though the movement immediately triggered another coughing fit. He turned away sharply, coughing hard into his fist while his shoulders tensed beneath his jacket.
By the time it stopped, Leon's breathing had gone shallow again.
"Jesus," you whispered softly.
"I'm okay."
Blood spotted faintly across his knuckles. You both saw it. Neither of you acknowledged it. Leon grabbed a rag from the counter and wiped his hand clean before you could move toward him. The dark veins stretching beneath the skin of his wrist looked almost black now, curling beneath pale flesh like fractures spreading through glass.
Then he looked back at you, and immediately frowned. You realized too late that your hand had drifted against the counter to steady yourself.
Leon crossed the apartment instantly. "Hey."
"I'm fine."
"You're pale."
"So are you."
"You're shaking again."
"I've been shaking for weeks, Leon."
Leon stopped directly in front of you, both hands settling carefully at your waist like he was afraid you might collapse if he let go. The awful thing was, you weren't entirely sure you wouldn't.
"You should be in a hospital," he murmured quietly.
You managed a faint smile. "I work in one. Does that count?"
"It's not funny."
"I know."
The apartment fell silent again. Outside, a siren wailed faintly somewhere downtown before fading into the distance. Leon stared at you for several long seconds, and suddenly, you could see it happening in real time. The hesitation. The instinct screaming at him not to leave you like this. Your chest tightened painfully.
So you reached for him first. Your hands slid carefully beneath the collar of his jacket before pulling him closer until his forehead rested against yours. Leon exhaled shakily the second you touched him.
"Go," you whispered softly.
His eyes closed immediately. "You don't mean that."
"You're the only one who might be able to save us... to save Sherry. We need you."
You leaned upward carefully and kissed him. Leon made a soft sound against your mouth that almost broke you apart right there. His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you firmly against his chest while he kissed you back like he was trying to memorize every second of it. Every touch. Every breath. Every tiny detail he could carry with him into whatever nightmare waited ahead.
You could feel how fast his heart was beating beneath his jacket. Afraid. Leon was afraid. Not of the mission. Of losing you.
When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved far apart.
"I'm coming home to you," he whispered against your forehead.
The words lodged painfully beneath your ribs.
You swallowed hard before forcing a small smile. "Then I guess I'll have to wait for you."
Leon looked at you like he wanted to believe that more than anything in the world.
Then his phone vibrated. The sound shattered the moment instantly. Duty. Always duty. Leon closed his eyes briefly before pulling the phone from his pocket. You watched the exact second his expression hardened back into something operational. Controlled. Professional. It hurt watching him put the armor back on.
"They're downstairs," he said quietly.
Your chest constricted. Already? Leon stared at you for another long moment before reaching up to brush his thumb carefully beneath your eye. You hadn't even realized tears had started slipping down your face.
"Hey," he murmured softly.
You laughed weakly through the emotion catching in your throat. "I'm trying really hard not to cry right now."
"You don't have to do that for me."
"Yes, I do." Your voice cracked slightly. "Because if I start, you might not leave."
The honesty of it hit both of you at once. Leon's composure visibly faltered. For one terrible second, you genuinely thought he might stay. Then he cupped your face carefully and kissed you one final time. Slow. Tender. Devastated.
"I love you," he whispered against your lips.
Your throat tightened painfully. "I love you too."
Leon rested his forehead against yours for one last second before finally stepping away. The distance felt immediate. Wrong. You watched him grab his bag from beside the table while every instinct in your body screamed at you to stop him. To tell him not to go. To beg him to stay here, where you could still touch him.
Instead, you stood frozen in the middle of the apartment while Leon reached the front door. His hand settled against the knob. Then he looked back. That was the moment that would haunt him later. You standing there in his sweatshirt with exhausted eyes and trembling hands trying so hard to smile for him despite how sick you looked. Waiting for him. Always waiting for him.
Leon stared for half a heartbeat too long before finally opening the door and disappearing into the hallway. Then the apartment went silent. Completely silent. The emptiness hit instantly. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you.
At first, traces of him still lingered everywhere strongly enough that you could almost pretend he'd only gone downstairs for cigarettes or coffee. His mug still sat beside the sink from that morning, a faint ring of coffee staining the bottom. His jacket remained hooked over the chair near the dining table because he'd changed into tactical gear at the last minute. Even the bathroom mirror still carried the faded ghost of steam from his shower.
But as the days stretched onward, the silence changed shape. It deepened. By evening on the fourth day, the apartment no longer felt temporarily empty. It felt abandoned.
You sat curled beneath a blanket on the couch wearing Leon's sweatshirt while weak blue light from the television flickered across the room. You hadn't actually been watching anything for nearly an hour. The sounds blurred together beneath the pounding in your head and the fever simmering painfully beneath your skin.
Your breathing sounded wrong tonight. Too shallow. Every inhale dragged sharply through your chest like your lungs had become lined with broken glass. You coughed into the blanket again. Blood stained the fabric. For a long moment, you simply stared at it, then quietly folded that section beneath itself so you wouldn't have to keep looking at it.
The rain had only stopped for a few days before it seemed constant again. Tonight was no different. You closed your eyes. Leon was in Racoon City, fighting his way through creatures, trying to find a cure. You wonder if he's thinking of you as much as you're thinking of him... probably.
You imagined him moving through dark hallways with a gun in his hands and exhaustion carved deep into his bones. You imagined the infection tearing through his body harder every time he pushed himself too far. You imagined him fighting anyway because that's what Leon always did. He kept going. EVen when he was breaking apart, especially when something important was on the line.
A shaky breath escaped you before another coughing fit hit hard enough to bend you forward painfully against the couch cushions. This one lasted longer. By the end of it, black spots danced across your vision.
"Jesus Christ," you whispered weakly once it stopped.
Your voice sounded small in the empty apartment. You tried standing and it turned out to be a mistake. Dizziness slammed into you so fast the room tilted violently sideways. Your knees buckled before you even fully understood what was happening, and suddenly you were gripping the edge of the coffee table hard enough your fingers hurt while your pulse thundered wildly beneath your skin.
It took nearly a full minute before the apartment stopped spinning. You stayed crouched there breathing unevenly while fear crawled coldly through your chest. It was getting bad... quickly. Somewhere deep down, beneath all the denial you'd been clinging to for Leon's sake, you finally understood the truth.
You weren't going to make it long enough. There was no dramatics or sudden panic. It was certainty settling softly into your bones. Your eyes burned painfully.
"No..." you whispered immediately.
You forced yourself upright again eventually, moving slowly toward the kitchen for water. Every step exhausted you now. By the time you reached the sink, your breathing had already gone ragged.
The glass slipped from your trembling fingers before you could even fill it properly. It shattered against the floor. The sound rang violently through the apartment. You stared at the broken pieces for several seconds before tears suddenly blurred your vision without warning.
Leon wasn't here. If Leon had been here, he would've immediately crossed the room toward you with that worried crease between his brows. He would've checked your hands for cuts before even looking at the floor. He would've told you to sit down while he cleaned the mess himself. The apartment felt enormous without him. Lonely in a way that physically hurt.
You slid slowly down against the kitchen cabinets before you could stop yourself, exhausted enough that the cold tile beneath you actually felt comforting against your feverish skin. And suddenly, all you wanted was to hear his voice.
Your hand shook badly while pulling your phone from the pocket of the sweatshirt. Three missed calls from Leon. Two unread messages.
Made it to the checkpoint. You awake?
An hour later.
Miss you already. Love you.
Your chest cracked painfully around the words. A sob climbed abruptly into your throat before you swallowed it back down hard. You couldn't do this to him. Not now. Not while he was fighting through hell trying to bring salvation home in his bare hands.
Your gaze drifted slowly toward the kitchen table. Toward the notebook resting beside the fruit bowl. And something inside you quietly gave way. The walk back to the couch took nearly everything you had left.
By the time you lowered yourself carefully onto the cushions again, your entire body trembled with exhaustion. Rain whispered steadily against the windows while the city lights outside blurred softly through the fever haze clouding your vision.
You pulled the notebook into your lap and opened to the first blank page. For several long moments, you just stared at the blank page, tears slipping silently down your face. It's not easy to write a love letter that's also a goodbye letter.
You sat for a long time before slowly, carefully, you began to write.
By the time Leon finally returned, dawn had started bleeding weak gray light across the city skyline.
Rainwater dripped steadily from the shoulders of his jacket as he fumbled his keys against the apartment door, exhaustion pulling heavily through limbs that had spent days surviving on adrenaline alone. Every muscle in his body ached. Bruises darkened beneath torn tactical gear. Fresh cuts burned along his hands where broken glass and metal had sliced through skin during the mission.
But none of it mattered.
Because for the first time in years, Leon Kennedy was coming home with hope instead of another apology.
The cure vials remained clutched tightly in his hand as he pushed the apartment door open hard enough for it to slam against the wall behind him.
“Hey,” he called breathlessly into the apartment. “Hey, sweetheart?”
His voice sounded lighter than it had in months. Hopeful. God. Actually hopeful.
Leon kicked the door shut behind himself while rainwater pooled beneath his boots on the hardwood floor. His lungs no longer burned when he breathed. The constant pressure crushing his chest for years had vanished entirely now, leaving his body feeling strangely unfamiliar beneath the exhaustion. The infection was gone. He’d done it. Sherry would survive. You would survive.
“I got it,” he called again while shrugging his bag carelessly onto the floor near the door. “I got enough for both of you. You should’ve seen the place they kept this shit in. Whole goddamn building practically collapsed before we even...”
Then he looked up. And the words died in his throat. The apartment had gone completely still. The television flickered softly in the corner of the room, bathing everything in pale blue light that made the shadows look colder somehow. One of the lamps near the couch remained on, casting a warm golden glow across the blankets bundled around your body.
You sat curled against the corner cushions wearing his sweatshirt. Motionless. For one horrible second, Leon’s brain refused to process what he was seeing.
“No,” he whispered immediately.
The cure vials slipped from his fingers and hit the carpet soundlessly. Leon crossed the room so fast he nearly stumbled over the coffee table.
“Hey,” he breathed shakily as he dropped hard onto his knees beside the couch. “Hey, sweetheart...”
His hands found your face instantly. Cold. Cold enough to send terror exploding violently through his chest.
“No, no, no.” The words fell apart on the way out while his fingers trembled desperately against your skin. “Please don’t do this to me.”
His heartbeat slammed painfully against his ribs now. Fast enough to hurt. Leon pulled you carefully against his chest with shaking arms, panic unraveling through him so violently he could barely think around it. Your head slipped weakly against his shoulder while the blanket tangled around both of you. You were too still. Too quiet.
“Oh God,” he choked out.
The apartment blurred behind tears almost immediately. He could smell blood. That realization hit hard enough to make his stomach twist violently. Leon’s eyes darted frantically around the apartment through rising panic. Tissues stained dark red overflowed from the trash beside the couch. A shattered glass still littered the kitchen floor untouched. Half-finished tea sat cold on the coffee table.
And suddenly Leon could see every awful moment you’d gone through while he was gone. Had you fallen? Had you been too weak to even hold the glass?
“I would've come home,” he whispered brokenly against your hair. “Jesus Christ, I would've come back.”
His hand brushed something resting beside you on the couch. The letter. Leon stared at your handwriting through blurred vision before opening it with trembling fingers.
My dear Leon,
If you're reading this, then you came home. I always believed you would. I'm sorry you had to find me this way, Lee. I need you to know this isn't your fault. You didn't fail me.
You've spent years carrying the weight of Raccoon City. It's carved into your bones, and I know you're already preparing to carry this too. So before anything else, I need you to listen to me one last time.
This isn't your fault. Not the city. Not the infection. Not this.
Loving you is the easiest thing I ever did. Even at the end, especially at the end. I know you probably came home carrying a cure for me. That thought hurts more than dying does. I know you fought for me. I know you pushed yourself too hard trying to reach me in time. I know you probably didn't sleep and ignored every injury because that's who you are.
I want you to know I fought too, I fought so fucking hard to stay awake until you came home. You gave me years I never should've had. After Raccoon City, I thought my life was over. Then somehow, impossibly, I got mornings with you. Movie nights on the couch. Burnt coffee and late-night takeout and listening to you complain every time I made you eat vegetables. I got to love you long enough to call you my husband. How special is that?
When you read this, I need you to do something impossibly hard for me. Live. Really live. Don't just survive missions and carry those ghosts until they bury you.
I need you to sleep in sometimes. I need you to laugh. I need you to stop apologizing for surviving.
Thanks for coming back for me. I loved you until the very end, and wherever I am now, I love you still. Always have and always will.
By the time he reached the final lines, he could barely breathe through the force of his own grief.
I loved you until the very end.
A sound tore from Leon’s chest then. Not controlled and certainly not quiet. The kind of grief that physically rips itself out of someone. He folded forward against you, clutching the letter tightly while sobs wracked violently through his body. Years of trauma and guilt and terror collapsed inward all at once until he could hardly draw breath around it.
“I came back,” he choked out desperately. “You said you’d wait for me.”
His shaking hands came up to check for a pulse in your neck. Nothing. Or maybe he just couldn’t feel through the violent trembling in his hands.
“No, come on,” he whispered frantically. “Please...”
His fingers pressed harder. Then finally, he felt a pulse. Faint. Fragile. But there.
Leon stopped breathing entirely. “Oh my God.”
The words shattered out of him. Hope crashed through his grief so violently it almost hurt. “You’re alive.”
Panic overtook him instantly afterward. Not mourning anymore. Desperate, terrified urgency. Leon grabbed blindly for the cure vial on the floor, hands shaking so badly he fumbled it twice before managing to snap the cap free. His breathing had gone ragged now, bordering on hyperventilation, while adrenaline surged violently through his system.
“Stay with me,” he begged hoarsely while fumbling the syringe together with trembling fingers. “Come on, sweetheart, stay with me. Please.”
Your pulse fluttered weakly beneath his fingertips. Too weak. Fear clawed violently through his chest.
Leon cursed shakily under his breath when the syringe nearly slipped from his hands again. Tears dripped steadily from his jaw onto your sweatshirt while he fought desperately to steady himself enough to inject the cure properly.
“I’m here now,” he whispered frantically. “I’m here, I’m here.”
The needle finally slid into your arm. Leon pushed the cure into your bloodstream with shaking hands before immediately tossing the syringe aside and pulling you tightly back against his chest. Then came the waiting. And somehow, that terrified him more than the mission ever had.
Leon cradled you against him on the floor beside the couch while panic consumed him piece by piece. His forehead pressed hard against your hair. One trembling hand remained at your throat the entire time, constantly checking your pulse like he was terrified it would disappear if he stopped touching you.
“Please,” he whispered over and over. “Please don’t leave me.”
Minutes dragged by endlessly. Every second felt unbearable. Leon’s entire body shook around you while tears soaked steadily into your hair. He couldn’t stop crying now. Couldn’t stop touching you. Every few seconds, his eyes darted frantically across your face, searching for any sign the cure was working.
The harsh fever heat burning beneath your skin had started easing.
“Oh my God,” he breathed shakily.
Relief hit him so hard it almost resembled pain. His forehead dropped against yours while another broken sob escaped him.
“You’re okay,” he whispered desperately. “You’re okay...”
But he still sounded terrified. Still sounded like someone standing at the edge of losing everything.
Consciousness returned slowly. Painfully. Your body felt impossibly heavy when awareness finally drifted back toward you. Everything hurt. Your chest. Your throat. Your head. But the fever felt different somehow. Cooler. Distant.
For a long moment, all you really registered was warmth surrounding you and something damp against the top of your head. Then you realized someone was shaking.
Leon.
A weak breath caught painfully in your throat. “...Lee?”
The reaction was immediate. He jerked back so fast it was almost violent, both hands flying to your face while pure disbelief shattered openly across his expression. His eyes were bloodshot. Tears still clung heavily to his lashes and streaked down his face unchecked.
For several seconds, he just stared at you like he genuinely couldn’t believe you were awake. Then his face crumpled completely.
“Oh my God,” he choked out.
A sob tore violently from his chest before he pulled you tightly against him again, burying his face against your hair while his entire body shook hard enough for you to feel it.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispered brokenly against the top of your head. “Jesus Christ... I thought I was too late.”
The words settled heavily between you, soft enough that they almost disappeared beneath the distant sounds of traffic outside the apartment windows. Morning light spilled across the bed in warm golden streaks, catching against the tired lines still lingering around Leon’s eyes.
Your chest tightened painfully. Because you remembered pieces of it, too. Not clearly. Fever had swallowed parts of those final hours in a haze of exhaustion and pain, but some things still remained sharp enough to hurt. The crushing loneliness of the apartment after Leon left. The terrifying heaviness settling into your lungs. Sitting on the couch, wrapped in his sweatshirt, while trying desperately to stay awake long enough to hear the door open.
Your throat burned suddenly. “I thought I was gonna die before you got home,” you whispered.
You looked down at the blankets tangled around your legs instead because suddenly meeting his eyes felt impossible. “I remember writing the letter,” you admitted softly. “And I remember thinking...” Your voice wavered slightly. “I kept thinking about you reading it alone.”
Silence filled the room afterward. Not uncomfortable, but heavy with everything both of you had survived.
Leon shifted closer until his forehead rested carefully against yours again. His hand slid instinctively beneath your shirt toward your waist like he needed the reassurance of warmth beneath his fingertips.
“When I walked into that apartment...” His voice roughened abruptly before he forced himself to continue. “Jesus Christ.”
You finally looked up then. Leon stared somewhere past you now, lost briefly inside the memory.
“I really thought you were gone,” he whispered. “I saw you sitting there on the couch and everything just...” His jaw tightened visibly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my life.”
Emotion climbed sharply into your chest. This was Leon Kennedy. The man who survived bioweapons, collapsing cities, and monsters most people couldn’t even imagine. And somehow this had terrified him most.
Your fingers slid gently through his hair while he spoke.
“I remember holding you and thinking I should’ve gotten back faster.” His laugh came out thin and exhausted. “Didn’t matter that I practically killed myself getting that cure. All I could think was that I was too late anyway.”
“You weren’t.”
“I almost was.” Leon swallowed hard before continuing, voice softer now. “Then I felt your pulse.”
Your breath caught slightly. Even now, weeks later, the memory still makes your heart race. Leon’s eyes met yours again, finally, red-rimmed and unbearably vulnerable in the soft morning light.
“I thought I imagined it at first,” he admitted. “My hands were shaking so bad I couldn’t even tell if it was real.”
A weak smile tugged faintly at your mouth despite the ache in your chest. “You dropped the syringe, didn’t you?”
Leon actually looked offended. “Twice.”
That startled a laugh out of you. Real and warm. The sound visibly unraveled something inside him. Leon stared at you, like hearing you laugh still felt miraculous somehow. Then suddenly his expression crumpled all over again.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered shakily.
The rawness in his voice hollowed your chest instantly. You reached for him immediately, both hands sliding against his face while tears burned unexpectedly behind your own eyes now.
“I know,” you whispered back.
Leon leaned into your touch with a tired exhale, eyes closing briefly.
“No, I don’t think you do.” His voice cracked softly. “I was holding you, and you were so cold, and I just kept thinking that I didn’t even get to say goodbye properly.”
Your breath hitched painfully.
“I thought those were the last words you’d ever hear from me.” Leon’s hands tightened slightly around your waist. “That stupid promise at the door.”
I’m coming home to you.
Your chest ached so hard it almost felt unbearable. “You did come home to me,” you whispered.
Leon opened his eyes slowly. For a second, neither of you spoke. Then, with visible effort, he leaned forward and kissed you. Not desperately like before. Not terrified like before he left. Just slow and emotional and impossibly relieved.
His hand slid upward into your hair while he kissed you like someone still thanking God you existed at all. You could feel the lingering tremble in his fingers against your skin. Feel the way he kept pulling you closer unconsciously, like some part of him still hadn’t fully accepted that he didn’t have to grieve you anymore.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours again. “I don’t know what I would've done if you died,” he admitted quietly.
The vulnerability of that confession settled deep in your chest. Leon rarely spoke about his own pain directly. He carried it silently most of the time, burying it beneath missions and sarcasm and exhaustion until it hollowed him out from the inside.
You brushed your thumb softly beneath one of his eyes. “You would’ve survived.”
“Yeah,” he murmured tiredly. “That’s what scares me.”
The confession settled quietly into the room between you. Outside, sunlight continued spilling slowly across the apartment rooftops, warming the windows in pale gold while the city carried on beneath it completely unaware of how close the two of you had come to losing everything.
You stared at Leon for a long moment. At the exhaustion still lingering around his eyes. At the faint tension that never seemed to fully leave his shoulders anymore. At the way his hand remained curled tightly against your waist like some part of him still believed you might disappear if he let go.
Your chest ached softly. “You know,” you said quietly, “I think I understand now.”
Leon frowned slightly. “Understand what?”
“Why you kept trying to save everyone in Raccoon City.”
Something flickered across his expression immediately. Old grief. Old guilt. You felt it before he even spoke.
“Sweetheart...”
“No, I mean it.” Your fingers drifted gently through his hair while you searched for the right words. “When I was sitting there alone after you left...” Your throat tightened slightly. “I kept thinking if I could just hold on a little longer, maybe you wouldn’t have to feel that kind of loss again.”
Leon went completely still. The silence stretched painfully.
Then, finally, almost hoarsely, he said, “You were trying to protect me.”
A weak laugh escaped you. “Guess we’re both kind of stupid, huh?”
“Don’t call yourself stupid for surviving.”
The irony of hearing those words from Leon Kennedy almost made you smile. Almost.
You brushed your thumb carefully beneath his eye. “You should listen to yourself more often.”
That actually pulled the faintest breath of laughter from him. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Probably.”
For a little while, neither of you spoke again. The apartment felt warm now. Peaceful in a way it hadn’t felt for months. No looming dread hanging in every room. No waiting for symptoms to worsen. No counting coughs or hiding bloodstained tissues from each other. Just sunlight. Blankets tangled around your legs. Leon’s heartbeat steady beneath your hand.
Leon noticed your expression changing immediately. “Hey.”
You swallowed hard. “I didn’t think we were gonna get this.”
His face softened instantly. Slowly, Leon shifted closer until he could cup your face gently in both hands. The gesture felt instinctive now. Constant reassurance. Constant grounding.
“Neither did I,” he admitted softly.
Tears blurred your vision before you could stop them. "I love you so much, Leon."
For a second, Leon genuinely looked like he might cry again. Instead, he leaned forward suddenly and buried his face against your shoulder while his arms wrapped tightly around you.
He choked out, "I love you too," while you held him.
You slid your hand gently against the side of his neck, where dark, infected veins had once twisted beneath pale skin. Gone. Completely gone. Leon watched your fingers trace the space softly before catching your hand and pressing a kiss against your palm.
The realization hit suddenly enough to make your eyes burn. You had a future now. A real one. Not borrowed time. Not survival stretched painfully thin between hospital visits and worsening symptoms. An actual future.
"I'm totally retiring after this..." He murmured.
Recovery came slowly after that. Not physically. Physically, the cure worked almost frighteningly fast. The fever vanished first. Then the coughing. Then the deep bone-deep exhaustion both of you had spent years quietly adapting around without even realizing it anymore.
Within days, Leon stopped waking up breathless in the middle of the night. Within weeks, the apartment no longer looked like a hospital room pretending to be a home. The medication bottles disappeared from the counters. Bloodstained tissues stopped overflowing from the trash. Windows stayed open now, letting fresh spring air drift through rooms that had once felt suffocating with fear and waiting. But emotionally? Emotionally, healing proved slower.
“You wanna know something really pathetic?” he asked quietly.
Your mouth curved faintly. “Always.”
“I cried in the grocery store yesterday.”
You blinked. “What?”
Leon looked deeply unimpressed with himself. “You asked me what pasta sauce we needed, and suddenly I realized we were grocery shopping like normal people again.”
A startled laugh escaped you through lingering tears.
“You cried over pasta sauce?”
“In my defense,” Leon muttered, “it was a very emotional pasta aisle.”
That made you laugh harder.
Real laughter this time.
Warm and breathless and alive.
Leon stared at you like the sound alone was enough to keep him breathing. Then softly, almost reverently, “There you are.”
The first warm Saturday after the recovery, Leon burned breakfast. Not badly enough to become a fire hazard. Just badly enough for the smoke detector to start screaming at eight in the morning.
You stumbled into the kitchen still half-asleep, wearing one of his t-shirts and fuzzy socks, while Leon stood beneath the detector, waving a dish towel at it with visible irritation.
“For a government agent,” you said through a yawn, “you’re handling this crisis very poorly.”
Leon pointed the spatula at you immediately. “In my defense, the eggs betrayed me.”
“The eggs betrayed you.”
“Yes.”
You leaned against the doorway, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh, while weak sunlight spilled through the apartment windows behind him. The entire kitchen smelled faintly like burnt butter and coffee. It smelled normal.
That realization still hits you sometimes. Normal used to feel impossible. Now it looked like Leon Kennedy was glaring at a frying pan as if it had personally insulted him. It was going on walks and enjoying the weather. It was watching TV without missing half of it because of a coughing fit. It was having dinner together. It was testing your new stamina... if you know what I mean.
The smoke detector finally went quiet. Leon lowered the towel slowly before narrowing his eyes at the stove. “We’re not telling Claire and Sherry about this.”
That startled a laugh fully out of you. “Oh, absolutely not. I’m telling her immediately.”
“Traitor.”
“You almost burned down the apartment over scrambled eggs.”
“I survived bioterrorism.”
“And lost a fight with breakfast.”
Leon looked deeply offended by that. Then, after a second, “Okay, that’s fair.”
Your laughter filled the apartment warmly while Leon finally smiled too. Not the exhausted, guarded kind of smile he wore for years. Something softer now. Easier. God. You’d missed that smile.
Leon crossed the kitchen toward you then, still barefoot and messy-haired and unfairly handsome for someone holding a spatula. His hands settled automatically at your waist while yours slid up beneath the sleeves of his shirt. No gloves anymore. No blackened veins twisting beneath his skin. Just Leon. Healthy. Alive. The thought still felt surreal enough to ache.
His expression softened immediately when he noticed you staring. “What?”
You shook your head slowly, smiling a little. “Nothing.”
“You got emotional eyes.”
“I do not have emotional eyes.”
“You absolutely do.”
A laugh escaped you quietly before your forehead rested against his chest. Beneath your cheek, his heartbeat sounded steady. Strong. Not strained anymore. Not fragile.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The apartment windows stood open now, letting fresh spring air drift softly through the curtains. Somewhere outside, someone walked a dog down the sidewalk below while distant traffic hummed lazily through the city. Ordinary sounds. Ordinary life.
Leon’s fingers brushed absentmindedly along your spine underneath the shirt while he held you close.
“You know what’s weird?” he murmured softly.
“What?”
“I keep waiting for somebody to call.”
You tilted your head slightly against him. “The government?”
“Yeah.”
You understood immediately. Another mission. Another emergency. Another nightmare waiting to drag him away again.
Leon exhaled quietly through his nose. “Feels strange waking up and not having somewhere to be.”
You looked up at him carefully. “Does it bother you?”
His eyes met yours. Then slowly, Leon shook his head.
“No,” he admitted softly. “I think it scares me more that I like it.”
Emotion tugged gently at your chest.
You reached up, brushing your fingers through the soft blond strands falling into his eyes. “You’re allowed to like having a life, you know.”
Leon’s expression did that thing it always did now whenever you said something too honest, too sudden. Like part of him still didn’t fully know what to do with tenderness that wasn’t immediately followed by loss.
Then quietly, “I know.”
The kitchen timer suddenly beeped loudly behind him. Both of you startled.
Leon turned toward the stove with immediate suspicion. “I swear to God if those eggs are worse somehow—”
You burst out laughing before he even finished the sentence.
And standing there in the middle of a messy kitchen with sunlight warming the apartment around you and Leon grumbling dramatically about breakfast, you realized something softly breathtaking... For the first time since Raccoon City, neither of you were waiting to die anymore. You were just living.
Thanks for reading! My requests are open!
You can read the original story here!
taglist for this fic: @vixxiean, @ur-trash-brock, @holaqhace1
Hello! I recently read your Leon fanfics and you write angst so beautifully, I reread it every time I need some gutwrenching fics. My request would be if Leon has a wife who also got a T-virus strain from raccoon city and Leon tried to bring the cure back not only for Sherry but also his wife but when he came home, she already died. I'd love to think that it's because the reader or his wife is just an ordinary civilian and not as strong as Leon or Sherry, she is just ordinary people like all the five victims found dead beforehand. I imagined the reader was a nurse back in the raccoon city outbreak and even after that she continued working in hospital but that's totally up to you! What I imagine is that the reader just has a normal life and isn't involved in a bioterrorism agency like Leon.
Hi there anon :)
I loved your request. It was almost 10k words, so I made it a standalone fic. Thanks for your patience. <3
Summary: Years after surviving Raccoon City, you and Leon are still living with the infection left behind. When Leon is sent on the mission that could finally cure both him and Sherry, he promises to bring a second dose home for you.
Warnings/tags: RE9 spoilers, major character death, terminal illness, grief/mourning, heavy angst, blood, survivor’s guilt, mentions of infection/virus, no happy ending
Rain dragged itself down the windows of their apartment in crooked trails, blurring the lights outside into watery streaks of gold and red. The city below still moved with the restless pulse of late-night traffic, but inside the apartment, everything felt hushed beneath the soft hum of the television and the occasional rattle of Leon coughing into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The sound came rough and deep from his chest.
From the kitchen counter, you looked up immediately, fingers still curled around the ceramic mug you'd been drying. "You're supposed to be resting," you said quietly, though there wasn't much bite left in the words anymore. Worry had worn itself smooth over the years.
Leon leaned deeper into the couch cushions with his eyes half-closed, one arm draped across his stomach. The veins beneath the skin of his hand curled darkly beneath the lamplight, blackened tributaries crawling over pale flesh before disappearing beneath the cuff of his sleeve. The splotch spreading along the side of his neck looked darker tonight, too, bruised violet against tired skin.
"I am resting," he muttered.
"You fell asleep sitting upright again."
"Occupational hazard."
A soft breath escaped you at that, halfway between amusement and exhaustion. You set the mug aside before crossing the apartment toward him. Even after all these years, Leon still watched you like you were something grounding. Something untouched by all the rot clinging stubbornly to him.
Your fingers brushed carefully against the side of his neck, just beneath the stain spreading there. Leon tried not to flinch beneath your touch.
"Tender?" you asked softly.
"No worse than usual."
That was the lie both of you used now. No worse than usual. It covered everything from sleepless nights to coughing blood to the way Leon occasionally lost his breath climbing the stairs after missions that once wouldn't have even quickened his pulse.
You studied him for another moment before moving toward the medicine cabinet near the kitchen. The apartment smelled faintly of soup and disinfectant, a strange combination that had followed you home from the hospital for years. Leon used to tease you about it back when things felt lighter. Back before every quiet moment carried the weight of wondering how many were left.
Now the smell only reminded him of how exhausted you looked lately. You tried to hide it well. Most days, you still tied your hair back neatly before work. Still ironed your scrubs. Still left sticky notes near the coffeemaker, reminding Leon to eat something green while you worked late shifts. To anyone else, you probably looked fine.
Leon noticed the small things, though, they're not that small. The way you paused before standing too quickly. The faint tremor in your hands when you thought nobody was watching. The shadows beneath your eyes growing darker every week. And the coughing. God, the coughing.
You returned with his medication and a glass of water before settling beside him on the couch. "You missed another dose this morning."
Leon accepted the pills from your hand. "I was busy."
"You were unconscious for fourteen hours."
"Exactly."
You rolled your eyes faintly, though exhaustion softened even that reaction. When Leon swallowed the medication, you rested your head carefully against his shoulder, fitting there like habit. Outside, thunder murmured somewhere far away.
For a little while, neither of you spoke. Leon could feel the warmth of you pressed against his side. Too warm. His jaw tightened.
"You should've called out today," he said eventually.
"And told them what?" you asked softly. "Sorry, I can't come in because my husband and I are both slowly mutating."
A tired sound escaped him that almost resembled a laugh.
"Was it bad today?" he asked after a moment.
You stayed quiet long enough for him to know the answer before you finally spoke. "My hands cramped up during an IV insertion," you admitted. "Mrs. Holloway noticed."
Leon stared ahead at the flickering television screen without really seeing it. "You shouldn't still be working."
"We've had this argument."
"You almost collapsed last week."
"And you came home coughing blood three days ago."
That silenced him immediately. The rain thickened harder against the windows. You shifted slightly beside him, curling your fingers carefully around his infected hand despite the ugly black veins webbing beneath the skin. Leon remembered the first time you'd seen them appear. He'd expected horror. Fear. Distance.
Instead, you'd taken his hand exactly like this and whispered, "Still you." It nearly ruined him then. It still did.
"We're running out of time, aren't we?" he asked quietly.
The question lingered between you like smoke. You didn't answer immediately. Leon knew you were choosing your words carefully, the same way you always did when trying not to hurt him.
"There are people who lasted longer," you said at last.
"That's not what I asked."
Your fingers tightened slightly around his. Leon finally looked at you then, really looked. At exhaustion you couldn't hide anymore. At the faint discoloration creeping beneath the collar of your sweater. At the fragile steadiness, you wore like armor because somebody in the apartment had to stay calm. You gave him a small smile that broke his heart on contact.
"You know what scares me the most?" you asked softly.
Leon frowned. "What?"
"That you keep looking at me like I'm already gone."
The words hollowed something inside his chest.
He turned toward you fully despite the ache pulling through his ribs, one hand rising to cup the side of your face. "Don't," he murmured immediately. "Don't say that."
"But you are."
"I'm trying to fix this."
"I know."
"No," Leon said, more fiercely this time. "I am. I'm close."
Your expression flickered then. Hope and grief colliding in equal measure. You believed him because you loved him, and that somehow made it worse.
Leon rested his forehead carefully against yours, breathing shallowly through the pressure tightening in his lungs. "I'm not losing you to this," he whispered.
"I don't want to lose you either."
Morning arrived gray and slow, the kind that barely deserved to be called morning at all. Rainwater still clung to the fire escape outside the apartment windows, dripping steadily beneath a sky the color of bruised steel. Somewhere below, traffic hissed across wet pavement while distant sirens blurred into the rhythm of the waking city. The television had long since shut itself off overnight, leaving the apartment wrapped in soft silence broken only by the uneven sound of Leon breathing beside you.
You woke first. Not because you were rested, you honestly couldn't remember the last time you'd felt rested. Your body ached before you'd even fully opened your eyes. Heat coiled beneath your skin in restless waves, feverish and familiar, while your joints protested the simple act of shifting beneath the blankets. For a moment, you stayed still, staring hazily at the dim light filtering through the curtains while your heartbeat thudded heavily behind your ribs.
Then Leon coughed. The sound tore violently through the quiet room. You pushed yourself upright immediately, the motion making dizziness swim unpleasantly through your vision. Beside you, Leon sat hunched forward at the edge of the mattress, one hand braced against his chest while the other covered his mouth. His shoulders trembled beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Leon," you said softly, voice still rough with sleep.
He held up a hand without turning toward you, the universal signal for wait. Another cough wracked through him hard enough to make your stomach twist. By the time he finally lowered his hand, there was blood smeared faintly across his knuckles. Your chest tightened painfully.
"Jesus Christ," you whispered, already reaching for the tissues on the nightstand.
"I'm fine."
"You're coughing blood."
"It's not that much."
"That sentence stopped comforting me months ago."
Leon let out a tired breath through his nose as you handed him the tissues. Morning light spilled weakly across the side of his face now, illuminating the darkened veins stretching along his throat and disappearing beneath his collarbone. The discoloration had spread farther during the past few weeks. Neither of you mentioned it anymore.
You sat beside him carefully, one hand resting between his shoulder blades, while the coughing finally subsided into shallow breathing. His skin felt burning hot.
"You should stay home today," you murmured.
Leon gave you a look that could only be described as exhausted disbelief. "You said the exact same thing last night."
"And I meant it last night, too."
"I can't."
"You can barely breathe."
"I've been worse."
You closed your eyes briefly at that. The problem with Leon was that he genuinely meant it. Somewhere along the line, his definition of manageable had become horrifyingly distorted.
When you opened your eyes again, Leon was already trying to stand. The movement almost immediately betrayed him. His breath caught sharply, and he grabbed the edge of the dresser hard enough for his knuckles to whiten beneath the black veining spreading across his skin.
"Leon."
"I'm okay."
"Are you sure?"
"I said I'm okay."
The irritation in his voice wasn't directed at you. You knew that. It came from frustration. From humiliation. From the unbearable reality that his own body was becoming something unreliable. Still, silence settled heavily between you afterward. Leon stared at the floor for several long seconds before finally exhaling shakily and sinking back onto the edge of the bed. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders as he rubbed a hand over his face.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I just hate this."
The honesty in his voice hurt more than the coughing had.
You moved closer until your shoulder brushed his. "I know."
"No, I really hate it." He laughed once under his breath, bitter and tired. "I used to go days without sleeping during missions. Now I get winded walking to the kitchen."
You watched him carefully. Leon rarely spoke about the fear directly. He covered it with sarcasm, deflection, stubbornness, anything that kept the terror from fully surfacing. Seeing it now, raw and exhausted in the dim morning light, made something ache deep inside your chest.
"You're still you," you said softly.
His jaw tightened immediately, "That's part of the problem. I don't think I will be for me much longer."
You looked down at your own hands resting in your lap. The faint tremor had returned sometime during the night. Tiny involuntary movements beneath skin that looked normal enough until someone paid close attention.
At the hospital last week, one of the newer nurses had asked if you were feeling alright after you'd nearly dropped a tray of syringes. You'd smiled. You'd lied. You were getting very good at lying. Leon noticed your hands before you could tuck them away.
His expression shifted instantly. "How long?"
You hated that question because he always sounded so afraid of asking it. "Just this morning," you answered carefully.
"That's not what I asked."
You swallowed. The truth sat heavily behind your teeth. "A few weeks."
Leon went still beside you. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows again.
"You should've told me," he said quietly.
"And what would that have changed?"
His silence answered for him. Everything. It would've changed everything.
Leon leaned forward suddenly, elbows braced against his knees, while one hand pressed hard against his mouth. You could practically see the guilt chewing through him in real time, relentless and familiar.
"This is my fault," he muttered.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. "Don't do that."
"If I'd gotten you out faster that night..."
"Leon."
"If I hadn't left you alone at the hospital..."
"Stop."
His voice roughened sharply. "You got infected because of me."
The words struck the room like shattered glass. Neither of you could move after those words left his mouth. You reached out for him after a moment, sliding your hand carefully against his jaw until he finally looked at you. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, shadows buried heavily beneath them.
"You listened to me very carefully back in Raccoon City," you said softly. "So listen to me now."
Leon's breathing stayed uneven beneath your touch.
"You did not infect me," you continued. "You did not fail me. You did not ruin my life."
His expression cracked slightly at that, pain flickering openly across his face.
"You saved my life," you whispered. "I got years with you that I never should've had."
Leon looked away immediately like the words physically hurt him.
"That's not enough if one of us dies," he says hoarsely.
Your chest tightened. That was the tragedy of loving Leon Kennedy. No matter how much he gave, he still believed he should've found a way to give more.
The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light Leon had forgotten to turn off. A single yellow glow spilled weakly across the counter and into the living room, cutting through the early morning dark in tired slants. The digital clock on the microwave read 2:17 AM in harsh green numbers. Rain had finally stopped sometime during the night, leaving the city outside damp and quiet beneath a low blanket of fog.
You should've been asleep. Instead, you stood barefoot near the hallway entrance with one hand braced against the wall, trying to steady the dizziness rolling unpleasantly beneath your skin. Exhaustion clung heavily to your limbs after another twelve-hour shift at the hospital, but the silence in the apartment had dragged you awake the second you realized Leon wasn't beside you.
At first, you thought he might've gone outside to smoke again. He'd picked the habit back up months ago despite your endless arguments about it. Then you noticed the light, and the sound of paper shifting.
You moved quietly toward the kitchen, the cold hardwood floor creaking faintly beneath your steps. Leon sat hunched at the table still wearing yesterday's clothes, shoulders rigid beneath his gray sweatshirt while files and photographs lay scattered around him in uneven piles.
Medical reports, autopsy images, government seals.
Your stomach tightened immediately. Leon didn't notice you at first. His eyes stayed locked on the papers in front of him, jaw clenched hard enough to twitch beneath the dim light. One hand pressed against his mouth, while the other gripped a photograph so tightly the edges had bent beneath his fingers.
He coughed suddenly, the sound tearing violently through the quiet apartment. Leon turned sharply away from the table, coughing hard into his sleeve while his free hand braced against the countertop nearby. The force of it nearly doubled him over.
"Leon."
He froze instantly. For one terrible second, guilt flashed across his face before he smoothed it away too late for either of you to pretend you hadn't seen it.
"You should be sleeping," he said roughly.
You ignored the comment entirely, eyes drifting instead toward the files spread across the table. Photographs stared back at you. Five different faces. Five different civilians. Every single one labeled deceased.
Cold unease curled through your stomach. "What is this?"
Leon went very still. The silence lasted long enough for dread to start settling into your bones.
Finally, he leaned back in the chair with a slow exhale, exhaustion hollowing out his features. "Cases connected to dormant viral exposure after Raccoon City."
Your pulse thudded unevenly. You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, gaze catching on dates and medical terminology scattered across the reports. Progressive organ failure. Neurological deterioration. Respiratory collapse. One victim had been only thirty-two. Another had survived nearly ten years before symptoms resurfaced.
You felt sick. Leon watched you carefully the entire time, like he was waiting for something to shatter.
"How long have you had these?" you asked quietly.
"A while."
"A while," you repeated softly. "Leon."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't want you seeing them."
"Why?"
The question came out sharper than you intended. Leon pushed a hand through his hair roughly before standing from the table. The motion looked unsteady, exhaustion dragging visibly at his body. He crossed toward the sink and gripped the edge of the counter hard enough for the tendons in his infected hand to stand out beneath the dark veins.
"Because none of them survived," he said flatly.
The walls felt like they were slowly closing in around you. You stared at his back in silence while the refrigerator hummed quietly nearby.
"Were they all infected the same way we were?"
"Similar strain."
"And you've just been reading this alone?"
Leon laughed once under his breath, bitter and exhausted. "What exactly was I supposed to say to you?" he asked. "'Hey, sweetheart, I found six years of autopsy reports proving this thing eventually kills civilians slower than it kills everybody else'?"
"You found five reports."
His shoulders stiffened immediately. The realization hit both of you at the same time. Five victims. You would be the sixth. Leon turned away sharply before you could fully see his expression, but not before grief cracked visibly across his face. That hurt more than the files did.
You crossed the kitchen slowly until you stood a few feet behind him. "Leon."
"I'm figuring it out."
"You don't know that."
"I said I'm figuring it out." His voice came harsher now, fraying at the edges beneath exhaustion and panic.
You watched him brace both hands against the counter, head lowered while his breathing turned uneven again. The dark veins stretching across the back of his hands looked almost black beneath the kitchen light now.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then your eyes drifted back toward the table. Toward the notes. Toward the highlighted sections and handwritten annotations covering nearly every page. Leon had memorized these people. Every symptom. Every timeline. Every death.
Your chest tightened painfully. "You're preparing for me to die," you said softly.
Leon's head snapped upward immediately. "No."
"You are."
"No, I'm not."
"You know all their timelines, Leon."
"Because I need to."
"You know how long they lasted after symptoms progressed."
"I need to know what we're dealing with."
"You organized them by stages."
"Because there's a pattern."
Your voice finally cracked. "Because you're trying to predict when I'll die."
Silence slammed into the room. Leon looked stricken like you'd reached into his chest and dragged something ugly into the light before he could hide it.
"That's not..." He stopped hard, swallowing visibly. "That's not what I'm doing."
"You're trying to figure out how much time we have left together."
His composure finally broke. "I'm trying to keep you alive!"
The words exploded out of him loud enough to echo through the apartment. You flinched slightly. Leon stared at you immediately afterward like he hated himself for it. His breathing turned ragged.
"I can't lose you," he said hoarsely, quieter this time. "I can't sit here and pretend this isn't happening while you get worse every week."
You felt tears burning painfully behind your eyes now. "I know."
"No, you don't." Leon dragged a shaking hand over his face. "You don't know what it's like watching you cough and wondering if that's the moment it starts getting bad. You don't know what it's like hearing you come home exhausted and thinking about those files every time you look tired."
His voice cracked hard on the last sentence. For a second, he looked less like a government agent and more like a man drowning slowly in anticipatory grief.
"You think I'm preparing for you to die?" he whispered. "I'm trying to find the point where I can still save you."
The raw desperation in his voice hollowed something inside your chest. You crossed the remaining distance between you carefully before resting your hands against his face. Leon's skin felt fever-warm beneath your palms. His eyes closed immediately.
"I'm still here," you whispered.
Leon's expression tightened sharply, grief flickering across it so fast it almost looked painful.
"That's what scares me," he admitted quietly. "Because they were too. Until they weren't."
After that night, every day after felt fragile in a way cracked glass still technically holds together until the exact wrong amount of pressure finally splinters in apart.
Gray daylight spilled weakly through the apartment windows while the coffee maker sputtered in the kitchen, filling the air with the bitter smell of burnt grounds. Leon stood at the counter in sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, one hand braced against the edge of the sink while he waited for another coughing fit to pass.
You stood nearby pretending to butter toast while listening carefully to the uneven rasp dragging through his lungs. Every cough sounded painful now. Wet. Heavy. The kind of cough that settled deep in bone and refused to leave.
He finally spit blood into the sink.
You closed your eyes briefly, "Leon."
"I know," he muttered hoarsely.
"You can barely stand."
"I'm standing right now."
"You're leaning like a seventy-year-old chain smoker."
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, though it disappeared quickly beneath exhaustion. He rinsed the sink carefully afterward, watching diluted pink swirl down the drain before gripping the counter again when dizziness hit him too fast.
"Sit down, Lee."
"I'm fine."
"You almost folded in half."
Leon exhaled sharply through his nose before finally relenting, dragging himself toward one of the kitchen chairs with the slow stiffness of someone twice his age. The movement alone seemed to drain him. By the time he sat down, his breathing had already turned shallow again.
You'd watched this man sprint through collapsing streets with barely a second thought for his own survival. Now, climbing out of bed looked like it cost him something.
You slid a plate toward him anyway. "Eat."
Leon looked down at the toast like it had personally offended him. "You made enough for an army."
"You need protein."
"This isn't protein."
"You're lucky I didn't make eggs."
"You almost burned water last week."
"That happened once."
"It absolutely did not happen once."
Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you. Leon's expression softened immediately at the sound. There it is, his eyes seemed to say.
It almost felt normal again. Then your hand started shaking. The knife slipped slightly against the countertop with a sharp metallic scrape. Leon noticed instantly. The warmth vanished from his expression so quickly it physically hurt to watch. You curled your fingers inward automatically, but it was too late.
"How bad?"
You hated how quietly he asked that now. Like every symptom had become another brick added carefully to the wall of terror building inside him.
"It's fine."
"That's not an answer."
You set the knife down carefully before your trembling hand could drop it entirely. "Just tired."
Leon stared at you across the kitchen table. The silence stretched long enough to become unbearable. Finally, he pushed himself upright despite obvious effort and crossed toward you slowly. The dark veins creeping beneath the skin of his arms stood out starkly beneath the weak kitchen light.
"You're pale," he murmured.
"So are you."
"You're shaking."
"You coughed blood into our sink thirty seconds ago."
For one brief moment, frustration flashed across his face before exhaustion swallowed it whole again. Leon rested both hands carefully against the counter on either side of you, head lowering slightly.
"I got a call last night," he said quietly.
Your stomach tightened instantly.
"A mission?"
Leon nodded once.
Something cold slipped beneath your ribs.
He hadn't mentioned work in weeks unless absolutely necessary. The government had already reduced his field involvement after his symptoms worsened, but "reduced" still meant they dragged him back whenever things became dangerous enough.
"When?"
"Tomorrow night."
You looked down immediately. Not because you wanted to avoid his eyes. Because you already knew what his expression would look like. Guilt. Fear. Determination sharp enough to cut himself open on.
"What kind of mission?"
Leon hesitated. That terrified you more than the answer probably would have.
"There's a lab in Raccoon City," he said carefully. "They think they found something."
Your heartbeat stumbled unevenly. "What kind of something?"
Leon's jaw tightened faintly before he answered. "A cure."
"You're really going back there?"
"I have to."
The entire apartment suddenly felt suspended in place around that single word. Cure. Not a treatment, not a symptom management, a real cure.
"You're sure?" you whispered.
"They think so."
That was the dangerous thing about hope after years without it. Even the smallest amount hit like a flood.
"There's a facility connected to the original research," he continued softly. "That's where they're sending me."
Of course they were sending him. Because whenever something impossible needed surviving, the government always handed it to Leon Kennedy like they'd forgotten he was human years ago.
The thought settled heavily into your chest. Leon watched your expression carefully, and suddenly you saw it. Beneath the exhaustion. Beneath the coughing and the dark veins and the constant fear. Hope. Real hope. You hadn't seen it in him for months. Maybe years.
"This could work," he said quietly.
The words sounded almost fragile coming from him. Leon rarely allowed himself optimism anymore unless he absolutely believed it.
You swallowed hard. "For you?"
"For me," he agreed.
Then his eyes met yours.
"And for you."
The ache that followed nearly split your chest open. Because suddenly you could see it happening too. The fever gone. The coughing stopping. Leon finally sleeping through the night without waking breathless and shaking beside you. A future that didn't end in hospital reports and autopsy photos.
Leon stepped closer carefully, one hand brushing against your wrist. "They only confirmed enough doses for Sherry and me," he admitted quietly. "But if this works..."
You frowned slightly. "Leon."
"I'll bring one back for you."
His voice carried absolute certainty. Not hope. Not maybe. Certainty.
Your eyes burned immediately. "You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can."
"You don't even know what you're walking into yet."
"I don't care."
The answer came sharp enough to cut. Leon's fingers tightened slightly around your wrist while exhaustion and desperation flickered openly across his face.
"I don't care what that place looks like," he said roughly. "I don't care how bad it gets. If there's a cure in that facility, I'm bringing one home for you."
The conviction in his voice hurt. Because this wasn't just another mission to him anymore. This was the first time in years Leon genuinely believed he could save someone he loved before it was too late.
You reached up slowly, brushing your fingers against the darkened skin along his neck. "Leon..."
"I mean it." His voice softened then, cracking slightly beneath the weight of everything sitting between you. "When this is over," he murmured, "you're gonna get better."
By the time Leon's departure day arrived, the apartment had settled into the kind of quiet that made every sound feel important. The radiator clicked softly beneath the windows. Rain slid steadily down the glass in silver trails, distorting the city lights outside into blurred streaks of gold and white. Somewhere several floors below, a car horn echoed briefly through the wet streets before disappearing again. Everything beyond the apartment kept moving normally, while inside, time felt painfully suspended.
Leon was in the bedroom packing. Or pretending to. You stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him fold the same black long-sleeved shirt for the third time in less than ten minutes, before setting it back into the duffel bag with visible frustration. His movements lacked their usual sharp efficiency tonight. Exhaustion dragged heavily at him now, dulling the careful precision he normally carried before missions. The veins stretching along the backs of his hands looked darker beneath the lamplight. You hated how often you noticed things like that now.
Leon finally glanced up after sensing you watching him. "What?" he asked quietly.
A faint smile tugged weakly at your mouth despite everything. "You packed that shirt already."
His eyes flickered downward toward the bag before he exhaled softly through his nose. "Right."
The answer sounded distracted. Tired. You crossed the room slowly, your body protesting every step with deep aches spreading through your chest and limbs. The fever simmering beneath your skin hadn't broken in almost two days now. Even walking across the apartment left you slightly breathless, though you'd spent the entire evening pretending otherwise. Leon noticed immediately anyway. He always noticed.
The second you stopped beside him, his expression tightened faintly. "You're overdoing it again."
"I walked across one room."
"You got winded doing it."
You rolled your eyes softly, though the motion lacked any real energy behind it. "You say that like you're not coughing up pieces of your lungs every morning."
"That's different."
"How?"
Leon opened his mouth before immediately seeming to realize he didn't actually have an answer. A tired breath escaped him instead.
You smiled faintly. "Exactly."
For a moment, silence settled between you again. Rain tapped steadily against the windows. Leon looked at you then. Really looked at you. His eyes lingered too long. On the shadows beneath your eyes. On the exhaustion you couldn't fully hide anymore. On the slight tremor in your hands where they rested against the bedroom dresser. Something fragile flickered across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness. He was memorizing you. The realization hollowed your chest.
You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, hands settling carefully against the front of his shirt. Beneath your palms, you could feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing. His lungs had sounded worse all week.
"You're scared," you murmured softly.
Leon laughed once under his breath, tired and humorless. "That obvious?"
"You reorganized your bag four times."
That finally pulled a real smile from him. Small. Exhausted. But real.
God, you loved him. Even now. Even with sickness hollowing both of you out from the inside. Even with fear sitting heavy between every conversation and every quiet glance. You loved him so much that it sometimes physically hurt.
Leon's hands settled carefully at your waist.
"You should rest before I leave," he murmured. "You look exhausted."
"So do you."
"Occupational hazard."
"You already used that line this week." A weak laugh escaped you before fading again almost immediately.
The reality of the evening settled heavily back over the room. Tomorrow, Leon would be gone. Tomorrow, you'd wake up alone in this apartment with your worsening symptoms and too much silence. The thought sat sharply beneath your ribs.
"You know," you said quietly, "I used to hate when you left for missions."
Leon's brow furrowed slightly. "Used to?"
"Well," you murmured, "now I really hate it."
The fragile composure he'd been holding together all evening cracked slightly around the edges. Suddenly, Leon looked less like a broody, hardened man preparing for deployment and more like a man trying very hard not to fall apart in front of the person he loved. He stepped closer until barely any space remained between you.
"I'll come back," he said softly.
You looked up at him carefully.
He believed that.
Not because he thought the mission would be easy. Not because he underestimated whatever nightmare waited for him out there.
Leon believed he'd come back because he'd attached your survival to the outcome.
He wasn't going after a cure for himself anymore.
He was going after you.
Your throat tightened painfully.
"You better," you whispered.
Leon's hands slid upward slowly until they cupped your face with aching gentleness. His palms felt warm despite the infection darkening beneath his skin.
"You wait for me," he murmured.
The words nearly undid you. Not because of what he said. Because of how desperately he said it. Like he was trying to bargain with fate itself.
Your eyes burned sharply. "Leon..."
"I mean it." His forehead rested carefully against yours while his breathing turned shallow again. "You wait for me, and I'll come home with that cure."
Emotion climbed painfully into your throat. You wanted to promise him. God, you wanted to. But deep inside, beneath all the fear and hope and denial, your body already knew something the rest of you was still trying not to face. You were getting worse too quickly.
So instead of answering, you reached for him. Leon kissed you immediately. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just heartbreakingly familiar. One of his hands cradled the side of your face while the other settled against your back, pulling you gently against him like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you. The kiss tasted faintly of coffee and exhaustion and everything that had always been uniquely Leon. You melted into him despite the ache spreading through your chest.
For a few precious seconds, the world outside the apartment disappeared entirely. No infections. No missions. No looming grief waiting just beyond the horizon. Just Leon. Just the steady warmth of his hands and the careful way he kissed you like something precious.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead remained resting against yours. His eyes stayed closed for a moment longer, like he was gathering strength simply from being near you. Slowly, he lifted his head enough to look at you again.
The exhaustion in his face nearly broke your heart open. Dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. The infection staining his neck had spread farther over the past month, curling beneath the pale skin in ugly, blackened veins. Even breathing looked exhausting now.
And still, he was leaving tomorrow to walk directly into another nightmare because somewhere at the end of it waited the possibility of saving you. The realization hurt so badly you could barely breathe around it.
You reached up carefully, brushing trembling fingers against the side of his face. Leon leaned into your touch immediately, like it was instinct.
"I love you," you whispered.
The words filled the room softly. You can see how terrified he is beneath all the determination. His hand covered yours against his cheek.
"I love you too," he said quietly. "More than anything."
Tears burned painfully behind your eyes now. Leon kissed your forehead gently before pulling you into his arms again, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. You could hear the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his chest. Fast. Unsteady. Afraid.
Your arms wrapped around him carefully while exhaustion settled heavier and heavier into your bones. You wondered briefly if he could feel how weak you'd become. If he noticed how hard it had become for you to hold onto him for long periods now. If he realized you were memorizing him, too.
It's rained for a week straight. The night Leon left, it finally stopped...ironic, right?
Clouds still hung low over the city in heavy gray sheets, but weak sunlight filtered through the apartment windows for the first time in days, washing everything in pale gold that made the quiet feel almost unreal. Dust drifted lazily through the light near the couch. Somewhere outside, water dripped steadily from fire escapes and rooftops onto the streets below.
You stood near the kitchen counter wrapped in one of Leon's old sweatshirts while he checked his weapons at the dining table. The sweatshirt smelled like him. Laundry detergent. Cigarettes. Faint traces of gunpowder that never seemed to fully leave his clothes anymore.
You'd stolen it from the bedroom sometime during the night, after another fever woke you, shivering so hard your teeth hurt. Leon noticed immediately when he came out of the shower earlier, but all he'd done was stare at you for a long moment before quietly saying, "Keep it on."
Now he sat across the apartment, slotting magazines into place with practiced movements while tension coiled visibly beneath his skin. His jaw stayed tight. His shoulders tighten. Every few seconds, he looked at you. Checking. Always checking. You pretended not to notice.
The truth was, standing upright already exhausted you. Your chest felt heavy this morning. Breathing took conscious effort in a way it hadn't before. Even the short walk from the bedroom to the kitchen had left your pulse hammering unevenly beneath your ribs.
"You should sit down," he said without looking away from the pistol in his hands.
"I'm fine."
"You almost tripped over absolutely nothing ten minutes ago."
"There was a rug."
"There has been a rug there for three years." A weak laugh escaped you despite yourself.
Leon's expression softened instantly at the sound, and for one brief moment, he looked less exhausted. Less haunted.
God, you wished you could keep him here. The thought arrived suddenly and sharply enough to hurt. You could ask. You knew you could.
If you looked Leon Kennedy in the eyes right now and said don't go, he wouldn't. The government could burn down outside the apartment windows, and he'd still stay beside you.
And that terrified you. Because if he stayed, there would be no cure. Not for him. Not for Sherry. Not for anyone. So instead, you tightened your fingers around the sleeve hanging over your hands and swallowed the fear clawing up your throat.
Leon finally stood from the table, though the movement immediately triggered another coughing fit. He turned away sharply, coughing hard into his fist while his shoulders tensed beneath his jacket.
By the time it stopped, Leon's breathing had gone shallow again.
"Jesus," you whispered softly.
"I'm okay."
Blood spotted faintly across his knuckles. You both saw it. Neither of you acknowledged it. Leon grabbed a rag from the counter and wiped his hand clean before you could move toward him. The dark veins stretching beneath the skin of his wrist looked almost black now, curling beneath pale flesh like fractures spreading through glass.
Then he looked back at you, and immediately frowned. You realized too late that your hand had drifted against the counter to steady yourself.
Leon crossed the apartment instantly. "Hey."
"I'm fine."
"You're pale."
"So are you."
"You're shaking again."
"I've been shaking for weeks, Leon."
Leon stopped directly in front of you, both hands settling carefully at your waist like he was afraid you might collapse if he let go. The awful thing was, you weren't entirely sure you wouldn't.
"You should be in a hospital," he murmured quietly.
You managed a faint smile. "I work in one. Does that count?"
"It's not funny."
"I know."
The apartment fell silent again. Outside, a siren wailed faintly somewhere downtown before fading into the distance. Leon stared at you for several long seconds, and suddenly, you could see it happening in real time. The hesitation. The instinct screaming at him not to leave you like this. Your chest tightened painfully.
So you reached for him first. Your hands slid carefully beneath the collar of his jacket before pulling him closer until his forehead rested against yours. Leon exhaled shakily the second you touched him.
"Go," you whispered softly.
His eyes closed immediately. "You don't mean that."
"You're the only one who might be able to save us... to save Sherry. We need you."
You leaned upward carefully and kissed him. Leon made a soft sound against your mouth that almost broke you apart right there. His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you firmly against his chest while he kissed you back like he was trying to memorize every second of it. Every touch. Every breath. Every tiny detail he could carry with him into whatever nightmare waited ahead.
You could feel how fast his heart was beating beneath his jacket. Afraid. Leon was afraid. Not of the mission. Of losing you.
When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved far apart.
"I'm coming home to you," he whispered against your forehead.
The words lodged painfully beneath your ribs.
You swallowed hard before forcing a small smile. "Then I guess I'll have to wait for you."
Leon looked at you like he wanted to believe that more than anything in the world.
Then his phone vibrated. The sound shattered the moment instantly. Duty. Always duty. Leon closed his eyes briefly before pulling the phone from his pocket. You watched the exact second his expression hardened back into something operational. Controlled. Professional. It hurt watching him put the armor back on.
"They're downstairs," he said quietly.
Your chest constricted. Already? Leon stared at you for another long moment before reaching up to brush his thumb carefully beneath your eye. You hadn't even realized tears had started slipping down your face.
"Hey," he murmured softly.
You laughed weakly through the emotion catching in your throat. "I'm trying really hard not to cry right now."
"You don't have to do that for me."
"Yes, I do." Your voice cracked slightly. "Because if I start, you might not leave."
The honesty of it hit both of you at once. Leon's composure visibly faltered. For one terrible second, you genuinely thought he might stay. Then he cupped your face carefully and kissed you one final time. Slow. Tender. Devastated.
"I love you," he whispered against your lips.
Your throat tightened painfully. "I love you too."
Leon rested his forehead against yours for one last second before finally stepping away. The distance felt immediate. Wrong. You watched him grab his bag from beside the table while every instinct in your body screamed at you to stop him. To tell him not to go. To beg him to stay here, where you could still touch him.
Instead, you stood frozen in the middle of the apartment while Leon reached the front door. His hand settled against the knob. Then he looked back. That was the moment that would haunt him later. You standing there in his sweatshirt with exhausted eyes and trembling hands trying so hard to smile for him despite how sick you looked. Waiting for him. Always waiting for him.
Leon stared for half a heartbeat too long before finally opening the door and disappearing into the hallway. Then the apartment went silent. Completely silent. The emptiness hit instantly. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you.
At first, traces of him still lingered everywhere strongly enough that you could almost pretend he'd only gone downstairs for cigarettes or coffee. His mug still sat beside the sink from that morning, a faint ring of coffee staining the bottom. His jacket remained hooked over the chair near the dining table because he'd changed into tactical gear at the last minute. Even the bathroom mirror still carried the faded ghost of steam from his shower.
But as the days stretched onward, the silence changed shape. It deepened. By evening on the fourth day, the apartment no longer felt temporarily empty. It felt abandoned.
You sat curled beneath a blanket on the couch wearing Leon's sweatshirt while weak blue light from the television flickered across the room. You hadn't actually been watching anything for nearly an hour. The sounds blurred together beneath the pounding in your head and the fever simmering painfully beneath your skin.
Your breathing sounded wrong tonight. Too shallow. Every inhale dragged sharply through your chest like your lungs had become lined with broken glass. You coughed into the blanket again. Blood stained the fabric. For a long moment, you simply stared at it, then quietly folded that section beneath itself so you wouldn't have to keep looking at it.
The rain had only stopped for a few days before it seemed constant again. Tonight was no different. You closed your eyes. Leon was in Racoon City, fighting his way through creatures, trying to find a cure. You wonder if he's thinking of you as much as you're thinking of him... probably.
You imagined him moving through dark hallways with a gun in his hands and exhaustion carved deep into his bones. You imagined the infection tearing through his body harder every time he pushed himself too far. You imagined him fighting anyway because that's what Leon always did. He kept going. EVen when he was breaking apart, especially when something important was on the line.
A shaky breath escaped you before another coughing fit hit hard enough to bend you forward painfully against the couch cushions. This one lasted longer. By the end of it, black spots danced across your vision.
"Jesus Christ," you whispered weakly once it stopped.
Your voice sounded small in the empty apartment. You tried standing and it turned out to be a mistake. Dizziness slammed into you so fast the room tilted violently sideways. Your knees buckled before you even fully understood what was happening, and suddenly you were gripping the edge of the coffee table hard enough your fingers hurt while your pulse thundered wildly beneath your skin.
It took nearly a full minute before the apartment stopped spinning. You stayed crouched there breathing unevenly while fear crawled coldly through your chest. It was getting bad... quickly. Somewhere deep down, beneath all the denial you'd been clinging to for Leon's sake, you finally understood the truth.
You weren't going to make it long enough. There was no dramatics or sudden panic. It was certainty settling softly into your bones. Your eyes burned painfully.
"No..." you whispered immediately.
You forced yourself upright again eventually, moving slowly toward the kitchen for water. Every step exhausted you now. By the time you reached the sink, your breathing had already gone ragged.
The glass slipped from your trembling fingers before you could even fill it properly. It shattered against the floor. The sound rang violently through the apartment. You stared at the broken pieces for several seconds before tears suddenly blurred your vision without warning.
Leon wasn't here. If Leon had been here, he would've immediately crossed the room toward you with that worried crease between his brows. He would've checked your hands for cuts before even looking at the floor. He would've told you to sit down while he cleaned the mess himself. The apartment felt enormous without him. Lonely in a way that physically hurt.
You slid slowly down against the kitchen cabinets before you could stop yourself, exhausted enough that the cold tile beneath you actually felt comforting against your feverish skin. And suddenly, all you wanted was to hear his voice.
Your hand shook badly while pulling your phone from the pocket of the sweatshirt. Three missed calls from Leon. Two unread messages.
Made it to the checkpoint. You awake?
An hour later.
Miss you already. Love you.
Your chest cracked painfully around the words. A sob climbed abruptly into your throat before you swallowed it back down hard. You couldn't do this to him. Not now. Not while he was fighting through hell trying to bring salvation home in his bare hands.
Your gaze drifted slowly toward the kitchen table. Toward the notebook resting beside the fruit bowl. And something inside you quietly gave way. The walk back to the couch took nearly everything you had left.
By the time you lowered yourself carefully onto the cushions again, your entire body trembled with exhaustion. Rain whispered steadily against the windows while the city lights outside blurred softly through the fever haze clouding your vision.
You pulled the notebook into your lap and opened to the first blank page. For several long moments, you just stared at the blank page, tears slipping silently down your face. It's not easy to write a love letter that's also a goodbye letter.
You sat for a long time before slowly, carefully, you began to write.
By the time Leon finally returned, dawn had started bleeding weak gray light across the city skyline. The apartment door unlocked roughly.
"Hey," Leon called breathlessly as he stepped inside. "Hey, sweetheart?"
His voice sounded different. Lighter. Hopeful. For the first time in years. He shut the door quickly behind himself while rainwater dripped steadily from his jacket onto the floorboards. His breathing sounded clearer now. Stronger. The dark veins once curling beneath the skin of his neck had faded significantly.
In his hand, clutched tightly enough to hurt, sat two glasses vials. He'd done it. He'd actually done it.
"I got it," he said breathlessly, already moving further into the apartment. "I got enough for both of you. You should've seen the shit I had to..."
Then he saw you and the words died instantly. Silence crashed through the apartment. Leon stopped moving completely. For one horrible second, his expression didn't change at all. His brain physically could not understand what it was seeing.
You sat curled against the corner of the couch beneath the blanket, still wearing his sweatshirt. One hand rested loosely in your lap. The television cast pale flickering light across your still face. Waiting for him. Just like you promised.
"No," Leon whispered.
The vials slipped from his fingers onto the carpet. He crossed the room instantly.
"Hey," he breathed shakily, dropping hard to his knees beside the couch. "Hey, hey..."
His hands reached for you frantically, cupping your face, your shoulders, anywhere he could touch like enough contact might somehow undo reality itself.
Your skin was cold. Leon made a sound then. A sob, a swallowed scream, something broken.
"No, no, no..." His voice cracked apart violently while he pulled you against his chest. "Please. Please don't do this to me."
His entire body shook around the words. The cure sat forgotten on the floor beside him. Too late. Too fucking late.
Leon pressed his forehead desperately against yours while tears spilled uncontrollably down his face. "I came back," he choked out. "You said you'd wait for me."
His shaking hand brushed against something on the coffee table. Your notebook sat open where you tore the pages out. Leon froze. For several seconds, he simply stared at your handwriting on the folded paper before realizing what it was. Then his breathing broke all over again. His hands trembled violently while opening it.
My dear Leon,
If you're reading this, then you came home. I always believed you would. I'm sorry you had to find me this way, Lee. I need you to know this isn't your fault. You didn't fail me.
You've spent years carrying the weight of Raccoon City. It's carved into your bones, and I know you're already preparing to carry this too. So before anything else, I need you to listen to me one last time.
This isn't your fault. Not the city. Not the infection. Not this.
Loving you is the easiest thing I ever did. Even at the end, especially at the end. I know you probably came home carrying a cure for me. That thought hurts more than dying does. I know you fought for me. I know you pushed yourself too hard trying to reach me in time. I know you probably didn't sleep and ignored every injury because that's who you are.
I want you to know I fought too, I fought so fucking hard to stay awake until you came home. You gave me years I never should've had. After Raccoon City, I thought my life was over. Then somehow, impossibly, I got mornings with you. Movie nights on the couch. Burnt coffee and late-night takeout and listening to you complain every time I made you eat vegetables. I got to love you long enough to call you my husband. How special is that?
When you read this, I need you to do something impossibly hard for me. Live. Really live. Don't just survive missions and carry those ghosts until they bury you.
I need you to sleep in sometimes. I need you to laugh. I need you to stop apologizing for surviving.
Thanks for coming back for me. I loved you until the very end, and wherever I am now, I love you still. Always have and always will.
By the time Leon reached the final line, he could barely see through the force of his own tears. A shattered sound escaped him as he folded forward against your shoulder, clutching the letter so tightly it crumpled in his hands. Then, still sobbing hard enough to shake, Leon pulled you closer against his chest and held you there like love alone might somehow still be enough to keep you warm.
Leon didn't know how long he stayed there holding you. Time stopped making sense almost immediately after he realized you were gone. The apartment had gone completely still around him. Morning light slowly crept across the floorboards in pale gray stripes while rainwater continued dripping softly from the hem of his jacket onto the carpet below. Somewhere nearby, the television kept talking in cheerful voices that sounded grotesque against the sound of Leon trying not to break apart.
Your body rested against his chest beneath the blanket, cold even through the sweatshirt you'd stolen from him days ago. Leon couldn't stop touching you. His hands kept moving without thinking, trembling fingers brushing through your hair, cradling your face, rubbing warmth uselessly back into your hands like if he just tried hard enough, your skin would stop feeling so cold beneath his own.
"I'm here now," he whispered hoarsely.
The words dissolved into another shaky breath. His chest no longer hurt when he breathed. That realization arrived suddenly and violently. Leon froze again.
No pressure in his lungs. No cough clawing up his throat. No burning weakness curling through his ribs every time he inhaled. The infection was gone because he was cured. And somehow that made everything worse. Because now he gets to live his normal life, and you're not here to do it with him. He survived. Sherry would survive. You should have too.
A broken sound escaped him before he folded forward against your shoulder again, clutching you tighter while grief tore violently through him. "No," he choked out. "No, no, no..."
His eyes drifted blindly across the apartment through tears he could no longer control. That was when he started noticing things. The blanket wrapped tightly around you despite how warm the apartment felt. A cup of tea sitting untouched on the coffee table. Tissues overflowing in the trash can beside the couch. Dark red staining several of them.
His stomach twisted violently. "No..."
His gazed landed on the kitchen. Broken glass still littered the floor near the sink. Had you fallen? Had you been too weak to hold up the glass? His breathing turned ragged again quickly.
Leon could suddenly picture it perfectly. Your trembling hands. Your fever. You trying to get water alone because he wasn't here to help you. Because he'd left you here.
His eyes darted frantically around the apartment now like every detail had become another wound opening inside his chest. Your medicine bottles remained untouched on the counter. One of the couch cushions had been dragged slightly crooked, like you'd struggled to get comfortable.
He noticed your phone, still resting beside you beneath the blanket. He grabbed it with shaking hands. It was open on the messages he sent you earlier.
"Oh, God..." His voice broke apart again completely.
You'd read them. You had to have read them. Which meant you'd been alive then. Alive and alone and getting worse while he crawled through hell believing he still had time.
Leon pressed a shaking hand hard over his mouth as sobs tore uncontrollably from his chest now. He buried his face briefly against the top of your head while guilt ripped through him with surgical precision.
"I would've come home," he choked out. "You should've called me. I would've come back."
But even while saying it, he knew you wouldn't have done that to him. Because you knew exactly who he was. You knew if he thought you were dying, he would've abandoned the mission without hesitation. And then nobody would've been saved. Even at the end, you'd still been protecting him.
He reread the letter again. And then again, and again, and again. By the fifth time, the paper had become damp and wrinkled from his shaking hands.
Loving you was the easiest thing I ever did.
Leon squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to ache. "I loved you too," he whispered brokenly into the silence. "Jesus Christ, I loved you so fucking much."
His phone started vibrating somewhere nearby. Leon ignored it. Then it rang again. And again. Eventually, another sound joined it. Knocking. Hard and urgent against the apartment door. Leon barely reacted.
"Leon!" Sherry yelled from outside.
The sound of her voice cut faintly through the fog swallowing him whole. Another knock.
"Leon, open the door!"
He didn't remember standing. He only remembered the unbearable emptiness that hit the second he carefully lowered your body back against the couch cushions. Like some vital piece of himself had physically separated from him the moment he let go.
The walk to the door felt unreal. He opened the door looking less like the government agent he was trained to be and more like the hollow shell of the man he once was.
Sherry's expression changed instantly the second she saw him. Relief vanished when she saw his face. Then confusion washed over. Then fear.
"Leon, what happened? They said you stopped responding after debrief and I..." Her voice trailed off the moment she looked past him into the apartment, where she saw you on the couch, unmoving.
"Oh my god."
Leon couldn't speak. He tried, but nothing came out except a shattered breath. Sherry's eyes immediately filled with tears as she stepped slowly into the apartment. She understood instantly. Of course she did.
She saw the cure vials abandoned on the carpet. She saw your body curled beneath the blanket. She saw the letter crumpled tightly in Leon's shaking hand. And because Sherry Birkin knew grief intimately, she didn't fill the room with useless condolences. Instead, she walked quietly toward Leon and wrapped her arms around him.
"I was too late," he whispered hoarsely.
Sherry held him tighter.
"No," Leon choked out immediately after, like correcting her before she'd even spoken. "I had it. I actually had it."
Sherry started crying then too. Leon pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eyes, but the tears kept coming anyway. Endless. Exhausted. Years of horror finally collapsing inward all at once.
Behind them, the apartment sat painfully unchanged. The television still flickered softly. Rain still tapped against the windows. Your tea still sat untouched on the table. The world kept moving with unbearable indifference.
Hours later, people finally arrived. Voices filled the apartment in low careful murmurs. Medical personnel. Government contacts. Procedures that needed to be preformed. Leon hated every second of it. They spoke too softly around him. Looked at him too carefully.
When they finally approached the couch, Leon's expression hardened instantly.
"No."
One of the responders hesitated gently. "Agent Kennedy..."
"No." His voice cracked sharply. "I'll carry her."
Nobody argued after that. Leon crossed the apartment slowly before kneeling beside the couch one final time. His hands shook while brushing hair carefully back from your face. You looked peaceful. That almost destroyed him all over again.
For one terrible moment, Leon remembered kissing you goodbye in this exact apartment only days earlier. I'm coming home to you. The memory hollowed him out.
"I'm sorry," he whispered shakily.
Then, with unbearable gentleness, Leon slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back before lifting you carefully against his chest. The apartment blurred around him afterward. The elevator. The rain outside. People speaking softly nearby. None of it felt real. The only thing Leon truly registered was how light you felt in his arms. Much too light.
By the time he returned to the apartment alone later that night, silence had fully settled into every room. The couch sat empty now. The blanket folded neatly over one armrest. Your tea cup now in the kitchen. The glass in the trash. Leon stood motionless in the doorway for a long time before slowly crossing the apartment toward the couch. Then he sat down exactly where he'd found you that morning. Your letter, once again, clutched tightly in his hands.
Nearby, the cure that had saved his life rested untouched on the table. Sherry took hers home. And now Leon was alive. Cured. And completely fucking alone.
Thanks for reading! My requests are open! <3 Special thanks to the anon who requested this. I love writing angsty heartbreak like this.
Summary: Bucky Barnes owns a quiet little bookstore in Brooklyn. You own the flower shop next door. Somewhere between shared coffees, rainy afternoons, and flowers appearing between the bookshelves, the two of you fall hopelessly in love.
Warnings/tags: afab reader, fluff, slow burn, mutual pining, meet cute, friends to lovers, idiots in love, soft Bucky, nicknames bookstore boy & flower girl, brooklyn neighbors root for them, weaponized peonies, reader forgets to eat while stressed, no use of y/n 🌷
Bucky notices your hands first... not in a weird way, and certainly not intentionally.
He notices because they move through his bookstore like they belong there, fingertips ghosting over spines with impossible gentleness, like every book on the shelf is something alive. Most customers come into his shop with a purpose. They ask for recommendations, wander toward bestsellers, scroll on their phones while they browse. But you move slowly. Thoughtfully. Like the smell of old paper, coffee, and worn wood means something to you.
And then he notices the rest of you.
The soft knit sweater slipping off one shoulder. The tiny crease between your brows while you read back covers. The tote bag hanging from your wrist with little embroidered flowers stitched across the canvas. You're beautiful in a way that catches him off guard completely. Not loud. Not flashy. Just warm. Like spring sunlight through a window after a brutal New York winter.
Bucky nearly drops the stack of returned books in his hands when you smile at him for the first time.
The bookstore is quiet that afternoon. Rain taps softly against the windows facing the street, blurring the city into watercolor streaks of yellow taxis and umbrellas. Somewhere in the back, an old jazz record crackles low through the speakers.
"Sorry," you say, holding up a novel. "Do you happen to know if this one's any good? Or am I about to emotionally ruin my entire weekend?"
Bucky looks down at the book in your hands. Then back up at you. And promptly forgets how words work. His mouth opens and then loses.
"It's..." He clears his throat. "It's devastating."
Your eyes brighten immediately. "Perfect."
God. Even your laugh is pretty.
He walks around the counter before he can overthink it, taking the book gently from your hands to flip through it. "The ending's worth it, though," he says. "Hurts like hell, but worth it."
"That's the best kind."
"Yeah?"
You nod. "If a book doesn't alter my emotional stability at least a little, what's the point?"
Bucky huffs out a quiet laugh, and something in his chest shifts strangely at how easy this conversation feels. You introduce yourself after that, offering your name with another smile that leaves him feeling vaguely concussed. He repeats it back carefully, like he wants to make sure he says it right.
"I'm Bucky."
"I know," you say casually. "Your store's famous."
His eyebrows lift. "Famous?"
"Well, neighborhood famous." You shrug. "People online keep calling you the grumpy hot bookstore owner."
Bucky stares at you. You stare back for exactly three seconds before dissolving into laughter.
"I'm kidding," you promise. "Mostly."
He rubs a hand down his face while you grin at him over the top of the counter, and for the first time all day, the rain outside doesn't seem so miserable anymore.
By the time you leave, you've bought three books instead of one. Bucky watches through the window as you disappear into the gray blur of the city with your tote bag clutched to your chest. He tells himself he's only watching to make sure you don't get caught in the heavier rain halfway down the block.
That's definitely why. Not because he already misses the sound of your voice in his store.
A few mornings later, Brooklyn wakes up loudly. Delivery trucks rumble through the streets. Steam curls from sewer grates in cold spring air. Somebody nearby is already mentally preparing himself for inventory hell when movement catches his eye.
You... standing right beside the storefront next door. The shop had been empty for weeks. Except now, it's not so empty. Your back is turned toward him while you unlock the door, and Bucky catches sight of painted lettering across the front window that he somehow completely missed before.
Brooklyn Blooms: Florals for every occasion.
Buckets of flowers sit just inside the glass, bursts of color spilling everywhere. Pale pink peonies. Sunflowers. Baby's breath. Wild eucalyptus hanging in bundles from the ceiling. More flowers than he could even name.
You glance over your shoulder at the sound of his keys jingling and smile immediately.
"Bookstore Boy," you greet warmly.
"You own this spot?" he asks, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Proud owner, in fact," you nod at him.
You laugh again, bright and effortless, and he swears the whole block feels warmer because of it.
"Well," you say, pushing your door open with your hip, "looks like we're neighbors."
Neighbors.
The word settles somewhere deep in his chest. He's going to see you more often than he thought. Bucky looks at your shop, then at you standing in the doorway with morning light catching against your hair, and realizes with sudden, horrifying clarity that he is absolutely doomed.
Brooklyn settled into both of them quietly. It wasn't some grand, cinematic sweep where music swelled, and strangers suddenly became inseparable. It happened in pieces each morning. In soft clinks of keys against locks at eight-thirty sharp. In sleepy waves exchanged across neighboring storefronts while the city still yawned itself awake around them.
Bucky found himself noticing your routines before he meant to. The way you always arrived, balancing a coffee tray and your tote bag at the same time, like gravity simply worked differently for you. The way you crouched outside Brooklyn Blooms every morning to rearrange the flower buckets on the sidewalk until they looked "welcoming," whatever that meant. The way you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear while reading delivery invoices with an expression so serious it made him want to laugh. He learned your habits the same way he learned favorite lines from books. Slowly. Accidentally. By paying attention too often.
And somehow, over the span of one week, you became folded into his mornings so naturally it startled him.
"Morning, bookstore boy," you called one Tuesday while drawing little flowers on the chalkboard sign outside your shop.
Bucky unlocked his door beside you, coffee warming his hand against the chilly spring air. "You know I have an actual name."
You looked up immediately, smiling like you'd been waiting for him to say something back. "I know. But bookstore boy is more fun."
"You're annoying."
"And yet you keep talking to me."
Bucky hid the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth by turning toward his door. "Tragic, really."
Your laugh followed him into the bookstore like sunlight.
The thing was, Brooklyn Blooms changed the block.
Before you arrived, the storefront beside his had sat empty for months behind dusty paper-covered windows. Now, color spilled onto the sidewalk every morning. Buckets overflowing with peonies and tulips and hydrangeas stood outside your shop like little declarations of spring. The scent of eucalyptus drifted through the open doorway whenever the weather was warm enough, sneaking next door into Bucky's bookstore until paper and flowers became permanently tangled together in the air. He liked it more than he should've.
By Thursday afternoon, the sky turned strange. Dark clouds rolled low over Brooklyn, swallowing the sunlight until the whole neighborhood looked as if it were dipped in slate-gray watercolor. The wind picked up first, rattling storefront awnings and sending loose petals skittering down the sidewalk.
Bucky noticed the weather absently while shelving returns near the front window. Then he noticed you.
You stood outside Brooklyn Blooms with your arms crossed against the wind, staring down the street with growing concern. A delivery truck had just pulled up to the curb. And then the rain started. Not a gentle spring rain... a straight up downpour.
The sky cracked open so suddenly pedestrians shrieked and scattered beneath awnings. Rain hammered the sidewalks hard enough to bounce. Within seconds the street gleamed silver beneath the storm.
Bucky watched your expression shift from annoyed to horrified as the delivery driver opened the back of the truck to reveal buckets upon buckets of flowers.
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," he heard you groan faintly through the glass.
You rushed forward immediately, trying to drag the first heavy box toward the shop while rain soaked through your sweater in seconds.
Bucky didn't even give it a second thought. He grabbed his jacket and headed your way. Cold rain drenched him instantly. His boots splashed through pooling water as he crossed the sidewalk toward you. You looked up in surprise just as he grabbed the other side of the box in your hands.
For a second, neither of you spoke. Rain streamed from your hair. Your cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, your shirt clinging damply to your skin. Water dripped from your eyelashes while you stared at him like you couldn't quite believe he was there.
"Hi," you said breathlessly.
Bucky tightened his grip on the box. "You looked like you were losing a fight."
Your laugh burst out immediately, bright even beneath the roar of rain. "I was absolutely losing a fight."
Together, you hauled the flowers inside. The storm turned the next fifteen minutes into complete chaos. Buckets crowded the floor. Wet cardboard piled near the counter. Rainwater streaked across the hardwood while both of you rushed back and forth between the truck and the shop, soaked to the bone by the time the last delivery made it safely inside.
By the end of it, Brooklyn Blooms smelled overwhelmingly alive. Fresh roses. Wet soil. Lilies. Rain.
Bucky stood near the doorway, catching his breath while water dripped from the ends of his hair onto the floorboards. You looked equally wrecked. And somehow even prettier than the first day he met you.
Your sleeves were pushed up to your elbows now, damp curls sticking to your cheeks while you surveyed the flower-filled disaster around the shop.
Your eyes landed on Bucky and softened.
"You ran into a thunderstorm for me," you said quietly, like you were still trying to process it.
Bucky shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing. "Couldn't let the flowers die."
"That's very heroic of you."
"I'm basically a firefighter."
You laughed again. God, he was starting to think he'd do almost anything to hear that sound.
"C'mere," you said suddenly.
Bucky blinked.
You disappeared into the back room for a moment before returning with a towel in your hands. "You're dripping all over my floor."
"Sorry."
"You should be." You stepped closer without hesitation, lifting the towel toward his head.
Bucky froze.
Not visibly, maybe. But internally, something in him stalled completely as you gently rubbed the towel through his soaked hair. The gesture was so casual. So soft. Like taking care of him was the most natural thing in the world.
"There," you murmured. "Slightly less drowned."
Bucky looked down at you standing barely a foot away from him among buckets of roses and peonies and wildflowers while rain battered the windows outside.
Something warm unfurled low in his chest. Dangerous territory.
He cleared his throat roughly and glanced toward the nearest flower bucket. "So," he said. "Which one of these dies the fastest? I need to know what not to touch."
You grinned immediately, mercifully letting him recover. "You know nothing about flowers, do you?"
"Not a damn thing."
"Cute."
Bucky nearly choked on air. You either didn't notice or pretended not to.
The storm stretched through the evening, trapping both of you inside Brooklyn Blooms long after the delivery was unpacked. Eventually, the frantic energy faded into something quieter.
You made tea in the tiny back room while Bucky sat perched awkwardly on a stool behind the counter, surrounded by flowers in every direction. The hanging lights above the shop cast everything gold and honey-soft against the storm-dark windows.
"You know," you said while setting a mug in front of him, "you look weirdly intimidating holding a cup with tiny flowers on it."
Bucky looked down at the ceramic mug covered in painted daisies. "Feels threatening."
"I'm terrified."
He huffed out a laugh into his tea.
For a little while, neither of you spoke. And somehow the silence felt easy. Bucky realized then that he couldn't remember the last time being around someone felt this uncomplicated. No expectations. No noise. Just you across from him in your flower shop while rain tapped softly against the windows.
When the storm finally weakened into drizzle, the clock had already crept past closing time.
Bucky stood reluctantly near the door, tugging his jacket back on.
"Thanks again," you said softly. "For helping."
"Anytime." And he meant it instantly.
You glanced around the shop before suddenly reaching into a nearby bucket. "Wait."
Bucky watched you pull out a single pale pink peony, still slightly damp from the rainstorm.
You held it toward him. "A bookstore shouldn't be without flowers."
Bucky took the flower carefully from your hand, absurdly aware of your fingers brushing his for half a second.
"Goodnight, bookstore boy," you teased gently.
He looked down at the peony in his large hand, then back at you, standing warm and glowing beneath the hanging lights of Brooklyn Blooms.
"Goodnight, flower girl," he said quietly.
A full grin broke out on your face as he turned to leave. When he crossed back into his bookstore next door, he carried the flower as if it were something precious enough to break.
It rained for a few days in a row, so business was slow for both of you. Brooklyn smelled like spring after the storms. The sidewalks still held traces of rain in the cracks, darkened pavement glistening beneath the pale morning sun, while steam curled lazily from nearby subway grates. Someone down the block had music playing through an open café window. Delivery trucks rumbled past in slow fits. The neighborhood was waking up after the clouds had gone away.
Bucky unlocked the bookstore with coffee in one hand and sleep still clinging stubbornly to his shoulders. The bell above the door jingled softly as he stepped inside, and he immediately stopped.
It smelled different. It looked different. The familiar scent of old paper and cedar shelves lingered beneath something fresh and green. Floral. Clean in a way the bookstore had never been before. Tiny arrangements tucked carefully throughout the shop like little secrets. A vase of pale yellow daisies sat near the register. Sprigs of eucalyptus had been woven around the front display table beside stacks of hardcovers. Baby's breath rested between shelves in little glass jars no bigger than coffee mugs.
Bucky stared. Slowly, his eyes narrowed.
Next door, Brooklyn Blooms was just opening for the morning. And through the shop window, he could see you crouched beside flower buckets on the sidewalk, trying unsuccessfully to hide your smile.
Unbelievable.
The bell above the bookstore door jingled again twenty minutes later. You walked in carrying coffee and looking very pleased with yourself.
"Morning, bookstore boy."
Bucky crossed his arms behind the counter. "You break into my store, flower girl?"
You blink at him innocently. "Break in is such an ugly phrase."
"You had unauthorized floral access to my property," he responds.
"You gave me a key."
"I didn't expect you to use it for botanical warfare."
Your laugh rang through the bookstore instantly, bright enough to pull a reluctant smile at the corner of Bucky's mouth despite himself.
"I was helping," you defended, setting his coffee down on the counter. "Your shop looked emotionally unavailable."
"It's a bookstore."
"It looked like it listened to sad jazz on purpose."
"It does listen to sad jazz on purpose."
"Exactly my point."
Bucky shook his head while you wandered deeper into the store like you belonged there already. You moved naturally through the aisles now, fingertips grazing familiar shelves while morning sunlight spilled gold across the hardwood floors around you. Your tote bag bumped lightly against your hip as you browsed, pausing every few minutes to tilt your head thoughtfully at a title.
Bucky found himself watching you more often than he meant to. Actually, scratch that. Constantly. It was distracting.
"You're staring again," you said casually from halfway across the store.
Bucky nearly choked on his coffee. "I wasn't staring."
"Mhm."
"You're very smug for someone trespassing before business hours."
You grinned over your shoulder at him, and Bucky suddenly understood why people wrote poetry. Unfortunately.
The flowers became a thing after that. Every morning, Bucky would find something new somewhere in the bookstore. Tiny white carnations near the classics section. Lavender tucked beside the register. Once, an entire little arrangement of wildflowers sitting beside his coffee machine in the back room. And every single time, he pretended to be annoyed about it while secretly protecting those flowers with his life.
"You know those have to be watered, right?" you asked one afternoon while leaning against the counter.
Bucky looked offended. "I know how plants work."
"You absolutely do not."
"I've kept all of them alive."
"You almost killed the hydrangeas yesterday."
"They're dramatic."
"They were thirsty."
"Same thing."
Your laughter came easier around him now. So did his.
Somewhere between rainy afternoons and shared coffees and flowers appearing in his bookstore overnight, the space between your shops had started shrinking. The neighborhood noticed before either of you did. Mrs. Alvarez from the bakery next door leaned across Bucky's counter one morning while buying her usual mystery novels.
"That sweet girl from the flower shop has you smiling," she informed him bluntly.
Bucky nearly dropped the book he was holding. "I smile."
"Not before her." She patted his cheek like she'd solved him completely and walked out.
Things only got worse from there. The café on the corner started handing Bucky two coffees automatically every morning.
"You waiting for your florist today?" the barista asked with a grin one Thursday.
"She's not my florist."
"Sure, man."
Meanwhile, customers inside Brooklyn Blooms had apparently started asking questions, too.
A woman buying tulips glanced between you and the bookstore next door before smiling knowingly. "The handsome man at the bookshop your boyfriend?"
You nearly stabbed yourself with floral scissors. "Nope," you answered far too quickly.
Unfortunately, Bucky chose that exact moment to walk into the shop carrying a stack of mail. The woman's smile widened immediately.
"Oh," she said. "Definitely not your boyfriend."
Your face burned.
Bucky looked between both of you suspiciously. "Why do I feel like I walked into something?"
"Nothing!" you rushed the word out.
"Feels aggressive for nothing."
The customer looked delighted by your suffering.
By late afternoon, Brooklyn Blooms glowed warm beneath hanging lights while golden sunset spilled through the front windows. The shop smelled overwhelmingly like roses and fresh greenery. Soft indie music hummed quietly overhead while you stood behind the worktable assembling bouquets with practiced hands.
Bucky lingered nearby, pretending to organize a display of candles he had absolutely no reason to be touching.
"You know," you said without looking up, "most people buy flowers before hanging around a flower shop this much."
Bucky leaned against the counter. "Maybe I'm here for the free entertainment."
"You watching me process inventory?"
"You threaten hydrangeas in a very compelling way."
You laughed softly, shaking your head. Then, without warning, Bucky stepped closer behind you to reach for the scissors resting near your elbow. The movement brought him close enough that the sleeve of his jacket brushed your lower back.
The air shifted in a way you fully expected. You caught the scent of cedar and coffee and old paper clinging to him from the bookstore next door. Bucky suddenly became aware of the warmth of your shoulder, inches from his chest, the faint floral perfume wrapped around you like spring itself.
Neither of you moved immediately.
Then Bucky cleared his throat roughly and lifted the scissors. "Weapon acquired."
Your heartbeat stumbled annoyingly hard.
"Cool," you said weakly.
By closing time, the neighborhood had settled into evening calm. Storefront lights glowed amber against deepening blue skies while pedestrians drifted home carrying grocery bags and takeout containers. Somewhere farther down the block, someone laughed loudly enough for it to echo between buildings. Bucky locked the bookstore door later than usual that night after getting caught reorganizing shelves for nearly an hour.
The street outside had mostly emptied by then. As he shoved his keys into his jacket pocket, he looked into your shop window, just to see what you were up to. What he saw was a very asleep you. The lights inside your shop still glowed softly over scattered paperwork and half-finished floral arrangements. You sat slumped behind the counter with your cheek resting against folded arms, completely passed out beside an open inventory binder.
A tiny crease pinched between Bucky's brows immediately. You'd skipped lunch earlier. Again.
Muttering under his breath, he crossed the quiet sidewalk toward your shop. The door was unlocked. Girl...
The soft bell jingled faintly overhead as he stepped inside. Flowers perfumed the air around him while warm light spilled across the hardwood floors. You didn't stir. Bucky glanced around the shop before quietly flipping the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED. Then he disappeared briefly down the block.
When he returned ten minutes later, he had a paper takeout bag from the little deli on the corner. Carefully, he set it beside your sleeping form on the counter. For a second, he just stood there looking at you. At the way your hair had fallen across your cheek. At the exhaustion written softly into your sleeping expression. Something in his chest tightened unexpectedly.
Before he could think too hard about it, Bucky grabbed a pen from beside the register and scribbled across a receipt.
Eat something, flower girl.
He placed the note on top of the bag, then he quietly walked back out into the Brooklyn night before you could wake up and catch him caring too much.
Friday mornings in Brooklyn can be chaos. Very alive chaos. The sidewalks outside the bookstore were flooded with people before nine in the morning. Couples walking dogs, morning coffee runs, someone nearby playing music loud enough to echo between buildings. Doors are swinging endlessly open and shut beneath the rush of weekend customers.
Next to the bookstore, Brooklyn Blooms looked like it had exploded. Flowers crowded every available surface. Buckets overflowed onto the sidewalk beneath the striped awning outside your shop. White roses, pale blush peonies, delicate renunculuses, and full-bodied hydrangeas were carefully bundled beside ribbons and greenery spilling across a worktable near the back.
Bucky stood in the doorway of his bookstore with coffee in hand, watching you move frantically around the shop before he'd even technically opened for the day. Your storefront sat only a few feet away from his, but he could almost hear your voice through the open shop door when the street noise quieted.
You were already stressed, and he could tell immediately. Your hair was clipped up messily, though strands had escaped hours ago and curled around your face while you worked. Your apron had splotches of wetness and dirt on the front. A pencil was tucked behind your ear while you balanced a phone between your shoulder and your cheek.
“Yes, I understand the ceremony starts at four tomorrow,” you were saying patiently into the phone while trimming stems one-handed. “No, I absolutely did not forget the sweetheart table arrangements.”
There was a pause where your expression flattened. “No, ma’am, I do not think white roses symbolize bad luck.”
Bucky snorted into his coffee. You looked up to see him, standing in the shop doorway, and mouthed help me at him dramatically through the open doorway. Bucky only grinned before turning to open the bookstore.
By eleven, the entire building smelled like coffee and flowers. The wedding order had apparently consumed your whole life. Bucky learned this because you kept appearing in his bookstore throughout the morning, looking vaguely unhinged.
"Do you have tape?"
"Yes."
"Scissors?"
“You stole mine yesterday.”
“Rude. Do you have more?”
“You’re terrifying under pressure, flower girl.”
You pointed at him threateningly before hurrying back next door into Brooklyn Blooms again.
The thing was, Bucky liked watching you work. Maybe too much. Every time business slowed in the bookstore, his attention drifted instinctively toward the neighboring shop. Toward you, weaving between flower buckets with focused determination. Toward your hands, carefully tying satin ribbon around bouquets. Toward the concentrated little crease between your brows while you worked through invoices spread across the counter. You moved beautifully when you were busy. Quickly and gracefully. Every motion already existed in your body before you made it.
Around two in the afternoon, Bucky wandered next door carrying coffee and found you sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the counter, surrounded by flowers and ribbon scraps. You looked exhausted.
“Alive?” he asked.
“Debatable.”
Bucky handed you the coffee. Your fingers brushed his briefly as you took it, warm from handling floral buckets all morning.
“Thanks,” you murmured before immediately taking a desperate sip.
Bucky leaned against the counter nearby, eyes drifting around the shop.
The wedding order was enormous.
Half-finished centerpieces crowded every table. White roses rested in neat piles beside overflowing greenery. Soft instrumental music floated through the overhead speakers while sunlight streamed through the front windows, turning the whole flower shop gold.
“She looked relaxed, too.” You stared into your coffee bitterly. “Like she had peace.”
Bucky only laughed softly, and just like that, your shoulders loosened a little. That was becoming his favorite thing, watching stress leave your face around him.
By late afternoon, Brooklyn Blooms had turned warm and dreamy beneath hanging lights while evening settled slowly over the neighborhood outside. The bookstore had quieted too. Most of the foot traffic disappeared as dinner hour approached, leaving the block calmer than it had been all day. The sky outside glowed dusky blue beyond the windows while storefront lights flickered on one by one down the street.
Bucky locked up the bookstore around seven. Your lights are still on next door. He stepped out of the bookstore and crossed the few feet between your neighboring storefronts before pushing open the door to Brooklyn Blooms. The soft bell chimed gently overhead.
You didn’t notice him at first. You sat on the hardwood floor near the back worktable, surrounded by bouquet boxes and paperwork, one knee pulled against your chest while you tied ribbon around another arrangement with exhausted concentration.
For a second, Bucky just watched you. The shop looked softer at night. More intimate somehow. Golden light spilled low across the floorboards. Flowers cast long shadows against the walls. Outside, Brooklyn moved more quietly now beneath glowing streetlights and passing headlights. Inside, it felt tucked away from the rest of the world.
Your eyes lifted eventually. The second you saw him, your whole expression changed. Your body relaxed a little, and so did your mind.
“Store closed already?” you asked softly.
“Yeah.”
You nodded absently before returning to the ribbon in your hands.
Bucky frowned slightly. “You still working?”
A long sigh escaped you. “Unless one of these bouquets magically finishes itself.”
He looked around the shop at the mountains of flowers, at the exhaustion written all over your face, at the half-eaten pack of crackers abandoned beside your invoices. Then he looks back at you.
“C’mon.”
You blinked up at him. “What?”
“You’re done for tonight.”
“I literally am not.”
“You are now.”
“Bucky.”
“You haven’t eaten real food all day.”
“I had half a muffin.”
“That’s not food.”
“It had blueberries.”
Bucky crouched down in front of you before you could keep arguing. Close enough now that you could smell cedar and coffee clinging to his jacket from next door.
“Flower girl,” he said more quietly this time, “the flowers will still be here in an hour.”
Your breath caught a little at the softness in his voice. You looked down at the ribbon still tangled loosely between your fingers before finally mumbling, “I still need to finish the bridal bouquets.”
“Tomorrow.”
“The wedding’s tomorrow.”
“Then future-you can deal with it.”
You laughed tiredly despite yourself.
“There she is,” Bucky murmured.
Your chest squeezed unexpectedly. Before you could process that too deeply, Bucky reached forward and gently tugged the ribbon from your hands. Then he stood and held a hand toward you.
“Dinner,” he said simply.
You stared up at him. At the roughness of his larger hand, waiting patiently for yours, at the way he looked so certain you’d follow him, and maybe the dangerous thing wasn’t that you wanted to. Maybe it was how safe it felt to.
Slowly, you placed your hand in his. Bucky's fingers closed warmly around yours as he pulled you to your feet. Neither of you let go immediately after.
The tiny Italian restaurant sat three blocks away, tucked between a laundromat and an old tailor shop with faded green awnings. It was warm inside and crowded. The air smelled of garlic, wine, and fresh bread while soft Sinatra crackled through the overhead speakers. Candlelight flickered across dark wood tables packed close enough together that conversations blurred warmly into one another.
Bucky looked unfairly handsome there. You noticed that almost immediately. The low lighting softened the sharp edges of him while warmth colored his features in amber gold. His sleeves were rolled slightly up his forearms now, exposing strong hands wrapped loosely around a wine glass while he watched you across the table with quiet attention. He looked comfortable, relaxed in a way you rarely saw during busy workdays.
“This place is nice,” you said softly while tearing apart a piece of bread.
Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “Been coming here forever.”
“You know everybody in Brooklyn?”
“Most people know me.”
“You’re like a cryptid neighborhood uncle.”
Bucky nearly choked on his drink, laughing. “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Your laughter spilled between you easily now.
The evening stretched slowly after that. It was comfortable. The conversation wandered everywhere. You learned that Bucky grew up only a few neighborhoods away from the bookstore. He inherited the shop from an older family friend who retired years ago. He liked old records because they sounded “warmer” than digital music. That he secretly loved terrible black-and-white monster movies despite pretending otherwise.
And Bucky learned things, too. You moved to Brooklyn three years ago because Manhattan felt too loud. Those flowers reminded you of your grandmother’s garden growing up. That you talked with your hands when you got excited. Your smile changed completely when you laughed for real.
At some point, the waitress refilled your wine glasses and smiled knowingly at both of you.
“You two are cute,” she said casually before walking away.
Neither of you spoke. Bucky looked away from her and rubbed the back of his neck. You stared very hard at your plate. You mumbled a quick thank you as she turned to walk away. Your knee brushed his beneath the small table a few seconds later.
Outside, Brooklyn had settled fully into the night by the time you finally left the restaurant. The air felt cooler now. Soft. Streetlights reflected gold against damp sidewalks while the city hummed low and distant around you. Most storefronts had already gone dark for the evening, leaving pockets of warm light glowing across the neighborhood.
You walked beside Bucky slowly. Not because either of you needed to. Because neither of you seemed ready for the night to end yet. Your shoulders bumped occasionally along narrower stretches of sidewalk. Sometimes his hand brushed yours for half a second before pulling away again. Every tiny accidental touch felt enormous now.
When your storefronts finally came into view down the block, both of you slowed instinctively. Brooklyn Blooms glowed softly beside the bookstore beneath the apartment windows above. Bucky’s shop sat dark except for the warm lamp he always left burning near the front window overnight.
You stopped beneath the awning stretching across both storefronts. Neither of you spoke immediately. The city moved quietly around you while distant music drifted faintly through the street somewhere nearby.
You smiled at him softly. "Thanks for dinner, bookstore boy."
Bucky looked at you for a long second, like he was seeing something new.
"Anytime, flower girl," he said quietly.
Eventually, you glanced upward toward the apartment above Brooklyn Blooms before taking a small step backward.
“I should probably finish those bouquets,” you admitted reluctantly.
“Probably.”
“But I’m significantly less miserable now.”
“That’s my specialty.”
Your eyes drifted toward Bucky beside you, and your chest tightened a little at the sight of him standing there beneath the warm streetlight glow. His jacket hung open slightly from the walk back. His hands rested in his pockets like he was trying very hard to seem calmer than he actually was. But something about him felt different now.
Bucky looked down the street briefly before exhaling softly through his nose.
“So,” he started roughly.
You smiled a little. “So?”
His jaw shifted like he was reconsidering whatever he’d been about to say. “I've been thinking about what that waitress said.”
Your heartbeat stumbled immediately. “Oh?”
Bucky rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly looking deeply uncomfortable in a way you’d never really seen before. Not guarded, but very nervous.
“She said we looked cute together,” he muttered.
Warmth flooded your face instantly. “She did say that.”
“Yeah.”
Silence settled briefly between you again while distant traffic hummed somewhere farther down the block.
Bucky’s gaze dropped toward the sidewalk before lifting back to yours. “And I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I guess it got stuck in my head.”
Something soft opened painfully in your chest. The city suddenly felt very far away. Bucky shifted closer slightly beneath the awning, close enough now that you could smell traces of cedar and wine and old paper lingering on him from the bookstore.
“I just...” He paused, visibly searching for the right words. “These last few months with you next door...” A quiet laugh escaped him, almost disbelieving. “You kinda became my favorite part of the day.”
Your eyes widened when he finished his sentence, and Bucky... well, Bucky looked terrified after saying it.
“You come into the bookstore, and suddenly it doesn’t feel so empty anymore,” he continued softly. “And I keep finding reasons to walk next door even when I don’t need anything.” His mouth tugged into the faintest self-conscious smile. “Pretty sure everybody on this block figured it out before I did.”
Your eyes burned unexpectedly, because god... You'd been feeling it too. Every morning waiting for his bookstore lights to turn on beside yours. Every coffee shared between customers. Every flower he carefully kept alive like it mattered. Every moment he lingered in Brooklyn Blooms just to stand near you.
You stepped closer to him. "Bucky," you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours immediately, hopeful in the smallest, most fragile way.
"I like you too," you admitted softly.
The tension in his shoulders loosened so fast it almost hurt to see.
“No,” you corrected gently, smiling despite the way your heart pounded. “Actually, I think I’ve been a little in love with you for a while now.”
Bucky stared at you, completely still. Like the words had knocked the air from his lungs. Then he laughed quietly under his breath, almost overwhelmed by it.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmured.
“What?”
“You can’t just say things like that to me, flower girl.”
Your smile widened helplessly. The look on his face right then nearly ruined you. Soft and warm, like he was seeing something precious.
Slowly, carefully, Bucky lifted one hand toward your face, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't. His knuckles brushed your cheek so gently it made your chest ache.
"You sure?" he asked quietly.
And there he is... Bucky Barnes beneath all the gruffness and teasing and quiet staring. Careful with you, gentle.
You leaned into his touch slightly. "So sure."
Something tender cracked open in his expression. Then Bucky kissed you. Softly at first, tentatively. Like he was still half-convinced you might disappear if he moved too quickly. But the second your hand slid into the front of his jacket, and you kissed him back, something warm and relieved left him in a quiet breath against your mouth. It deepened slowly after that. Totally unhurried. His hand settled gently against your jaw while yours curled against his chest, feeling the steady, rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.
The kiss felt exactly like the last few months have felt with him. Warm coffee. Soft music through the walls. Rain against the flower shop windows. The faint smell of dirt and florals. The musky, cedar scent of the bookstore. Home.
When you finally pulled apart, neither of you had moved very far. Bucky rested his forehead lightly against yours, eyes closed briefly like he needed a second to recover.
“Well,” he murmured softly.
You laughed breathlessly. “Well?”
“Think the neighborhood’s gonna be unbearable about this.”
You grinned. “Mrs. Alvarez is going to throw rice at us.”
“Barista’s never letting me live it down.”
Your fingers brushed lightly along the front of his jacket. “You seem pretty okay with that suddenly.”
Bucky opened his eyes then. And the look there nearly stole your breath all over again.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really am.”
Above you, apartment windows glowed warmly over Brooklyn Blooms and the bookstore while Brooklyn hummed softly into the night around you. And beneath the shared awning between your neighboring shops, Bucky kissed you again like he’d been wanting to for months.
All Chalky Rainbow Dividers used are made by @uzmacchiato, and you can find them here! Thank you <3
Thanks for reading! A reminder that my requests are open! <3
Hellooooo I love all your works they make my day and I love how you write requests. Would you be able to write one with re2 Leon x singer reader where his other fellow officers at RPD go out to celebrate some event at a fancy bar and while they’re all chatting Leon notices reader who is singing a swoon-worthy love song while looking right at him and his brain just short-circuits? Idk that’s just my vision anyways keep doing what you’re doing I love your writing sm
Love Song for a Rookie
This bar isn't Leon's scene. It's too polished. Everything gleamed like it had something to prove. Crystal glasses catching warm golden light. A piano resting in the corner like it knew the secrets of everyone in the place. Even the air smelled expensive, all oak and citrus and something faintly floral that didn't belong anywhere near a police officer's paycheck. And here he is anyway...
"Relax, rookie," one of the officers clapped him on the back, already halfway through his drink.
Leon huffed, tugging at the collar of his shirt. It felt tighter than usual. Or maybe that was just him.
"Just not used to places like this," he admitted.
"Get used to it, we're celebrating."
Celebrating what, exactly, had already blurred somewhere between paperwork, survival, and the general miracle of making it through another week at the RPD. Someone had picked this place. Someone with taste. Or money. Probably both.
Leon leaned back slightly in his chair, letting the noise of conversation wash over him. Glass clinks. Low laughter. The hum of a city that didn't know how close it always felt to something going wrong.
The lights dimmed, and the room shifted, attention turning without needing to be told where to go. The stage lit up. Leon didn't think much of it at first. Just another performance, probably. Background music for people who cared way more about their drinks than the singer.
He reached for his glass when the first note hit. It wasn't loud; it didn't need to be. It slipped into the room like it belonged there. Smooth and warm. A voice that didn't push for attention, didn't demand eyes, but somehow took it anyway.
Leon froze. His fingers hovered around the glass, forgotten. There was something about it that stopped him. Something that made the rest of the room feel distant. Like everything else had been turned down just a fraction too low.
He looked up, and he saw you. Standing beneath the soft glow of the stage lights, microphone in hand, like this was the most natural place in the world for you to be. Like you weren't quietly undoing him one note at a time.
Your voice carried something dangerous in a way that felt personal. The kind of song that sounded like it had been written in the margins of someone's heart. Slow, aching, threaded with something that made his chest tighten before he even realized why.
Your eyes scanned the crowd as you sang until they landed on him. You were directly looking at him. Leon's brain short-circuits so fast that it almost impressed him. His posture snapped upright. Then awkwardly stiff. Then, it somehow got worse as he tried to correct it. His hand finally grabbed the glass, except now he had no idea what to do with it, so he just held it there like a prop in a play he hadn't rehearsed for.
Don't stare, Leon. He stared. It wasn't even intentional. It was like his focus had been hijacked. Locked in place. Your voice dipped into a softer note, something that felt like it brushed against his ribs from the inside, and his entire sense of self-preservation just folded.
You were still looking at him. There were dozens of people in the bar, and yet it felt like the song had narrowed to one point. One line drawn straight from you to him, like he'd been picked out of the crowd and quietly, devastatingly chosen.
Leon swallowed hard.
"Hey," one of the officers nudged him, voice low and amused. "You good, Kennedy?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't, really.
The lyrics shifted right after. Something about longing, about finding someone in a room you weren't expecting, about the quiet kind of hope that sneaks up on you when you're not ready.
And if that wasn't bad enough, Leon thought, you smiled. Softly, like the song meant something, like he might mean something.
His brain officially gave up. If there had been a coherent thought in there, it had packed its bags and left a minute ago. All that remained was one, single, echoing realization:
Oh. I'm in trouble.
The song carried on, wrapping around him like it had nowhere else to go. And he didn't look away once.
─────────── ✦ ───────────
Leon didn't move. Not when the song ended. Not when the last note melted into the soft hush that followed. Not even when the room erupted into applause, loud and warm and very real. He stayed exactly as he was, glass in hand, eyes still locked on the stage like something might break if he blinked.
You gave a small bow. Graceful and effortless. And then you looked at him again. Just for a second. Just long enough to ruin him a little more.
When you stepped back, disappearing behind the curtain, Leon blinked hard. His brain had just been dropped back into his body without warning.
"Wow."
Leon flinched when he heard it. One of the officers leaned across the table, grinning like he'd just witnessed something deeply entertaining. "You just got sniped, Kennedy."
"I did not—" Leon stopped, because arguing required confidence he absolutely did not have right now. Not with his new coworkers, and definitely not after the performance he just witnessed. "She was just performing."
"Yeah," another one chimed in. "For you!"
A couple of them laughed. Not mean. Not harsh. The kind of laughter that settles into a moment and makes it stick.
Leon dragged a hand down his face. "There were other people in the room."
"Point to one she was looking at."
Leon opened his mouth and then closed it.
"...that's not the point."
"Oh, it's exactly the point," someone said, raising their glass like they were toasting his downfall. "Rookie walked into a bar and got serenaded. You're living in a movie right now."
Leon groaned quietly, sinking back into his chair. "You're all insufferable."
"And you're blushing."
"I am not."
"You are."
"I am not," he repeated, which only made it worse.
Another officer leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to share classified information. "So what's the plan?"
Leon frowned. "Plan?"
"Yeah. You gonna go talk to her, or are you gonna sit here and write poetry about it later?"
"I'm not writing—" He cut himself off again, because that sounded dangerously possible right now, and he didn't like it.
"I don't even know her," he said instead, quieter this time.
"Great place to start," came the immediate reply.
Leon stared at the table for a second, thumb tapping absently against his glass. His mind replayed the moment over and over again, like it had gotten stuck on a loop. The way you looked at him. The way your voice dipped on certain words, like they had weight you wanted him to feel. That smile. It didn't feel like nothing. It didn't feel like something he could just laugh off, either.
He exhaled slowly. "Maybe she does that with everyone."
"Sure," someone said, way too casually. "And maybe you're just naturally that charming."
More laughter. Leon tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling for a second like he was asking it for strength. It did not answer. When he looked forward again, he noticed movement near the bar.
You. Offstage now. No spotlight, no distance. Just there. Talking briefly to someone behind the counter, brushing a loose strand of hair back as if you hadn't just rearranged his entire internal structure five minutes ago.
You looked different up close. Softer, somehow. Real in a way that hit harder than the performance. Elegant in your dress, Leon's pulse picked up again. Traitor.
"Hey," one of the officers said, following his gaze. "Target reacquired."
"I hate all of you," Leon muttered.
"No, you don't. You love us. Especially when we're right."
Another nudge. "Go on, Romeo. Before someone else beats you to it."
That did something to him. His eyes flicked back to you, just in time to see someone else approach the bar beside you, leaning in, talking.
Something sharp and unfamiliar twisted low in his chest. He straightened before he could overthink it. The chair scraped lightly against the floor as he stood. The table went quiet for half a second.
"Oh, he's moving."
"Ladies and gentlemen, it's happening."
"Don't mess it up, Kennedy."
Leon didn't look back. If he did, he'd sit right back down and pretend this entire night never happened. Instead, he adjusted his jacket as if that might somehow make him better prepared for this, then started toward the bar. Each step felt louder than it should. More deliberate. Like the room had narrowed again, but this time it was him walking into it instead of being caught in it.
By the time he reached you, the other person at your side had already drifted away, leaving a small, perfect opening he wasn't entirely convinced he deserved. He hesitated for a second.
"Hey."
Smooth. Incredible. No notes.
Leon almost winced at himself, but it was too late now. You turned toward him. Up close, it was worse. Or better.
Definitely worse. Your eyes found his immediately, recognition flickering there like you'd been expecting him, or maybe just not surprised to see him at all.
That same softness returned, quieter now without the stage lights. "Hi," you said.
Your voice— God. Even speaking, it carried that same warmth. Like it knew exactly how to settle into a space and make itself at home.
Leon forgot what he was going to say. Completely.
He blinked, once, like maybe the words would fall back into place if he gave them a second. They didn't.
"I—uh—" Great start. Phenomenal. "That was... really good."
He internally applauded himself for that absolute masterpiece of a sentence.
You smiled again. You didn't laugh at or make fun of him like his colleagues did. You were just as warm as you seemed on stage.
"Thank you," you said softly.
There was a small pause. It wasn't uncomfortable; it seemed more like waiting. Like the moment had room to become something, if he didn't fumble it into oblivion.
Leon cleared his throat, trying again. "I mean, it was more than good. It was—" he stopped, searching, then gave up on finding the perfect word. "—I liked it. A lot."
Nailed it.
Your smile grew just a fraction.
"I'm glad," you said, and there was something in it. Something that lingered just a second longer than necessary. "I was hoping you would."
Leon's brain stalled. Again.
"...you were?"
"Mm," you hummed lightly, glancing down at your glass before looking back at him. "Kind of hard not to notice you."
Suddenly, the world had narrowed again, but this time it felt different. Like the two of you were standing just slightly outside of everything else.
"I didn't think I was being that obvious," he admitted.
"You weren't," you said. "At first."
A tiny tilt of your head. Playful. Curious. "Then you forgot how to blink."
Leon let out a short, embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. That sounds about right."
Another small pause. Softer this time. Something settling between you.
"I'm Leon," he said, a little more grounded now, like he was finally catching his footing.
You told him your name. He repeated it once, like he was testing how it felt. It fit so easily in his mind, coming out of his mouth.
"Well," you said gently, "Leon... do you always stare at strangers while they're working, or am I just special?"
Your playful edge made him like you even more.
Leon huffed out a quiet breath, a hint of a smile finally breaking through. "I think you might be special."
Your eyes flickered with something warmer at that. "Good answer."
From behind him, a very poorly concealed oooooh.
Leon closed his eyes briefly. "Please ignore them," he said. "They're enjoying this way too much."
"I noticed," you said, amused.
Then you leaned just slightly closer, lowering your voice like you were letting him in on something.
"For what it's worth," you murmured, "I didn't mind the staring. I think you're quite cute."
Leon's heartbeat forgot its rhythm entirely. He's already in deeper than he meant to be.
─────────── ✦ ───────────
Leon wasn't entirely sure how it all happened. One second, he was standing at the bar trying to keep his thoughts from tangling into knots, and the next...
"Do you wanna sit?"
The words left his mouth before he could overthink them. Brave and reckless. Maybe even life-altering.
Your eyes lit just a touch, like you'd been waiting for him to ask. "I'd like that."
And just like that, the world shifted. The table you found wasn't far, tucked just enough away from the main crowd to feel like its own little pocket of quiet. The music from the stage carried softly through the air now, someone else performing, but it felt distant. Background noise to something that had suddenly become much more important.
Leon pulled out the chair for you without thinking. It earned him a small smile that landed somewhere directly in his chest. Dangerous place to aim.
Once you were both seated, there was that brief moment. The one where things could turn awkward if handled wrong. It didn't.
"So," you said, resting your chin lightly in your hand, studying him with an ease that should've been illegal. "Officer."
Leon blinked. "Am I that obvious?"
"A little," you teased. "You've got that... I'm-always-aware-of-the-exits thing going on."
He huffed out a quiet laugh. "Occupational hazard."
"I like it," you said simply.
That affected him way more than it should have after just meeting you for the first time.
"And you?" he asked, leaning forward just slightly, drawn in without realizing it. "Do you always make eye contact like that during your sets, or was that—"
"—just for you?"
There it was again. That soft, deliberate boldness.
Leon's mouth curved despite himself. "I was going to say 'part of the act,' but... sure."
You smiled, a little slower this time. "It wasn't part of the act."
There was no teasing in that. Just quiet honesty. Leon felt something settle and spark all at once.
"Good," he said, before he could second-guess it.
Your conversation unfolded like it had been waiting to happen. Easy, at first. Names, small details, the surface-level things people use to test the water. But it didn't stay there. Not with you. Not with him.
Somewhere between your second drink and a story that had you laughing so hard you had to look away for a second, something shifted. The space between you felt smaller. Not physically. Just softer. Like the air itself had decided to lean in.
Leon found himself watching how your expressions changed as you talked. The way your voice dipped when you got a little more serious, then lifted again like you couldn't stay there too long.
You noticed things about him, too.
"Okay," you said at one point, narrowing your eyes playfully. "You deflect."
"I do not deflect."
"You do," you insisted, pointing at him like you'd caught him in a lie. "Every time I ask you something even slightly personal, you pivot."
"That's not—" He paused. Considered. "...okay, maybe a little."
"A lot."
He smiled, a little sheepish. "Comes with the job."
"Then I'll earn it," you said. "One answer at a time."
Leon stilled for a second. There it was again. That feeling. You weren't trying to break through his walls. Just patiently waiting at the door, knowing he might open it on his own.
"Alright," he said quietly. "That seems fair."
Time slipped. Drinks were replaced. Music changed. The crowd shifted, thinned, reshaped.
At some point, you reached across the table to emphasize a point, your fingers brushing his hand, and neither of you pulled away right away. It wasn't dramatic or rushed. Just a small, lingering contact that said more than either of you had out loud.
Leon's thumb shifted slightly under your fingers, like he was testing the moment. You didn't move. A quiet kind of electricity settled in. The kind that didn't need sparks, just presence.
Eventually, the night began to wind down. The lights brightened just a fraction. Conversations softened, people drifting toward exits in loose clusters. Leon almost didn't notice at first until you glanced toward the door, then back at him.
"I should probably head out, I think they're closing soon," you said gently.
There was a flicker of something there. Reluctance, maybe. And Leon felt it too.
"Yeah," he said, though it didn't sound like agreement.
You stood together, the moment stretching just a little longer than necessary, like neither of you was quite ready to let it end.
"Walk me out?" you suggest, a slight twinkle in your eye.
"Of course."
The night air hit different. Cooler and quieter. The kind of calm that settles over the city when most of it has decided to rest. You walked side by side, not too close, not too far. That same careful, unspoken rhythm you'd found inside continued out here under dim streetlights.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Not because there wasn't anything to say, but because it didn't feel necessary. Your car came into view sooner than Leon would've liked. Of course it did. Moments like this never stretched as long as they should.
You turned to face him once you reached it, leaning lightly against the door, looking up at him with that same steady gaze that had undone him hours ago.
"Thank you," you said. "For not just staring all night."
Leon huffed a quiet laugh. "I can't promise that didn't happen a little."
"A little," you echoed, amused.
There was a small pause where you just looked at each other.
"I had a really good time, Leon," you said.
"I did, too," he replied, and there wasn't an ounce of hesitation in it.
There was a pull there. Subtle, but unmistakable. The kind that makes you wonder, just for a second, what would happen if you leaned in a little closer. Leon didn't.
"Can I—" he started, then reset slightly, more certain this time. "Can I get your number?"
Your smile answered before your words did. "I was hoping you'd ask."
You traded phones, fingers brushing again in that now-familiar way that felt anything but accidental. He typed his name into yours, and you did the same. Simple... and somehow not.
"There," you said softly, handing his phone back.
Leon glanced down at it for half a second, like it had suddenly become the most valuable thing he owned.
"I'll call you," he said.
"I'll be waiting," you replied.
That did something warm in his chest. You opened your car door, then paused, looking back at him one more time.
"Goodnight, Leon."
"Goodnight."
You slipped into the car, and just like that, the night ended.
But not really. Because as Leon stood there, watching your tailights fade into the distance, one thought settled in, steady and certain... This wasn't a one-time thing. Not even close.
Thanks for reading! Just a reminder, my requests are open!
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You’re writing is impeccable! I really enjoy reading your work. I was wondering if you’d be interested in writing something about Leon being a dad? Maybe he was out on a mission, he comes home to you and you have a surprise for him? I’m not to sure what direction you would take but I’d love something of that nature.
Thanks for taking the time to read this :)
Three Heartbeats
The apartment is quiet in that soft, humming way that only happens at night, when the world seems to exhale and settle into itself. A lamp glows warm in the corner, casting honey-colored light across the living room, catching on the edge of a half-folded blanket and the tiny socks you still can’t quite believe belong here. You pause for a second, fingers brushing over the fabric, grounding yourself in the reality of it all. It still feels a little like holding sunlight in your hands. Real, but fragile. Impossible, but yours.
The lock clicks, and your heart stutters. You don’t rush to the door. You thought you might, rehearsed it even, but your feet stay rooted as the handle turns and the door creaks open. Leon steps inside like a ghost that learned how to breathe again, shoulders tense, eyes scanning out of instinct before they soften the moment they land on you.
"Hey," he says, voice low, worn around the edges.
There’s something in it tonight. Something heavier than usual.
You smile anyway, gentle and steady. “Hey. You’re home.”
He drops his bag with a dull thud, running a hand through his hair as he exhales, long and tired. “Yeah. Mission ran longer than expected. You okay?”
“Everything’s good,” you say, softer now. “Come sit with me for a minute?”
He studies you for half a second, like he’s picking up on something just slightly different in the air, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Leon crosses the room and sinks onto the couch with a quiet groan, elbows resting on his knees as he drags a hand over his face. Up close, you can see the fatigue etched into him, the way it clings like a shadow he can’t quite outrun.
“You look like hell,” you murmur, settling beside him.
“Feel worse,” he replies, but there’s a faint hint of humor in it. His hand finds yours without thinking, fingers threading together like it’s instinct. “Missed you.”
“I missed you, too.”
For a moment, you just sit there, hands intertwined, the quiet stretching comfortably between you. Your heart is beating a little faster now, anticipation bubbling under your ribs like something bright and nervous all at once.
“I, um...” you start, then stop, pressing your lips together.
Leon tilts his head, watching you. “That serious, huh?”
You let out a small breath, then reach over to the coffee table, picking up the small box you’d set there earlier. It’s simple. Wrapped neatly, a soft ribbon tied around it.
His brow furrows immediately. “You got me a present?”
“Sort of,” you say, placing it gently in his hands. “Just open it.”
He glances between you and the box, suspicion flickering across his face. “Last time you said that, I ended up assembling furniture for three hours.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “I promise, no tools required.”
He pulls at the ribbon, loosening it with careful fingers. The paper crinkles softly as he unwraps it, revealing the small box underneath. He hesitates for just a second, then flips the lid open. Tissue paper.
He gives you a look. “You’re really building suspense here.”
“Keep going.”
Leon exhales through his nose, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he peels back the layers. Then he stops completely.
The air around you shifts. His fingers hover for a second before he slowly reaches in, pulling out the tiny onesie first. Soft fabric unfolds in his hands, small enough that it barely seems real, the words printed across the front clear and impossible to ignore.
Baby Kennedy.
He stares at it. Then, almost like he's afraid to, he reaches back into the box and finds the other piece. The pregnancy test rests in his palm, quiet and definitive and life-altering in the simplest way possible.
Silence settles thick and fragile.
"Is this..." His voice falters, like the words don't quite know how to exist yet. He looks up at you, eyes searching yours. "Is this real?"
Your chest tightens, but you nod, a soft smile breaking through. "Yeah, it's real."
For a moment, he just looks at you. Then back at the test. Then to the onesie. Like he's trying to anchor himself to something solid in the middle of a moment that's just tilted is entire world on its axis.
"You're... pregnant?" he asks, quieter now.
"Yes, Leon."
Leon lets out a slow breath, almost like it’s been knocked out of him. He leans back into the couch, one hand dragging down his face as the other still holds the tiny onesie, crumpled slightly in his grip.
“...Wow.”
It’s not polished. It’s not some perfect reaction. It’s real.
You shift a little closer, your hand resting gently on his arm. “I found out a couple weeks ago. I wanted to wait until you were home.”
He nods faintly, still staring down at what he's holding. His thumb brushes over the fabric, slow and careful, like it might disappear if he moves too fast.
“A baby,” he murmurs.
There’s something in his voice now. Something softer than you’ve ever heard from him before. Something almost disbelieving, but not in a way that rejects it. In a way that’s trying to understand how something like this could possibly belong to him.
You reach for his hand, guiding it gently toward you, pressing his palm lightly against your stomach. It's still early. There's nothing to feel yet. But it means everything anyway.
Leon’s breath catches, just barely. His hand stills there, fingers splaying slightly like he’s grounding himself in the reality of it.
“I...” He exhales, shaking his head faintly. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” you whisper.
He lets out a quiet, almost breathless laugh. “That’s a dangerous level of freedom to give me.”
You smile. “I trust you.”
That earns you a glance, something soft flickering in his eyes before his gaze drifts back down, his hand still resting where you placed it.
“I’m going to be someone’s dad,” he says, more to himself than anything.
“You sure are.”
"We're going to be parents..."
Then, slowly, he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, both hands now holding that tiny onesie like it’s the most important thing he’s ever touched.
“I don’t...” He swallows, jaw tightening slightly. “I don’t exactly have a great track record with normal life.”
Your heart aches a little at that, but your voice stays steady. “Good thing this isn’t about being perfect.”
He glances at you. “Yeah?”
“It’s about showing up,” you say softly. “And you always do.”
You can tell it lands somewhere deep in him. You can see it. He exhales slowly, then nods once, like he's making a decision he doesn't fully understand yet but is already committed to.
"Okay," he murmurs.
Then he looks at you again, really looks this time, something warmer settling into his expression.
"We're having a baby."
You smile, your eyes a little brighter now. "We are."
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head like the reality of it is still catching up to him. Then, after a second, he leans in, pressing his forehead lightly against yours.
“...You know I’m going to be overprotective, right?”
You laugh softly. “Leon.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
“I’m also going to buy way too much stuff,” he adds.
“That I believe.”
“And I’m definitely teaching them how to—”
“Walk,” you cut in, smiling.
He pauses, then sighs, resigned but amused. “Walking first.”
Your fingers lace with his again, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles like he’s grounding himself in you now, in this, in everything that’s just changed.
“We’re really doing this,” he says quietly.
You smile, giving him a soft kiss. "We're doing this together."
His hand drifts back down, covering yours where it rests against your stomach, holding it there like it already belongs to all three of you. And this time, when the quiet settles in around you, it doesn’t feel like waiting. It feels like the beginning of something that’s finally, undeniably, here.
Credit and thanks to @uzmacchiato for the dividers!
Idk if you want to go with the title "in another life"
You have had a huge crush on Leon since police academy. You both been through Raccoon City's outbreak and now mission.
However, your stars are not aline with his. You were about to confess to him, but you found out that he is now married to Ada.
Maybe in another life, we will be together💔
P.S. You can also do a small part of your next life where you and Leon are together :)
In Another Life
The first time you saw Leon S. Kennedy, he was late in that very human, very forgivable way that made him stand out more than if he’d been perfect. Not the kind of late that drew reprimands or attention from superiors, just enough to slip into formation with a quiet apology already sitting on his lips, his fingers tugging his uniform into place like he was trying to catch up to a version of himself that had arrived on time. There was something disarming about the way he smiled when he realized people noticed, like he had already decided to own the mistake instead of defend it. You remember watching him longer than you meant to, thinking that he didn’t quite move like everyone else. Not clumsy, not careless, just… a little off rhythm, like the world’s tempo didn’t quite fit him. You didn’t know it then, but that was the first thread, the one that would quietly unravel everything else.
The police academy had a way of sanding people down, stripping away softness until all that remained was discipline and endurance, but somehow, with Leon around, it never felt entirely harsh. The days were long, the drills repetitive, the expectations relentless, yet there was always something lighter woven through it when he was near. He matched your pace on runs without making a show of it, falling into step like it was the most natural thing in the world, sometimes nudging you forward with a quiet “don’t slow down now” that sounded more encouraging than competitive. Training exercises became something almost playful between you, small rivalries blooming in the margins of seriousness, where a raised eyebrow or a half-smirk could turn a routine drill into something charged with energy. You started to anticipate him without realizing it, to notice the way your day shifted slightly depending on whether he was close by or across the field. The feeling didn’t arrive all at once. It didn’t strike like lightning or declare itself boldly. It crept in, patient and persistent, wrapping itself around your thoughts until it felt less like something new and more like something that had always been there, waiting for you to recognize it.
You never said anything. There was always time, you told yourself. Right up until there isn't.
The night of the Raccoon City outbreak didn’t just steal time, it devoured it whole, leaving nothing behind but fragments and instinct and the raw, desperate need to survive. The world you thought you understood cracked open in a way that no training could have prepared you for, turning streets into battlegrounds and familiar faces into something unrecognizable. You remember the sounds first, how they layered over each other until silence became impossible. Sirens, distant and constant. Gunfire, sharp and immediate. The low, wrong noises that followed, the ones you tried not to think about too closely. And through all of it, there was Leon, moving beside you, sometimes ahead of you, sometimes behind, but never gone. You lost so much that night, pieces of yourself you didn’t even realize you were leaving behind, but you didn’t lose him. There was a moment, buried somewhere in the chaos, when you saw him stumble, when your heart stopped in your chest because for one breath, one terrible second, you thought that was it. That was where the story ended for him. For you. And in that suspended instant, everything clarified with a brutal kind of honesty.
That's when you knew. Not in some cinematic flash, not in a grand, swelling realization. It was a quiet, steady certainty in the middle of horror. If you made it out alive, you'd tell him. But survival has a cruel sense of humor. It gives you just enough to hope with, then twists the ending.
You both made it out. Not untouched, mentally and physically exhausted, but breathing. And then the missions came. And somehow that made it harder. Because life didn’t slow down after that, it didn’t grant you the stillness you thought you’d earned. It shifted instead, pulling you both into something larger, something heavier, where missions replaced routine, and distance replaced familiarity. You still saw him, still found yourselves in the same rooms, the same briefings, the same narrow escapes, but it was different now. There was a gravity to everything, an unspoken understanding of what you had been through and what it had cost. You stayed close, but not quite close enough. There was always something just slightly in the way. Timing, circumstance, the constant motion of a life that never seemed to pause long enough for something as fragile as a confession. And yet, the feeling remained, steady and unwavering, like a quiet pulse beneath everything else. You started to recognize the almost-moments, the ones where the air shifted, where it felt like if you just leaned a little further into the space between you, something might finally give. A look held too long. A conversation that lingered past its natural end. The way he said your name sometimes, softer than necessary, like it carried more weight than the situation required.
You almost did. God... you almost did. It should have been simple. It was supposed to be simple. A conversation, maybe after a mission, when things were quiet for once. You had the words lined up in your head like fragile glass, careful and honest and long overdue.
And then, when you finally decided you would, when you gathered every fragile piece of courage you had been saving and shaped it into something solid enough to speak, the world shifted again, but this time it did it quietly, almost politely, like it didn’t want to make a scene out of what it was about to take from you.
You didn’t hear it from him.
You heard it from someone else, tossed into conversation with the kind of casual ease that only comes from not understanding the impact of what you’re saying. Leon got married. The words landed softly, almost gently, and for a moment, they didn’t settle into anything real. They hovered, weightless, like they were waiting for permission to mean something. You remember smiling, or trying to, because your body hadn’t caught up with your mind yet, because there was a part of you that still believed this was some kind of misunderstanding. And then the name followed, and that fragile illusion shattered in the quietest way possible. Ada Wong. Of course, it was her. It had always been her, in ways you didn’t fully understand but had always sensed, like a shadow at the edge of something you couldn’t quite step into. She was everything you weren’t in this story. Untouchable. Complicated. A question that never needed a clear answer to keep existing.
And yet... it was true. You didn't confront him. You didn't ask questions. What would you even say? Hey, I've been in love with you since we were kids pretending to be heroes, and I just found out I'm too late?
So you swallowed it. Like you had swallowed every almost, every hesitation, every moment where fear won over courage. You didn’t trust your voice to hold steady if you tried. Instead, you folded the words you had been carrying so carefully and tucked them away somewhere deep, somewhere safe, somewhere they wouldn’t slip out when you weren’t ready. You told yourself it didn’t change anything fundamental, that the bond you shared, the history, the understanding, all of that still existed. And it did. That was the cruelest part. Nothing broke. Nothing ended. The world didn’t give you the clean cut you might have needed to move on. It just continued.
You still saw him. He still smiled at you the same way, still asked if you were alright after missions, still stood close enough that you could feel the warmth of him without ever quite touching. Sometimes, there were moments where it felt like nothing had changed at all, where the space between you still hummed with everything unsaid. And in those moments, you felt that quiet, persistent ache, not sharp enough to knock the breath out of you, but constant enough that you couldn’t ignore it. You wondered, not in a way that built hope, but in a way that traced the outline of what might have been. If you had spoken sooner. If the world hadn’t fallen apart when it did. If timing had been just a little kinder, just a little less precise in its cruelty.
But life doesn’t bend for what-ifs. It keeps moving, steady and indifferent, carrying you forward whether you’re ready or not.
The last time you saw him, it wasn’t dramatic. There’s no looming danger, no urgency to heighten the moment into something unforgettable. It’s quiet, almost ordinary, which somehow makes it feel heavier. He thanks you, and there’s sincerity in it, something deep and unguarded that settles into your chest in a way you wish it wouldn’t. You want to respond, to say something meaningful, something that matches the weight of everything you’ve shared, but your voice doesn’t cooperate. It stays locked somewhere behind everything you’ve chosen not to say. You watch him hesitate, just briefly, like there’s something on the edge of his thoughts that he hasn’t decided whether to give voice to. And for a heartbeat, the world narrows to that space between you, to that familiar, aching almost. It passes because, of course, it does. It always does.
You smile, because that’s what you’ve learned to do, because it’s easier to let the moment slip away gently than to grab hold of it and risk everything unraveling. “I’m glad you’re happy, Leon.” The words come out steady, softer than you expect, but honest. Painfully, undeniably honest.
And you are. That’s the truth you can’t escape, the one that sits at the center of everything else. You wanted him to be happy, long before you understood what that would cost you.
Later, when the world has quieted again, and you’re left alone with the echoes of everything you didn’t say, the words finally surface. Not for him. Never for him. Just for the empty space beside you, for the version of the story that never got the chance to exist.
“Maybe in another life...”
You let the sentence trail off, unfinished, because you don’t need to complete it to understand what it means. Somewhere, in a world untouched by everything that broke this one, maybe you didn’t wait. Maybe he didn’t either. Maybe the timing aligned just enough to turn all those almosts into something real, something solid, something yours.
Here, though, it remains what it has always been. A quiet, enduring kind of love. The kind that doesn’t ask to be returned to exist. The kind that may never go away.
Credit & thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics for the divider!
