tags: f! reader, non-famous! reader, established relationship, joostie’s finally on a break from tour and they’re really making the most of it, we should all aspire to love and to be loved like them, just pure nauseating fluff, all characters are dutch and speak in dutch but dialogue is written in english for obvious reasons.
warnings: rpf.
word count: 1,134.
notes: this is merely the equivalent of posting one of your drafts on tiktok purely just for the sake of it. i’m still very painfully stuck in this hole of not writing, but i really wanted to get something out and posted for you lot, so pretty please enjoy this incredibly brief drabble that i once wrote for @minuutvanverval <3
you don’t mind the quiet so much anymore.
it used to leave your head spinning; bits and pieces, different fragments, old, faint bad memories all seeping in through the cracks because there were no more distractions left behind to stop them. sometimes even the thought of it, being left alone to rot in silence so loud that you’d hear nothing but the ringing in your ears, it used to make your skin crawl. made it easier to chase after the noise that you so deeply craved for years upon years of your life, actually.
that’s what made it all so easy with joost. with him it was always just go go go — never stopping, never slowing down, hardly even sleeping half of the time. and for months at the start, he’d been so kind about it, reminding you almost daily that if it ever got too much for you, if you ever needed a break from it all or even just from him, then he’d understand. a different country every other day, always scheming over something, it would be a lot for anyone.
just not for you, though. you love the chaos of his everyday life, don't you? seeing the world, the creation of his art and how it breathes; simply just being a part of it even if it’s only ever from the sidelines. you live for it almost as much as you live for him, because it’s always about him, for you, isn't it?
not even a full month in, you knew that you were in love with him — that you would follow joost anywhere, at any time if he asked you to. how lucky was it for you that he actually did, because really, he’s always loved you just as much as you’ve loved him — maybe even a little more, somehow. to this day, he still tries to brag about being the first one of you to say it, the three dreaded little words that you’re never supposed to confess after such little time, just because it still annoys you that he got there first.
all those friends of his that had adopted you as one of their own, they call you his ‘partner in crime’, don’t they? and those of them that hadn’t believed in soulmates before definitely believed in them now, because of you. even after so many years together, glued to your laptops and working from inside countless different hotel rooms, or passed out and squished in the bunks of a tour bus, you’re both still so helplessly obsessed with each other.
and that was what made the quiet all themore tolerable for you now.
because as you sit here, curled up on such an uncomfortable plastic garden chair, on a hotel balcony somewhere in spain, you know that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. the warm, early evening air gently blows past you, making you grip onto the pages of your paperback book all that much harder. it pulls the odd strand of your hair loose from the bun that sits on the very top of your head; the sun-bleached strands still a little damp from your swim together an hour or two earlier. surprisingly, despite how humid it actually was, it makes you shiver.
“cold?” joost murmurs from an old, horrible, squeaking chair of his own; his soft eyes already dancing over the goosebumps that pricks at your skin.
“i’ll warm up in a minute.”
you just don’t want to move, do you? you don’t want him to suggest moving inside, or to disappear inside himself just to grab you a hoodie — you don’t want anything to change at all, not even for a moment. because this is unbridled bliss, no matter how cold you suddenly are. you want to stay out here with this book of yours in your hands, the sound of calm, ocean waves still within earshot, and the smell of joost’s cigarette heavy inside your nose.
as you have been quietly reading, he’s been smoking yet another one of his duty-frees and doodling on his ipad. the only real noise was your phone rotating through your liked songs on spotify, as it lays almost forgotten about on the equally, and partially stained table.
and i love her — kurt cobain.
“no you won’t; come here.”
but much to your dismay, joost still starts to shift. he kicks his legs up and off the balcony railing, and swivels carefully in his seat, putting down his ipad as he does so. with wide, spread legs and a now empty lap, he pats his thighs and beckons you over as though this is the only possible solution to your problem. when you don’t move at first, still with the idea in your head that he was about to get up and walk away, joost pouts and makes grabby hands at you until he can’t contain his laughter anymore.
“cmon, you’re making me look needy now. come sit on me.”
you snort quietly underneath your breath as you stand, leaving your book to lie forgotten about too, next to your phone. “what? out here?”
“shut up, not like that.”
he hadn’t needed to ask you a third time. just as you had in your chair, you quickly get comfortable and curl up in his arms, feeling the steady beating of his heart beside your ear as you rest your head against his chest. those long, inked arms of his wrap around your waist and pull you impossibly closer, tucking you up neatly underneath his chin.
he takes a minute just to breathe you in, and nestles his cheek against your hair; he shifts again just to kiss the top of your head. “better?”
“much better.”
“hungry yet?”
“no.” — a little white lie.
your own stomach betrays you and rumbles, because neither of you have eaten since lunch. the small sound of it makes him laugh and you wiggle yourself even deeper into his hold, somehow, desperately trying to weigh him down. you know that it’s pointless because he could still pick you up, throw you over his shoulder, move you as though you weigh nothing to him. you’re just trying to make a point.
“move and i’ll cry.”
you really do love the quiet now. you treasure it, actually. you have to, considering how fleeting it always is.
“okay, okay, we’ll stay here. it’s okay.” you feel him sigh against you, and miss the sight of his eyes fluttering shut just as yours already have. “think i might fall asleep if we do, though.”
he really loves this quiet, too.
“five more minutes?”
the words come out all slurred in a way that you just can’t help, sleepy — you’re not really asking for five more minutes, are you? and you know that he knows that.
summary: Leon has strict orders from you not to call when he's out in the field, even if it's safe to.
But something feels different this time.
warnings: post-RE9, contains spoilers, hurt/comfort, ptsd, anxiety, wound care, returning home, established relationship/wife reader, aftermath of violence, mentions of death, near death experience, brief fade-to-black sex
a/n: first time writing for leon kennedy kinda nervous. I've only played a couple of the re games so I'm not totally brushed up on lore, so apologies if anything is inaccurate. thanks for stopping by! if you like it, please consider letting me know what you think, or dropping a like.
“Does it hurt?” You ask before he leaves, beneath him on your bed, a soft gray light smeared across the sheets. It’s raining again, a patter that will swirl into a deluge by the end of the afternoon.
“Feels great.”
“Leon,” you chide.
The corner of his mouth curls. “A little.”
A little probably translates to it hurts like hell.
You rub your hand over the black spiderwebbing over the side of his throat, then the patch of it on the palm of his hand. He doesn’t wince, doesn’t even twitch, but you know he’s in pain. You know him too well, have known him for too long, to think otherwise. It’s evident in the persistent slope of his shoulders, the barely perceptible twitch of his fingers when you prod the pseudo bruising, the spaces around his joints. How ashen his skin looks, gray rather than merely pale.
“A little,” you echo and absentmindedly push a lock of gray streaked tarnished gold hair back from his eyes, then smooth your thumb down the crease around his still smirking mouth. “You’ve never been a good liar, don’t start now.”
You trace the dark webbing, like spun silk lines, ink dyed veins. There’s a pit in your stomach as you scratch a nail against one raised line, squeezing his wrist. It’ll be fine, you think, it’s always been fine. There, by some miracle, or maybe just sheer luck and effort, has always been a way things turn out fine.
“Hey.”
You hate when he does that, when he doesn’t say something snappy, and instead his voice is soft and commanding, gentle almost.
Leon cups your cheek with his other hand, but you refuse to let him tilt your gaze up.
You flip his hand over and trace the discoloration across the back of his hand, the tendrils that wrap up his pinky and ring finger.
You twist the silver metal band on his ring finger, push your hand flat against his, measuring your hand against his, and finally glance up.
“I guess I don’t have a choice, huh?” You smile. “I can’t keep you here safe.” You would never really try. You knew that when you met him, when you married him, but the sentiment stands. You tug at his collar, look at the veiny, stringy black climbing up the column of his throat. Soon it will snake behind his ear, crosshatch his jaw.
You’d been the one to notice it, spindly beneath your mouth when you kissed him there. A bruise, you’d thought, applied ointment to. You’d caught it on him after the third survivor of the Raccoon City incident was found dead. Then, a bruise that wouldn’t fade on the side of his ring finger that looked eerily similar to crime scene photos you’d snooped on over his shoulder one evening.
A bruise that grew, refused to fade. You started to suspect what it might be when it appeared on Sherry, too. And this is different, if it’s what you think it is.
Maybe that is why this time feels so different. There is always danger in his field of work, that you have accepted and made peace with, but this might be something he couldn’t fight.
He gathers your wrists in his hands, stops the anxious sweep of them. He pushes you back, pins you against the bed with his hips, body looming over and around yours.
“What? Worried about me?”
The intervening years have only made him bigger. Wide shoulders, huge biceps, thick thighs. The weight of him is nice, and you know that’s the point. He’s unnaturally warm, a living furnace, the fire of him seeps beneath your clothes. You can’t help thinking the heat of him is a little less potent lately.
Either you’re overthinking or you’re right, and both possibilities are equally awful. You don’t panic, but this has you on edge because if you’re right—
There’s a looming sense that he’s running out of time, an invisible clock ticking down minutes.
“Look,” you wriggle one hand out of his grip and push a finger into his chest, “I just don’t want to have to start over with someone else, okay? It would be really annoying if you died. Or whatever—” You stroke your thumb under his ear, “—the hell is happening here.”
He laughs and you hook your arms around him, pull him fully down against his like you could be absorbed beneath his skin.
Leon’s arms push beneath your back, crush a tight circle around your body. The pressure eases some of the tension threaded between your ribs. His hair brushes your forehead, a light tickle that touches a nerve in your temple that arcs down your spine.
“Just—come back.” It’s unlike you to ask, not like you to mention it at all. You got used to this a long time ago. You are unflappable, even before Leon and his career, nothing could ruffle you. It’s what makes you good at your job. “I’ll be waiting.”
He rests his head in the space between your neck and shoulder. He nods, kisses you there, against your pulse. “I promise to try,” he says against your skin.
“All I ask.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be a walk in the park.”
You roll your eyes, duck your head to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Love you.”
“Love you,” he answers, and then he’s pulling away, taking his warmth and presence with him. You watch him walk to the door and disappear through it, feeling very small and alone. It’s a big, old, elegant house, with sconces and creaky floors and a chandelier and a brick driveway.
The house seems to sigh in despair as the front door opens and closes.
.
.
.
The next night finds you in the staff breakroom, fiddling with the coffee pot with tired, twitchy fingers, trying not to let your thoughts wander or coalesce on one thing.
Leon always comes home, but something feels different this time. Your worry is a physical thing, perched on your shoulder, lounging in the periphery of your vision.
You weren’t supposed to be at work, but being in motion and occupied makes you feel better, useful, and distracts you at once. Sitting alone in your home, listening to the floorboards creak in time with your overwrought thoughts, would only make your unusual anxiety worsen, a spike and spiral that is impossible to come down from. It’s ridiculous. Only a little over 24 hours have passed.
The fluorescent lights flicker, and your overworked eyes ache in the glare, like they’re puffy and too large in your head. You hadn’t been sleeping before he left, and you certainly hadn’t last night. The bed far too empty and big.
You have a standing policy not to call each other when Leon is out in the field. You don’t call him; he has strict orders from you not to call even if it was safe to. You know what you would think each time, this is it, he's calling to say goodbye.
Imagining the worst is one thing, knowing is something else altogether.
This time is different. The worry runnels beneath your skin, like an itch you can’t quite scratch. You had thumbed at the screen of your phone restlessly all evening and the next morning, on and off, light, dark. No messages, not that there would be. No calls.
You didn’t sleep, hand over his side of the bed, wide awake in the dark. Remembering the kiss to your forehead, that awful black spiderwebbing on the side of his throat threading beneath the cup of your palm.
Your phone is heavy in the front apron pocket of your scrubs, the urge to reach for it and check it again is overwhelming. The ringer is off, you think, he could have called. As irrational as it is, you feel like he's trying to call, and you're missing it. You pull your phone out and lie it on the counter as the coffee percolates, popping and hissing, and look long at the blank, black screen, twisting your wedding ring around your finger, imagining the same black crawling up your own hand.
More violently than necessary, you fling out one hand and tap the glass. It flickers to life.
Nothing.
A sigh that sounds more like a growl crawls from your throat. You shove your phone back into your pocket, listen to the soft, custodial hum of the building around you. It’s late, the clinic is mostly empty, and peaceful in its silence.
It’s lonely.
When you get home, the driveway is empty and the house is dark, the front paving stones rain wet and slick beneath your sneakers.
The front entryway is dark, the floorboards creak beneath your shoes as you kick them off, the clatter echoing in the foyer and up the stairs, curving like a knife into the dark landing of the second floor.
When you flip on the living room lights, you half expect to find Leon there, sprawled in a bloody, dirty heap on the couch in the pooling yellow light.
It wouldn’t be the first time, though it would be the first time you found him there without a phone call telling you all was well, that he would be home soon.
But the couch is as you left it, a wool blanket draped across the back, plush velvet pillows askew, one sagging off the armrest and onto the dark wood parapet floor below.
You imagine him coming home, still crawling with bruises, death like a phantom over his shoulder. You think of holding his hand, letting him die easily. He deserved that, but you know it’s a pipe dream, a fantasy. If he was going to die, if it had anything to do with Raccoon City, he’d die out there.
Leon can only promise you so much.
You drop your bag and flit through the room to the kitchen, hungry but also itching to change out of your scrubs and not knowing what to do first in your anxious haze.
You feel as though you have been perpetually stuck in fight or flight mode, oozing stress and tension like a shelter dog.
You won’t settle until he’s back, until you can see for yourself that terrible rot beneath his skin is gone. Rainwater washes down the window panes in the kitchen as you make tea and toast, hands like a pair of nervous sparrows, hopping from one thing to the next, despite the ache in your wrists and fingers.
The rain is a constant tattoo, a persistent patter that you wish you could think is soothing. But it grates on you like an old wound, reminds you of time passing like the ticking of a clock. While the water boils, you go upstairs to change and wash your face, wrapping yourself in an old jacket of Leon’s over sleep shorts and a t-shirt.
The house always feels too big and empty without him. It seems to sigh and shift under the weight of the rain and your body moving through its guts.
You choke down the toast and park yourself on the couch with your tea. It’s already cooling between your hands, but the warmth of it is comforting in the blue light on the tv when you flip it on and sink into the cushions.
You don’t feel tired, but from one slow blink to the next, the cup is being pulled from between your hands and set aside. The TV is flicked off and then the brass lamp on the side table. Fingers brush over your forehead and down the curve of your cheek before disappearing in favor of lifting you. One thick arm slides beneath your knees, the other behind your shoulders. For a moment, you’re lost in the bliss of a normal Friday night. You fell asleep on the couch watching a cheesy action flick, and Leon is carrying you to bed.
The wool blanket slides off of you and back onto the couch, a soft puddle of gray and green.
For a moment, you think it’s a dream. You close your eyes again, listen to the beat of his heart beneath your ear, happy to pretend it’s a normal night, that you fell asleep on the couch watching movies.
And then he grunts.
The sound is so unusual, unlike him, it rouses you from the drowsy way you're sinking into his arms, reminds you of the last few days. You must have slept through the night because a haze of soft pink morning light undulates across the floor through a gap in the curtains.
“Leon,” you mumble sleepily, struggling awake in his arms as he starts up the stairs. “Hey, Leon, put me down.” You wriggle to no avail. “Let me look at you.”
He doesn’t and you fumble blindly at his collar instead, searching for the raised skin. Instead you’re met with smooth if grimy skin, littered with the usual scars you could recount in your sleep. “Leon—”
He shoulders open the bedroom door with another grunt, cream carpet and dark green walls. The room is dim, morning light peeking through the slats of the blinds, highlighting your gold jewelry spilled across the top of the dresser, the stack of books by a bedside table, never re-shelved in the living room, tangled bed sheets.
He deposits you lightly on the bed. You don’t have a chance to curl your arms around his shoulders and drag him down onto the sheets with you. Leon is already falling against you, lands heavily on top of you with no resistance, arm curling around your body.
“Hold on,” he says.
Your legs are scrunched awkwardly beneath him, the bulk of his body heavy and immovable as a fallen tree. “Just give me a minute.”
His arms are tight around you, tighter than he usually would hold you. “Okay,” you murmur. “Okay.” You slide one hand into his hair, filthy with what you can only guess. He seems very young at that moment, like something has been shaken loose inside him.
You count the seconds to a minute, and then a minute and a half.
“Leon?” You ask after you’ve counted your way to three minutes. “Are you okay?”
“Still breathing,” he answers dryly.
You push at his shoulder and he lifts himself off you enough for you to see his face, enough to see that his throat is free of the pseudo bruising, that he’s probably, really, okay. You sit up and he rolls to the side and onto his back with a grunt. He takes your hand, keeps it trapped under his against his chest, the warm metal of his wedding band cutting into your index finger, eyes fluttering shut.
There are purple shadows beneath his eyes, normal bruises along his forearms and along his sides when you lift his shirt. It looks awful, extending to his back in purples so deep they appear as black little rain clouds. You trace a jagged scar just beneath his ribs with the tip of your finger. He looks tired, but that’s all, and you could cry for it.
“Roll over, shirt off,” you command, more harshly than you mean to. “Let me see your back. It looks bruised.”
“Yes ma’am,” he says, already moving to follow your demand.
“Is Sherry alright?” You ask, watching him peel his shirt off, fabric clinging through a film of sweat and blood. His hair stands like duck fluff when he pulls it over his head.
A bruise extends over his chest, down to the flat plane of his stomach. There’s gauze tapped over a cut on his side and on his bicep, and when you reach forward and pull back the tape gently, you are momentarily overcome with blistering jealousy that someone had tended to him first. The jealousy almost instantly gives way to a feeling of uselessness.
The cut looks clean, the bandage is fresh, someone had taken good care of him and for that you should be grateful.
But your hands stall.
“Good as new.”
You blink, meet his eyes, re-center yourself. He’s not just reassuring you about Sherry. “Good.”
You carefully push the bandage back into place, then shift onto your knees, watching the twist of muscle beneath his skin as he settles onto his stomach, forearms bunching and straining as he lowers himself to the duvet you’ll have to wash sooner than anticipated. He smells awful, there’s a fine layer of grit and dried sweat over his skin where there are no wounds that had needed cleaned.
Bruises and a couple more lacerations stripe his back, no signs of the infection that had been crawling down his spine the previous evening. You release a shaky breath.
“I was worried,” you admit, now that you don’t have to look at his face as you say it, carefully peeling the bandages away, then resticking them when you’re satisfied by what you see. But you can feel his quick, perceptive gaze on you, watching you, your unsteady hands and gritted teeth.
“Not like you.”
“This was different.”
There’s a long beat of silence. “Yeah,” he agrees, after a moment. “It was.”
“Will you tell me about it?” You glance at him.
Leon frowns, something unreadable caught in his eyes.
He closes his eyes, but his brow is still wrinkled. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t call.”
He chuckles. “Trust me, I tired. You were probably already asleep. Sherry tried too.”
Which meant he probably worried about you in turn. You can hear it in his voice. He was used to doing all he could and still losing, just a little. “Oh, shit, I think I forgot to turn the ringer up after work.” You prod a bruise and he grunts. “I’m sorry.” For not answering his call, for poking him a little too hard.
“I already got checked out,” he says gently, as though it isn’t obvious. “You don’t have to play nurse.”
“I’m playing doctor. And I have a medical degree to prove it.”
He smiles a little, and let’s you have your way. “Whatever you want, doc.”
You scoot closer, tuck one leg beneath you and rest your chin on the opposite bent knee, and stroke a lock of hair behind his ear. Black webbing once again just delicate blue veins. “How do you feel? Really? Don’t bullshit me.”
“Like I’m twenty again.”
“Leon,” you sigh. “Please—”
His mouth twitches. “I’m serious,” he grumbles. “That shit hurt. So it’s probably just comparatively.”
Your shoulders loosen, and you smooth a hand down his back, careful to avoid his injuries, and rub the base of his spine. “Well, that just means you’ll feel decrepit in a couple days.”
He huffs.
You smile, touch the lines under his eyes, the crinkled, unblemished skin of his throat. “Are you sure nothing’s bothering you? I’m dying to baby you.”
“My shoulder, a little.”
“Okay. Do you think you’ll sleep?”
“I don’t know.”
You make an unsatisfied noise, trace a ridge of muscle along his spine. “We’ll see about that.”
“I sleep better with you.”
And he’s said that since the beginning, since the first time, so you’ve come to believe it over the years.
You lean down close to kiss him, bending at the waist even though the angle is awkward. He tastes like salt and iron, like there’s blood caught between his teeth. The bed shifts beneath you as he moves to palm the back of your neck, pull you closer to him. Kissing him feels like getting one more chance to breathe. “I have something that will help with the swelling,” you say against his lips, pink when you pull back. “Take a shower and I’ll get you some pain killers.”
“Hey,” he says, taking your hand again before you can move off the bed. His thumb runs over your wrist. You go into his arms easily, unfold yourself and stretch out next to him, rooting your body into his, half under him again. He releases your hand to run his thumb beneath one of your eyes, balancing on one elbow. You feel safe, boxed in beneath him.
“There was—for a second I thought about—” He pauses for a moment, pale eyes sliding over your face, then meeting yours again. “I thought about calling you.”
That, really, tells you how close of a call it had been, and your breath catches in your chest. “Oh,” you murmur softly, “Why didn’t you?”
“It was selfish. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Your mouth trembles. “I wouldn’t have minded.” But you have no context for the situation, the moment he thought of it, what it would have sounded like, his voice and whatever else was happening around him. Metal creaking, fire raging, screams and pleas. Or, silence. Trapped, waiting, quiet.
But you would have wanted him to hear your voice, if that was what he wanted at that moment. If it would have comforted him. “You should have.”
“I promised you that I never would a long time ago, though. And I didn’t want that to be your last. . .memory of me.” He laughs a little. “Which I guess is selfish too.”
You purse your lips and shake your head, “I really can’t think of a word that describes you less.”
Leon looks like he wants to argue, but shakes his head and rests his forehead against your collarbone instead. “If you say so.”
You wrap your arms around his head and stare at the dark paneled ceiling, the elegant lamp with gold folded arms dripping crystal like tiny stars, gleaming even unlit. When he’s gone, and sometimes when he isn’t, you count the white sparkle it throws against the walls to help you sleep.
You stay there until the sun is fully risen, counting the rise and fall of Leon’s chest instead, imagining what it would have been like if he called.
In some other reality, he did. He called, and the next morning you answered the door to a suited, anonymous government agent bringing their deepest condolences. For a moment, you feel certain you’re hallucinating him, a ghost in place of a memory.
You rub the column of his neck, and feel him relax against you, all tension bleeding from his body, and wait for his breathing to slow.
It doesn’t, his thumbs smoothing circles against your ribs where his hands have anchored.
“Shower,” you say eventually, when a yellow slash of morning sun falls over your eyes and blinds you. You nudge your knees against Leon’s hips and urge him off you.
He goes, graceless for once, as he stumbles toward the bathroom, tactical pants unbuttoned somehow and slung low on his hips.
The first floor is flooded with golden light when you descend the stairs; the clock on the oven reads 8:04 AM. Your hands shake a little.
You grab a bottle of extra strength ibuprofen, fill a glass with water. You think about taking melatonin to him too, but decide against it. It always gives you nightmares when you take it and you can’t remember if you’ve ever asked him about it, and the prescription bottle of rozerem is empty though you can’t remember the last time either of you had taken it or refilled it.
It’s been a long time since either of you needed it to fall asleep.
The backyard is full of yellow light, the air misted and humid from the dissipating rain. Puddles of water stand amid the fall foliage and overgrown flowerbeds that are always weed choked because you never seem to have enough time to tend them.
You need to make more time for everything, sink your roots into everything more deeply.
When you and Leon first moved in together—before the house, before you were married—you’d had a minor fit a couple months in about how everything he owned was perpetually shoved into a bag by the front door. It made you feel alone, wrecked in a way you couldn’t explain, how you hated that his toothbrush was missing from the bathroom counter in the apartment he paid half the rent for.
He’d soothed you about it, and, when you were calmer, teased you about it too, bought doubles of everything, and you never had to see him rooting around for shaving cream in a duffel bag in his own home again.
It’s like that, you think, the flowers that never got enough attention. The yard that needs raked of decomposing fallen leaves.
You allow yourself a shuddering breath, come to terms quickly with the fact that he’d almost died. From the virus he’d clearly been infected with or something else. Leon isn’t prone to exaggeration when it comes to his own wellbeing, usually the opposite, so knowing he’d wanted to call, lodges a lump in your throat you can’t quite swallow away.
The pipes creak and shudder, the water goes on.
The house is elegant but old, and you’d fallen in love with it immediately.
You take the pills and water upstairs, push open the bathroom door and leave them on the counter with a towel. The air is heavy, thick with the smell of his soap.
“Leon?”
“Yeah?” He pulls back the curtain a little to look at you.
You point to what you left on the counter. “Does melatonin give you nightmares?”
“I don’t know.” He tilts his head, water darkened hair falling across his forehead. “I know you don’t like it.”
“We’re out of the roz—the sleeping pills. But I don’t want you to—I don’t know. I’m being—” Frustration with yourself boils over. Why are you bothering him with this? You just want him to rest. You worry he won’t, too wired by whatever happened.
Maybe, you think distantly, you’re projecting and you’re the one wired and antsy. He looks like he might fall asleep standing there as you shift from foot to foot. “I just can’t believe I don’t know if they give you nightmares.”
“Hard for you to know if I don’t,” he says. “You okay?”
“I think I’m freaking out a little bit.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “When’s the last time you got some sleep? I don’t think you were before I left.”
“I don’t know.”
He nods, like some puzzle has finally been solved. “We’ll figure it out.”
You aren’t sure what he means by that, or what it you’ll be figuring out, but you nod and duck out of the bathroom before you can have another emotional outburst about medication he doesn’t even need.
In the bedroom you change the sheets and throw the dirt streaked ones into the washer. You change too, pressing your nose into the fabric of the shirt that now smells like Leon. Battle soaked and mostly gross. But it’s the scent of him returning home, so you covet the musk of it, breathe it in again and again, until your heart rate slows, before tossing it in the wash too. It’s not until it returns to resting, that you realize how your pulse had been racing.
You yank the blinds closed in the bedroom, thick, blackout shades that obscure the beautiful morning dawning outside, pitch the room into a velvet darkness so thick you can’t see your hands in front of your face.
When you turn, he’s there catching you against him, tilting your face up to his, kissing you softly and then harder. You go down together in a tangle when the back of your knees hit the bed.
In the black dark of the room, he’s only a suggestion of movement. The placement of your limbs instinctual after so many years together.
You wrench your t-shirt over your head, feel the still damp plains of his body over yours. He smells clean, like soap and sandalwood. His mouth, when you slide your tongue into it, no longer tastes like blood, just mint toothpaste and tap water.
When he pushes into you with a groan, your hands careful of the wounds on his back, you kiss the junction of his neck and shoulder, feel the judder of his pulse against your mouth. “Leon,” you coo, just to say his name, know he’s there with you. “I trust your judgement, you know.” You slide one hand into his hair, hook your knees against his hips. “Call, if you think you should. I’d want to hear your voice one more time, too.”
The next thrust of his hips is unforgivingly, accidentally hard, pushing you up the bed a little; a gasp is torn from your mouth.
His hands are warm and large, cradling your hips and waist, the outside of your breasts. Reverent, as his mouth finds yours again with a tight groan, hand cupping the back of your head.
He cradles you to him, pulses into you slow and hard, and for a moment you let him, before pushing at his shoulder. He goes easily onto his back, taking you with him. He sinks that much deeper inside you, a stretch you feel everywhere, rolling your hips against his.
“Baby,” he groans.
You tilt over him, hold his wrists against the mattress, and kiss him again.
.
.
.
When you next wake, it’s late afternoon and the bed is empty again.
But you can smell something cooking, hear the hiss and pop of something greasy frying in a pan downstairs. You climb out of bed with an ache between your hips, shuffling to the bathroom to clean up before searching for something to throw on.
You check your phone on the way to the kitchen, find it stuck between the couch cushions where it had fallen the night before, and scroll through the endless string of missed calls. Leon and Sherry. One, inexplicably, from Chris. Guilt pools in your stomach, wondering what he’d thought as he traveled home, pushed open the front door to a silent house. Just a sleeping house, though he couldn’t have known that.
The kitchen is washed in reddish evening light. Leon is cooking breakfast, despite the hour. Bacon and eggs over easy. He’s better at breakfast than you are, you’ve learned. You have a habit of burning the bacon and popping the yolks on the eggs when you flip them.
The toast, however, is smoking in the toaster. You pop it up as you pass, pleased to see it’s only dark, crisp brown and not charred.
Leon is wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair sticking up in every direction. The sweatpants are a little snug around his thighs but the shirt is loose, too big. When he can, Leon wears oversized shirts, though he doesn’t prefer them even at home, just so you can have them. He knows you like how they smell like him.
The window over the sink is open; his feet are bare. His back is to you and the fading light gives his hair a pinkish hue.
You wrap your arms around his waist and rest your cheek against his shoulder, ball your fist in the loose fabric against his stomach. When you squeeze your arms around him, his body is hard and unforgiving. It’s odd, feeling so soft by contrast.
“The toast was burning.”
“Thanks for saving it.”
“Thanks for coming home.”
You feel his breath hitch a little. “Well, I couldn’t leave you here all alone.”
You squeeze him again. “No,” you agree. “I’m lost without you.” Then, because you hate being sappy, “We should get a cat.”
An unexpected laugh wheezes out of him. “Yeah? Who's going to take care of it?”
“Between the two of us, and, like, an automatic feeder, it’ll probably be fine.”
“You have to go in tomorrow?” He asks and moves the pan off the burner, flicks off the stove and turns in your grasp. You keep your arms around him, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. The exhaustion hasn’t been totally wrung from him, but he looks more alert, less like he might pass out at any second.
“No,” you say, “Not on call either. You?”
You can see the instinct to immediately say yes, but then he shakes his head. “Why do you want a cat?”
The same reason you’d begged him to stop keeping everything he owned in a go-bag years ago, especially after you bought the house, too large, really, for just the two of you. It makes everything feel more permanent, like he isn’t some ghost you hallucinated. One more thing, in your arsenal, the spell you are trying to cast, to always bring him back.
You know there’s no quitting, no retiring, so you have to hang onto this. You have to plant the flowers, get a cat, and make a permanent place for him to land.
“It doesn’t have to be a cat.”
He tilts his head at you; you reach up to rub a thumb over the lines by the corner of his eye. “Let’s get a cat.”
You grin and lean in to kiss him, liking the way his eyes close and he sighs, cheeks scratchy against yours. “Okay.” You release him to pull down plates and butter the toast while he allocates eggs and bacon onto each.
Only when you’re on the couch, so close your legs overlap, shoulders blurred together into one, plates on pillowed laps, that you ask him to tell you. “What was it?” You gesture to your own neck, where the bruising on his was. He frowns, eyes hardening, like the image it conjures is abhorrent. “Start from the beginning. I want to know everything.”
He won’t tell you everything, there are details you will always be spared, things he doesn’t want in your imagination. There’s a desire too, you know, for those things not to touch you in his mind.
You lean your head against his shoulder, the vibration of his voice throaty and deep against your ear as you eat lazily.
1998 - Injured and trapped, you're about to lose all hope, when nobody else but the newest addition to the RPD walks in, Leon S. Kennedy, here to save the day and your life.
Series Masterlist | Read on Ao3 | General Masterlist
warnings: Angst, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Death, Injury, Blood, Gore, Trauma, Mental Instability, Suicidal Ideations, Near Death Experience, Monsters, Weapons, minimal Knowledge of Gun Safety, Threatening at Gunpoint, medical Inaccuracies, bad Oneliners and horrible Jokes, Reader has a Nickname ↠ Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Chapter 1: Vigil
There’s a bullet in your shoulder.
You can feel the way the metal shifts against your shattered collarbone with every movement, every breath - blood crusted and ripped skin turned reddish and swollen.
Then, there’s that nasty wound on your leg. It’s disgusting, a whole chunk missing where it exposes half-torn muscle and sinews. Your own blood has pooled in several indents of exposed tissue, even now it hasn’t fully dried, just turned thick and sticky and stinks. The stench of the infected wounds linger, no window or proper ventilation to give your nose any reprieve. You might still be breathing but you smell like you’re dead already. The thought alone scares you shitless.
Involuntarily you shiver, trying to shift where you sit, leaning against the cold tiles of the Interrogation Room, head knocking against the wall as you stare at the ceiling.
The small room itself is in shambles. Metal table and chairs pushed to one corner, the one-way mirror smeared with blood and spiderweb cracks at the edges. Somehow, electricity is still in tact, the simple lamp flickering but refusing to die just yet.
It’s burned an after image into your retina, dangles there no matter how long you close your eyes, the accompanied migraine digging it’s claws into you relentlessly.
By now, time is a construct. Endlessly you’ve listened to people dying, their final screams replaying in your mind while you wait for any other sign of life. It’s been quiet ever since.
‘Quiet’ as in your ‘new form of quiet’, the creaking of floorboards or the shuffling and moaning of the creatures that now rule these halls occasionally audible.
You’ve lost all hope for rescue.
This little room will turn into your grave, your tomb, your final resting place.
Insane, considering you walked in a few days ago, only here to make a statement and be on your way. And stupidly enough, you had considered yourself lucky in the beginning. What better place to be than the Raccoon City Police Department when the Dead start walking?
Not even 48 hours it had taken to go to shit, most of the survivors dead, the few still alive all scattered across the entire station, an army of dead in between. You don’t doubt that most of them are dead by now, fully aware that it would have been the easier way out, the quicker relief.
But you’d had your chance and made it out alive, so here you are, trapped in this room, no food, no water, waiting for a slow, excruciating death. ‘Lucky’ very quickly had turned into being the unluckiest person alive.
From time to time, there’s commotions in the station.
Shouts and gunshots echoing through the vast building, the deep rumble of a helicopter and just earlier, you’re sure some part of the building collapsed, enough to shake the foundations and rattle the bullet in your body.
Not that it matters. Sooner or later, Death will stumble through the door and you will have no energy left to fight it.
It doesn’t even take long.
One moment there’s several gunshots just outside your room, the next someone pushes the door open, rushes inside and slams it shut right behind him, back pressed against the metal as he sweeps the room.
And then, a gun in your face, slightly shaking by the way the guy’s chest heaves, body straining.
He’s young, about your age, dressed in uniform and sweaty hair hanging into his face, blue eyes swallowed up by adrenaline-dilated pupils. He’s a stranger, too, none of the people you’ve come to know as your companions over the past days.
Anxiously, you try to lift your arms, show your palms and convince him you mean no harm.
“Please don’t shoot,” you tell him and he instantly lowers his gun, another glance towards the closed door before he comes towards you, knees hitting the ground as he crouches beside you.
“You hurt bad?”
Nah, what do you think?, you almost want to quip, but you’re too dizzy to joke about it all, body shaking from pain and blood loss.
“Caught a few stray bullets…,” you try to explain as his hand already goes for your shoulder, halting just a fraction before making contact.
“Can I?” he asks and you’re not in any position to deny the aid. With a nod, you consent and almost want to bite his whole hand off when his fingers grace the inflamed skin where your sweater was ripped to pieces.
“Gotta wash it,” he mutters and peels the bloody fabric from the edges of the wound. “You got water, first aid spray, anything?”
Settling your head back against the wall, you stare past him at the dangling lamp.
“Do I look like I have anything on me?”
He huffs as he shakes his head, eyes traveling down to your leg where your jeans was shredded and torn.
His fingers do not touch you as he examines the wound. Something ghosts over his face that you can’t quiet read — just a turn of his mouth, a bend of his brows.
“Bitten?” he questions and you give a small nod, trying to shift your leg to give him better access.
Pain shoots up your spine and settles in the roots of your teeth, forcing your jaw to clench. You bear it and let him do his job.
“Y-yea…”
“Some dog?” he asks and almost sounds hopeful.
You hate even thinking about it.
Wishful thinking that it would have been a dog, a cat, some feral raccoon. But no, it had all started with Valerie, back during the first attack after the R.P.D. had shut it’s doors. She’d been ill from the start, battled a fever, her skin ashen and her limbs shaky. Nobody wanted to face the truth and in the end, before anyone had managed to pull the trigger, she’d died and come back wrong. At least that’s what you assume happened.
Everything had gone to shit after that, leading to your current predicament, injured and bitten by one of the people you’ve gotten close to over the past days. His name was Ernest, almost three times your age, a fatherly figure with a round belly, gray hair and a distinct lack of reading glasses he’d mourned excessively.
Even now you wonder if he’s still out there, wandering the halls after he bit you and tore your leg apart. You also wonder how long you’ve got left until you’ll die and turn into just another dangerous creature. Like Valerie, like Ernest.
“No,” you tell him and he seems to know what it means and doesn’t ask another time. You don’t elaborate.
“Name’s Leon. Leon Kennedy,” he says instead, a gentle squeeze of his hand against your knee.
You remember that name. Lieutenant Branagh had mentioned him once, a rookie cop bound for the city and his first day at work before the world - or the city - had gone up in flames.
“Welcome to the job, I guess,” you hear yourself say and he grins at that, dipping his head to the side.
“Thanks. Could have done without the welcome committee, though.”
It’s your time to huff in amusement, flinching as the motions zaps you like a shock, pain fissuring and breaking throughout your body. Everything hurts and throbs with unrelenting consistency.
“Oh, we love to make great gestures here.”
“Didn’t doubt it for a second, considering all the exploding cars, uncontrolled fires and monsters you’ve got here.”
You give a weak nod and simply watch him. It’s nice to see someone alive after an endless time of isolation and death.
Settling back on his haunches, Leon has the audacity to look worried, compassion knitting his brows together, a frown on his face.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you tell him and he looks caught, a hand pushing his hair back and out of the way.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m already dead.”
Funnily enough, he’s the one to immediately start arguing.
“You’re not,” he states, voice stern as he’s pushing himself back to his feet.
“There’s another survivor. Lieutenant Branagh’s keeping an eye on things and working on an escape route. But first, we gotta patch you up and get you out of here.”
“He’s alive?” you can’t hide your surprise and actual relief, the lieutenant having easily and readily taken you under his protection during the first day of the outbreak — you, one of the few civilians who’d lasted for longer than the first hours. At least up until that absolute mess of a fight in the West Wing where you’d ended up here, seeking shelter far away from the mayhem, dying and alone.
Leon does not answer right away, instead stares at your injuries for a moment before nodding.
“Yea, we’re set up in the Main Hall.”
The sigh you breathe is almost comical, lips spreading into a grin as far as you can muster.
“Next thing you’ll tell me is you even got food and water?”
“Building’s still crawling with these creatures, some even stranger thing up in the West Wing. I’m working on clearing all the floors but it’s—“ he grinds his jaw for a moment, frustration evident, “— a slow process.”
You’re injured, not dumb. You know what he’s saying, know how to read between the lines.
Leon can’t get you out of here, not in the current state you’re in, while the monsters still patrol the corridors. You get it, you really do. But suddenly, it’s hard to hold the tears back that push into your eyes.
Someone to find you after an eternity of pain and loneliness, just to be inevitably abandoned again. Who knows if he’ll come back for you?
“Please don’t leave me here,” you beg and see the pain flicker across his face. Empathy is a virtue and he seems like he hasn’t lost it yet.
Before he answers, Leon makes an attempt at digging through his pockets. There’s not much there to be found, besides a few loose bullet casings, the remains of a wrapping paper and a handful of change.
“There’s a first aid kit in the S.T.A.R.S. office on the second floor, over in the West Wing. I’ll go get it, try and scrounge up some water and a snacks if I can.”
In your mind, he’s already being torn apart, ripped and shredded to pieces and nobody will ever come for you. You’ll die here, the sting of false hope making you regret it all till the very end.
“Please don’t go,” you beg again, voice shaking as you try your best to push yourself up, show him you’re not so easily left behind, that you can’t just watch him leave. But your body is long since past it’s limits. Your muscles cramp, your injured leg refusing any cooperation as the pain becomes unbearable and your vision turns dark.
Leon’s hands catch you before you crash to the ground.
“Easy there, Bambi.”
He’s gentle when he sets you back down, carefully pries your hands off his shirt and gives your arm a reassuring squeeze before letting go. You’re too panicked to think anything of the nickname, nor do you have the wits to realize you’ve not given him your name.
“What if something happens to you?” you question instead, lips trembling.
Wordlessly he rises again, checks his gun, unloads the magazine, checks the bullets, loads it back in. The clicking has become rather familiar, the constant company of law enforcement and their weaponry having turned into a saving grace.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says eventually, shaking out his tired limbs. Who knows how long he’s been on his feet already, how many battles his weary bones have already carried him through.
“T-tell the Lieutenant I’m sorry, okay?” you ask and try to scoot up against the wall, sitting a bit straighter, body aching.
“Sorry for what?”
“Just… this whole mess. For Valerie and Ernest. For running.”
Leon fidgets with his belt but nods. “Best you tell him yourself. Hang in there and I’ll get you, promise.”
“Please don’t do that.”
His eyes snap back to you, confusion in their endless blue. “Do what?”
“Promising something. You can’t promise shit. I can’t either. Not with how things are now…”
Leon hums at that, a weary sound that has his chest fall and rise before he pulls something off his belt and holds it out to you.
It’s a leather sheath and when you pull at the hilt, there’s a combat knife in your hand, one edge smooth, the other serrated. It’s heavy in your tired hand, weights your whole arm down as you slowly lower it into your lap.
“I can’t take that,” you tell him despite wanting nothing more than to keep it.
“I don’t need it. Not at the moment. I have another one, found this one in the Library. Please take it. Use it, if you have to. Always go for the head…”
You doubt you’ll have any chance, even with a knife, considering your limbs are too heavy to properly move. But you’re grateful for the weapon that gives you some sense of security.
“Thank you, Leon,” you say and mean it.
He smiles at you, something gentle and soft before dusting off his pants and taking a step towards the door.
“First aid kit, water, a snack. Hang in there, Bambi. I’ll be back in no time.”
“Why Bambi?” you ask, anything just to stall, to have him stay a bit longer.
Leon just shrugs, a lopsided grin on his lips.
“Can’t say you’re steady on your legs, currently. Like Bambi — on the frozen lake?”
You grew up with the movies, watched them all endlessly curled up in front of the flickering TV. Slowly, you nod at him.
“With Thumper?” the name of the silly bunny is slurred by your heavy tongue, exhaustion washing over you.
“Yea. Damn good movie…” he muses and you appreciate the way he entertains your attempt at making him stay. Just for a bit.
“You just reminded me of that, I don’t know—,” he shrugs but keeps smiling. Then, his hand settles against the doorknob.
Wearily you watch him at the door, knife cold even through the jeans of your pants, heavy where it rests. You clench your fingers around the hilt and nod. You’ll have to bear it like everything else.
“Hang in there,” he tells you again and opens the door, stepping into the dark corridor before closing it behind him.
