"It would be great. Same schedule, at work together, never having to leave each other's side..." He sighs as he hugs his husband and kisses his cheek. "I wish we could always be together and protect each other. I'm so glad you and Grace called me before just giving up. Always call me, okay? I will always be there for you."
"I'm sorry honey... I chose to work for STARS... You never chose any of this... I'm sorry you got dragged into all of it." He kissed his head and rubbed his back.
"I know, baby... I know..." He continued to rub his back and hold him. "It's scary looking back... It's hard not to look back... But we're together now. And that is what's most important to me. I know you have a lot of feelings and memories... I do too... All of my squads... Damien, Cathy, Piers... I get it. I do... But we have to look forward, and be grateful for having each other here in the present. That's the only way I get through sometimes. I wake up next to you and I feel so grateful you're there, alive and well. You are my treasure, Leon. You keep me going every day."
"It's okay. You can talk to me. I'm here for you." He opened the passenger side door for his beloved and let him get comfortable before shutting the door. He then sat in the drivers seat and shut his door. "Shall we order food tonight and cuddle?"
He held Leon's hand. "I'll order your favorite~ Whatever you want, love." He kissed his hand. "You can eat it whenever you feel like it. Which will probably be around two in the morning when you wake up hungry." He kissed Leon's hand again before starting the car and beginning to drive home.
a/n; part one-ish here! not really part one, but its the piece that encouraged me mostly to get this done :3 guys, I do NOT know how to write pregnancy... have mercy on my soul, i just wanted this to be mushy and sweet. also. is this a touch OOC for Chris? Maybe. But this is fanfiction for a reason. And God forbid a girl wants to see a sad man happy for once
Almost two months ago, Chris made the spontaneous move to ask you about kids. Two weeks after that, you're hunched over in the bathroom, going through a while freakout of good and bad emotions while staring at a handful of 13 positive pregnancy tests. Chris' timing couldn't have been better that day—he knew something was wrong when you didn't come out when the front door clicked open. And even worse when he couldn't find you anywhere until he heard the small sniffles and huffs of you trying to breathe through your panic.
He didn't knock. He rushed in, panicked in his own guessing of what was wrong. He saw the handful of tests on the floor beside you leaned back and curled up against the side of the bathtub.
He crouched and kneeled in front of you, not even looking at the tests. He cupped your cheeks. "Hey. Hey, where are you, baby?" Chris spoke, gently shaking you to get you to look at him. Another cry trickled from your throat, brows furrowing.
"I'm home. I know. I know, I just—" You hiccuped, a shaky gasp following. "I think I'm scared." Your voice trembled.
"Of what?" He asked, brushing your hair back and fixing the mess that you'd made from running your hands through it incessantly.
"Being a mom." You handed him one of the tests, and he finally let it sink in. The test was positive.
"Holy fuck. Fuck. Fuck, you're pregnant?" He breathed, looking at you. He tried not to let his excitement override your fear, so he tugged you into a tight hug.
"We're gonna be parents." You choked out, melting into his embrace. "I'm just so afraid, Chris."
"It's okay." He rocked back and forth, allowing you to let you sit in your emotions, feeling everything you needed to while he stifled his excitement. He knew he'd get a burst of fear later, but for now, he was there for you.
Once you calmed down, he pulled back and wiped your cheeks slowly. "Are you okay?" He asked gently. You nodded, sniffling. "Do you want this? A—a baby?" He asked, almost hesitant.
"I do. It's not like I'm not ready. I wouldn't have let you put a baby in me if I wasn't. I'm just... reality hits fast, yknow?" You looked down, head falling against his chest.
"I know, honey. But I'm here." He lifted your face to kiss you softly, humming low. "If you want this, we do it. If you don't want this, we don't do it. That simple. And if you change your mind halfway through, there's always solutions. Okay? And as much as I want a baby with you, your happiness and comfort, and safety come before anything. Never forget that."
"Will you... will you still be going on missions?" You asked quietly. Chris scoffed.
"Screw that. I'll torture myself with a desk job before I risk killing myself while I'm this close to having a family with the woman of my dreams." He soothed your hair down and tucked it behind your ears. "Tomorrow morning, first thing I'll do is find a compromise to make sure I'm here as long as I can be. Whether I take a leave for a while, or they put me on some kind of desk position. It might he hard, considering I'm a captain, but I'll make it work."
"Promise?" You asked, holding out your hand with your pinky finger extended. He smiled, soft and mushy.
"Swear on my life." He linked your pinky with his and brought it to his lips to kiss, like a makeshift lock.
Two months later, you're having the worst time ever. Chris had fulfilled his promise—the BSAA had to make it work. They offered him a job at filing reports and working strictly in the office at HQ for your pregnancy, and for the first year of the baby's life, they'd give him paid leave.
This morning was particularly rough. Not only was your head pounding, but you had your worst morning sickness so far. Puking was bad enough, but it got so much worse when you couldn't even keep water down. Given you didn't know what was okay to take during pregnancy, you refused any and all medicine that Chris offered.
Chris remained at your side, making sure your hair was tied back, any short pieces pinned messily with bobby pins. He soothed you with circles of his palm along your back, helping you clean your mouth between fits of puke. Just as you moved to lean back, praying it was done, you let out a garbled sob and hunched forward, another fit of bile and water coming up from the depths of your stomach. You cried, heaving and gasping above the toilet. Chris sighed quietly, palm gently soothing up and down your back.
"You did this." You choked out, spitting and coughing into the toilet before you reached up and flushed, leaning back and trying to catch your breath. "Your baby is inside of me. It hates me." You reached blindly for a rag.
Chris took the damp rag and gently wiped your mouth and chin, letting you fall into your exhaustion. "I know, honey, I'm sorry." He murmured.
You sniffled, a small whimper leaving your lips as your eyes brimmed with tears. "I hurt so baaad." Your shoulders shook with a small cry, and he gently ran his hands up and down your arms.
"I'm sorry." He leaned in to kiss your forehead. "I know it's hard to eat right now, but do you wanna try some grilled cheese and tomato soup? We can wait, but I need to make sure it eases up, or we might need to get you looked at."
"I know." You sniffled harshly, hiccupping and groaning at the tiny taste of bile at the back of your throat.
"You think we can get you back to the bed?" He asked quietly.
"In a minute. And take me to the living room—not.. not the bed. I'm gross." You muttered, eyes falling closed as you inhaled slowly and tried to keep down the nausea. "Will you go make the couch comfy?" You asked shakily.
"'Course I will." He nodded, leaning in to kiss your forehead once more. "I'll be right back, okay? Try to breathe. Shout if you need me."
You nodded, letting him go. You managed to finally—after an hour of being on the bathroom floor—get up and hobble back to the bedroom, careful to watch your nausea and dizziness. You got yourself changed into one of your cotton nightgowns, the easiest and most comfortable thing you could find. You sat on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly. Chris came back to find you waiting at the bed. He stepped forward and held his hands out.
"C'mere," he murmured, helping you up and letting you lean into him before he slowly hoisted you into his arms. You let him carry you to the couch, laying you down in the pile of blankets and pillows on the large couch. You curled up, relishing in the fact that your bump had yet to form. You knew it was only a matter of time before it was beginning to form, given you were already at the end of the first trimester.
You laid on the couch, eyes closed as you let yourself accept its need for rest. Chris had walked off to make your grilled cheese with the tomato soup. The bread was almost always a help to thicken the contents of your stomach, and the soup was soothing to your sore throat. He was back in ten minutes, sitting on the floor next to the couch as he handed you the tray of soup and grilled cheese. You opened your eyes, humming lazily.
"Just one bite." He encouraged. Although reluctant, you leaned down and reached out to take a decent sized bite of the food, only to slowly sit yourself up and try to relax as you chewed and swallowed the food.
"Thank you." You mumbled.
"Your body feel okay? Any soreness? Aches? Pains?" He asked softly, reaching to gently knead your thighs and calves.
"My back hurts a little, but I'm okay."
"Turn around and lean into a pillow. I'll give you a massage." He insisted.
"I'm okay, Chris."
"But you're hurting. And you refuse to take medicine."
"Because I'm scared it'll hurt the baby." You frowned, brows knitting together faintly.
"So let me massage your back. I promise it'll help."
He did promise. And he kept it. You lazily chewed at your food as he expertly massaged the achey muscles of your back, focusing at the upper middle where you had a tense knot from hunching and slouching so much. You managed to get the grilled cheese down over a half hour, sipping small spoonfuls of the soup. Soon enough, Chris noticed your limp movements, and he moved the bowl away, crawling up onto the couch with you.
"You wanna take a nap? You must be exhausted." He asked, hands still gently massaging your back.
"Will you nap with me?" You looked back at him, and he nodded. "Then yes, please." You leaned back and curled into him, to which he happily accepted with a slow sway back and forth.
"I love you." He mused, low and rumbling in his chest.
"I love you, too."
His hand fell to your belly, a gentle touch just above your waistband below your belly button. Despite all the tough moments so far, Chris couldn't be more excited.
At the end of week 10, Chris was ecstatic. The doctor had told you that your bump should be forming soon, and he was more excited about the baby's size than anything. The doctor had told you the baby was estimated to be approaching the size of a small lime. What did Chris do when you got home? He grabbed a lime and showed you.
"That's our baby." He grinned.
"You impregnated me with a lime? God, I should've known it was too good to be true!" You feigned betrayal, dramatically falling into the door frame and pushing out a fake cry of disbelief. He snorted, catching you before you could sink to your knees.
"No, I impregnated you with a healthy baby who's just about the size of this lime." He corrected himself, and you straightened up quickly.
"Ugh, why didn't ya just say that? You had me thinkin' I married a mad man!" You scoffed with faux offense. He rolled his eyes.
"You're so silly." He leaned in and nuzzled his nose against your neck, kissing at your skin softly. "I can't wait for our baby to be here." He purred softly.
"Well, you'd better wait. I'm not exactly excited to push out a baby. God, if they're anything like you, they might have a massive head." You joked, and he gasped, pretending to be offended.
"My head is perfectly sized." He pouted.
"Ehhh, sure, whatever helps you sleep at night."
Silence fell for a moment, only for him to make you look at him as he hummed happily. "I can't wait for the bump. So I can hold my baby. Our baby."
"Yeah, you'll be doing a whole lot more once that bump gets heavy."
"I'm so excited." He mused.
"I hope so." You mumbled quietly, letting him sway you back and forth with his arms around your waist.
The next appointment at 12 weeks was an appointment to find out the number of babies you'd be having. You could have also found out the sex of the baby, but you both decided to wait a little longer. Chris had hoped for twins. He knew it would be a hassle, but he also knew siblings were so very important. He and Claire had such a special bond, you knew, so you never objected to the idea of multiple kids.
You'll never forget the way Chris cried. Yes, cried.
The doctor turned the machine towards you two, explaining a few observations of good news and good health before she pointed out the two little blobs—twins. The choked sound that came from Chris was humiliating to him, but it made you laugh with relief, knowing that he was still holding true to his original plans. He practically sobbed the moment the doctor left you two alone.
"You're gonna have twins." He shook as he spoke, looking down at you as he stood at the bedside while you fixed yourself up after he'd wiped away the leftover goo from the ultrasound that the doctor missed.
"We are." You corrected softly. His waterworks only made it harder to hold yours back. You squeaked a small cry before he hugged you tightly, allowing you both to fully let go and embrace the onslaught of excitement and shared love.
"We have to pick two names." You sniffled, pulling back.
"Are you hoping for boys? Or girls? Or both?"
"I'm hoping for a baby with a normal sized head." You snorted, and he pinched your side slightly. You giggled, smacking his hand.
"If our kids have a big head, it's 'cause of you." He teased.
Weeks 18 and 19 were the ones that Chris had been most nervous about. You had agreed to keep the babies sex a surprise, hoping to arrange a small thing for you two to find out alone. The doctor did the ultrasound, mailed you two the final discoveries, and Chris asked Claire to be in charge of ordering them a cake to reveal the sex. Blue for two boys, pink for two girls, and purple for one of each.
Sitting on the floor of your living room, you rocked back and forth, your hand resting below your belly, holding the recently formed bump. Chris had his eyes closed as you cut into the cake. You grabbed a plastic fork and took out a bite, counting down from three until you both opened your eyes.
Pink. Bright, neon pink. Chris stared at the color, then at you. Your eyes watered. He was quick to shift the cake aside, pulling you in close for a tight, almost suffocating hug. You sniffled, laughing as he squeezed you before he pulled away. He looked down at the bump, hands coming to hold it.
"We are going to have the most amazing daughters." He looked at you, then back down at the bump.
"Claire must have been ecstatic when she saw the letter to order the cake." You giggled, and he nodded.
"I handed it to her and let her read it in front of me—she looked like she was fighting demons trying not to ruin the surprise." He chuckled.
You turned around in his lap and fell into his hold. You reached out for the fork and took a bite of the cake, humming at the sweetness. "This is really good. Try some." You picked up another bite and held it out to him, listening to him groan and try not to ruin your enjoyment.
"It's very sweet." He cleared his throat as he swallowed. You snickered.
"I always forget you're not a fan of sweet things."
"I'm a fan of you." He hummed.
"Considering we're about to have twins, I'd hope you're a fan of me."
All of these writers/creators are absolutely amazing and i highly recommend following them and showing them some appreciation for their work. I will more than likely update this post every once in a while with more fics I love.
@tothelions - White Noise (so domestic i absolutely love this one)
@/tothelions - under neon lights (I love this one so much!!!! It captures vendetta Leon perfectly)
@/tothelions - you still have all of me (another really sweet one, everything they write is absolutely beautiful)
@julymist - quality control (I love it when my porn also gives me lore)
@/julymist - positive reinforcement (Puppy boy Leon<3)
@/julymist - YGBO. (I’ve only read the first part so far but trust I will be reading ALL of it)
@/julymist - I’ll give you a holy body (dead dove but delicious)
@girlwithadragonheart - big chested reader. (As a big titty lady this made me feel seen<3)
@/girlwithadragonheart - that damn quarter zip (reader and Leon equally thirst for each other and I love it)
@/girlwithadragonheart - bicep riding (it’s so yummy)
@/girlwithadragonheart - somno (it’s not everyone’s thing but it’s DEFINITELY mine)
@midnightsummerrain - you can see it with the lights out (genuinely such beautiful writing)
@/midnightsummerrain - just like you (I loooove re9 Leon x wife reader)
@/midnightsummerrain - just a touch of your love (touched starved Leon you have my heart)
@leonsleatherjacket - Salt and Pepper (AAHHH DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THIS SERIES.)
@/leonsleatherjacket - drabble for an upcoming series (I’m so excited for this omfg)
@lilacgrayskies - insatiable rookie!leon (so so yummy)
@lilacgrayskies - calling re2 leon a pretty boy (HES SO FUCKING CUTEEEE)
@fi1iat3rra3 - older neighbor Leon (I have no words to describe how much I love this fic.)
@multi-fandom-imagine - Rich Leon (I love a wealthy man)
@seribun - calling Leon ‘Scott’ (this and the the follow up are sooooo good)
@lolalov3s - Leon makes you squirt (omfg literally creamed the first time I read this.)
@a-dsoagent - pretty please (normally I’m not one for rough sex but this is delicious.)
@ginsvault - He kept bringing me coffee (re2 Leon does not get enough love and they genuinely wrote him so well its beautiful)
@latenightcig - need to breed (always been a fan of sex pollen fics but this definitely solidifies it.)
@alloftheimagines - stick to me like caramel (dead dove, religious themes but so so yummy)
@chanif-art - resident evil master list (Not fics but I love these comic styles art ‘fics’ (for lack of a better term) and I looove how they draw older Leon)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Word Count: 5.2k
Rating: 18+ / MDNI
Summary:
Three years ago, you escaped Leon Kennedy.
You transferred offices. Changed your number. Signed the divorce papers. Started therapy. Built a life far away from Virginia and the man who once swore he couldn't live without you.
Then a mandatory DSO reassignment drags you back.
Back to headquarters.
Back to old friends.
Back to the city you fled.
And back to the ex-husband everyone still believes is a hero.
Leon says he's changed.
Leon says he's been going to therapy.
Leon says he just wants to talk.
The horrifying part?
He might actually believe that.
Content Warnings:
⚠️ Psychological Horror
⚠️ Domestic Abuse (past relationship)
⚠️ Emotional Abuse
⚠️ Psychological Abuse
⚠️ Coercive Control
⚠️ Gaslighting
⚠️ Stalking Behaviors
⚠️ Trauma & PTSD
⚠️ Panic Attacks / Hypervigilance
⚠️ Threats of Violence (referenced)
⚠️ Manipulation
⚠️ Obsessive Behavior
⚠️ Possessive Behavior
⚠️ Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics
⚠️ References to Sexual Coercion
⚠️ Dead Dove Themes
⚠️ Dark Leon Kennedy
Three years.
That was how long it had taken you to stop checking every room for exits.
Three years to stop sleeping with your phone beneath your pillow, thumb hovering over a number you never called because you knew exactly how useless it would be.
Three years to learn how to sit with your back to a wall without feeling ridiculous for it.
Three years to rebuild a life small enough that it felt safe.
A quieter DSO branch. Smaller cases. Less blood. Less spectacle. A therapist who knew when to push and when to let silence do the work. An apartment with three locks on the door and curtains thick enough to keep the city out. A routine you followed because routine made the world feel less like a hand closing around your throat.
Three years.
And all it took to undo it was one memo.
Mandatory reassignment. Temporary transfer. Virginia field office. Effective immediately.
You read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time, slower, as if the words might change if you gave them enough of your horror.
They didn’t.
Your supervisor wouldn’t look you in the eye when you asked if there had been some mistake.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she sounded like she meant it. “This came from above me.”
“Then send it back above you.”
Her mouth tightened.
You knew then.
Before she said anything else, you knew.
“It’s not a request.”
Your hands went numb.
You left her office without remembering how your legs moved. You made it to the bathroom before you threw up.
That night, your therapist asked if there was any way out of it.
Dr. Carter.
Mid-fifties. Calm voice. Kind eyes. Former military psychologist. The first person you'd trusted enough to tell the whole story.
The first man you'd trusted in years.
You laughed.
It didn’t sound like you.
“No,” you said. “There never is.”
He went quiet on the other end of the line.
You hated that quiet. Hated how carefully he handled it. Hated that he knew enough about Leon to be afraid for you without ever having met him.
“Do you have a safety plan?” Dr. Carter asked.
You stared at the half-packed suitcase on your bed.
Black slacks. Blouses. Files. Medication. Charger. Toothbrush. The ordinary anatomy of a life being interrupted.
“Yes.”
“Do you believe it will be enough?”
You didn’t answer.
Outside your apartment window, rain moved down the glass in thin, silver lines.
For one stupid second, you remembered Virginia in the summer. Humid air. Thunderstorms. The smell of wet pavement and gun oil and Leon’s cologne clinging to your skin after long missions.
You closed your eyes.
Don’t.
Not that.
Never that.
“I’ll call you when I land,” you said.
“Please do.”
You hung up before he could say anything softer.
Before he could say anything that sounded like goodbye.
The Virginia field office looked exactly the same.
That was the first cruelty.
The same polished floors. Same security checkpoint. Same fluorescent lights humming overhead. Same framed commendations lining the walls like proof that good people worked here. Heroes. Survivors. Legends.
People who saved the world and then went home to pretend they hadn’t seen it end.
Your badge worked on the first swipe.
Some part of you had hoped it wouldn’t.
The light blinked green.
The lock clicked open.
And just like that, you were back.
“Holy shit.”
You barely had time to turn before Claire Redfield crossed the room and wrapped you in a hug so warm it nearly broke you.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, squeezing tight. “Look at you.”
Your body didn’t know what to do with kindness anymore. Not here. Not in this building. Not with the past pressing in from every side.
Still, you hugged her back.
“Hi, Claire.”
She pulled away, hands on your shoulders, eyes bright with genuine affection. “You look good. Tired, but good.”
“Thanks,” you said, managing something close to a smile. “You look exactly the same, which is offensive.”
She laughed, and for half a second, it almost worked.
Normal.
You could do normal.
Then Chris saw you.
The hug he gave you lifted your boots off the floor.
“About damn time,” he said, gruff and fond. “Thought New York swallowed you whole.”
“Almost did.”
Jill Valentine was next, quieter than the others, but no less sincere. She looked at you the way she always had—like she saw too much and chose mercy anyway.
“Good to have you back,” she said.
Back.
The word landed wrong.
You swallowed around it.
“I’m only here for the case.”
Chris gave you a sympathetic look. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Ignore him. We’re just happy to see you.”
They were.
That was the worst part.
They were happy.
They didn’t know that the inside of your skull had gone white with panic from the moment you stepped through the doors. They didn’t know you were counting cameras. Doors. Hallways. The distance from where you stood to the exit behind you.
They didn’t know that every familiar voice made you feel more trapped.
Because they were familiar to him too.
A conference room had been set aside for the briefing. Someone had left coffee on the side table. Someone else had printed case files in neat stacks. The whole thing was ordinary in a way that felt obscene.
You took a seat closest to the door.
Jill noticed.
She didn’t comment.
Claire slid into the chair beside you. “You okay?”
You nodded too quickly.
“Yeah. Just… weird being back.”
Her expression softened.
“I get that.”
No, you thought.
You don’t.
Across the room, Chris was talking to someone from intelligence. Jill flipped through the file. Claire leaned over to point out something in the preliminary report, her voice low and focused.
For a few minutes, you let yourself follow along.
Bioweapon trafficking. Missing samples. A lab off-grid. Possible insider involvement. Your specialty.
Of course it was your specialty.
Of course.
You were reaching for your pen when the room changed.
Nothing obvious.
No alarm.
No shout.
No dramatic announcement.
Just a shift.
A pause in conversation.
A subtle redirection of attention, like the air itself had turned its head.
Your fingers tightened around the pen until the plastic creaked.
Claire looked toward the door and smiled.
“Oh,” she said, warm and easy. “There he is.”
Your heartbeat stopped.
Leon Kennedy walked into the room like he belonged there.
Because he did.
That had always been the problem.
He looked older than the last time you’d seen him. Not by much. Just enough that it sharpened him. A few faint lines near his eyes. Broader through the shoulders. Hair still that impossible shade of ash-brown, falling carelessly across his forehead like he hadn’t spent years making carelessness look effortless.
He wore a dark suit, no tie, collar open at the throat.
Wedding ring gone.
Of course it was gone.
He paused just inside the doorway.
His eyes found you immediately.
Not searched.
Found.
Like he had known exactly where you would sit.
For one impossible second, the room disappeared.
You were twenty-six again.
Still too young to understand how badly things had gone wrong.
Still trying to convince yourself that the man you'd married at twenty-three wasn't becoming someone you feared.
Bare feet on cold kitchen tile.
The smell of whiskey.
Rain hammering against the windows.
Your breath coming too fast.
A shattered glass glittering across the floor.
Leon standing between you and the front door.
One hand braced against the counter.
The other holding his service pistol.
Not pointed at you.
Not exactly.
But not put away either.
His knuckles white around the grip.
His chest rising too fast.
His eyes bloodshot.
You remembered the way your stomach had dropped.
The way every instinct in your body had screamed at you to run.
And the horrible realization that there was nowhere to run.
“Leon,” you'd whispered.
He looked wrecked.
Not angry.
Not at first.
Broken.
Terrified.
The kind of terrified that became dangerous.
“You packed a bag.”
His voice had cracked.
You remembered that.
You remembered how much worse that had been than yelling.
“Leon—”
“You packed a fucking bag.”
The gun hit the counter with a deafening crack.
You jumped.
He didn't.
His hands were shaking.
His entire body was shaking.
“Tell me I'm wrong.”
You couldn't.
Because the suitcase had been by the door.
Because you had finally decided to leave.
Because you had finally realized love wasn't enough.
His laugh had sounded like something dying.
Then he'd crossed the kitchen.
Fast.
Too fast.
One hand grabbing the back of your neck.
Not hard enough to bruise.
Hard enough to remind you he could.
“Look at me.”
You had.
God help you, you had.
Tears in his eyes.
Rage underneath them.
Fear underneath that.
“You don't get to leave me.”
The conference room snapped back into place.
Claire was still smiling.
Chris was saying something.
Jill had gone very still.
Leon looked at you across the table.
And smiled.
Not the smile from the magazines.
Not the one cameras loved.
Something smaller.
Private.
Devastating.
“Hey,” he said.
One word.
That was all.
Your body reacted like he had put his hands on you.
Every muscle locked. Your throat closed. Heat rushed up the back of your neck, followed by a cold so deep you felt it in your teeth.
Claire’s smile faltered.
“You two okay?”
Leon looked away from you first.
That was new.
Or maybe it wasn’t.
Maybe he had simply learned better timing.
“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. Perfectly controlled. “It’s just been a while.”
Then he glanced back at you.
Almost apologetic.
“I actually tried to request off this case.”
Your stomach dropped.
Chris looked surprised.
“You did?”
Leon shrugged.
“Yeah.”
His eyes never left yours.
“But you know how it is.”
The words sounded harmless.
To everyone else.
To you, they sounded like a reminder.
There was nowhere to go.
Nowhere to hide.
No one said no to him for long.
A while.
Three years.
A divorce.
A vanished apartment.
A blocked number.
A gun on the kitchen counter.
His hand wrapped around the back of your neck.
His forehead pressed against yours.
The barrel of the pistol sitting three feet away.
And his voice shaking so badly you could barely understand him.
“If you ever fucking leave me...”
You remembered freezing.
Remembered not breathing.
Remembered the tears running down his face.
You'd been twenty-five.
He'd been forty-one.
And somehow he'd still looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.
“Do you know what happens to me if you leave?”
You hadn't answered.
You couldn't.
His grip tightened.
“You're all I have.”
A sob caught in his throat.
Then came the part that still woke you up at night.
The part Dr. Carter kept trying to make you say out loud.
“If you walk out that door...”
His eyes had dropped to the suitcase.
Then to the gun.
Then back to you.
“I swear to God, sweetheart...”
A smile.
Small.
Broken.
Wrong.
“I'll end you.”
Your blood had turned to ice.
“And then I'll end me.”
His thumb brushed your cheek.
Gentle.
Loving.
Terrifying.
“Because there is no life for me without you.”
You stood so abruptly your chair scraped against the floor.
Everyone looked at you.
You forced your face into something human.
“Sorry,” you said. “Long flight.”
Leon’s gaze lowered to your trembling hand.
Then lifted back to your face.
Concern.
Careful concern.
The kind that made everyone else think he was being considerate.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nearly laughed.
Instead you nodded.
“Fine.”
His smile was faint.
“I’m glad.”
That had been one of his worst talents.
Making concern feel like a threat.
The briefing began.
You didn’t hear most of it.
You heard enough to answer when spoken to. Enough to keep your voice even. Enough to nod in the right places and pretend your vision wasn’t tunneling every time Leon shifted in his chair.
He didn’t sit beside you.
He didn’t have to.
He sat across from you.
Close enough that you could see the faint scar near his lower lip.
Close enough to remember how he got it.
Close enough to remember kissing it once, years ago, when you still thought love could save people like him.
He was careful.
That was what made it worse.
He didn’t stare too long. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t make a scene. He was professional. Respectful. Almost distant.
Anyone watching would think he was being kind.
Giving you space.
Letting you adjust.
You knew better.
Leon Kennedy could make restraint look like mercy.
The meeting ended just after six.
People stood. Folders closed. Chairs scraped. Claire asked if you wanted dinner. Chris offered to walk you to the hotel. Jill gave you one last searching look.
Leon said nothing.
Not until you were at the door.
Then, softly, almost too low for anyone else to hear:
“Welcome home.”
Your hand slipped on the door handle.
You didn’t turn around.
If you turned around, you might scream.
So you walked.
Down the hall.
Past security.
Through the front doors.
Into the humid Virginia evening.
Only when the building was behind you did you realize you had been holding your breath.
The hotel was two blocks from the office.
Government-approved. Sterile. Expensive in the bland way federal accommodations always were.
The woman at the front desk smiled too much.
“Welcome, Agent,” she said, sliding your key card across the counter. “Everything has already been taken care of.”
Your stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Her smile flickered.
“Your stay. Incidentals. The room.”
“By the DSO?”
She glanced at the computer.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You stared at her.
She stared back, polite and useless.
“Enjoy your stay.”
You almost asked for another room.
Then you remembered it wouldn’t matter.
You took the key card.
The elevator ride was mirrored on all sides.
You hated that.
By the time you reached the seventh floor, your reflection looked pale enough to be dead.
Room 714.
You checked the hall before unlocking it.
Empty.
You checked again.
Still empty.
Inside, the room was cool and dim, curtains drawn against the city. Bed made. Desk clean. Bathroom door open. Closet empty.
You did what you always did.
Checked behind the curtains.
Under the bed.
Inside the closet.
Shower.
Locks.
Windows.
Only then did you set your suitcase down.
Only then did you let your shoulders drop.
You were fine.
You were tired and shaken and back in a city full of ghosts, but you were fine.
Leon had been in a room with you for forty-eight minutes and nothing had happened.
He had not followed you.
He had not touched you.
He had not cornered you.
He had said two sentences.
You could survive two sentences.
You sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes.
Breathe in.
Hold.
Breathe out.
Dr. Carter's voice, gentle and steady.
Name five things you can see.
Bed.
Lamp.
Desk.
Curtains.
A photograph.
Your eyes snapped open.
Photograph?
There hadn't been a photograph.
You stood.
Slowly.
The frame sat on the desk.
Face down.
Your pulse stumbled.
You crossed the room.
Turned it over.
Your stomach dropped.
It was a picture of the two of you.
Not a wedding photo.
Worse.
A candid.
Taken in your old kitchen.
You laughing at something off camera.
Leon looking at you.
Not the camera.
You.
Twenty-three and glowing.
Him nearly forty and staring at you like he'd found religion.
You had never owned a copy of this picture.
You didn't even know it existed.
Beneath it sat a bottle of wine.
Red.
Dark glass.
A cream label with gold lettering.
Your favorite.
Not your current favorite.
Not something you drank anymore.
Something from before.
From Virginia.
From the house.
From nights when Leon came home bruised and quiet and poured you both a glass without asking because he knew exactly how much you liked.
Beside it sat a small arrangement of snacks.
Not hotel snacks.
Not generic.
Your favorite crackers. The chocolate you used to hide in the back of the pantry. A bag of those stupid sour candies Claire had teased you for eating during stakeouts.
And beneath them, folded with almost surgical neatness, was a piece of ivory silk.
Your breath turned thin.
You crossed the room slowly.
As if approaching a body.
The silk was soft when you touched it.
Too soft.
A slip.
Your slip.
Not similar.
Not the same brand.
The same one.
The one that had disappeared during the divorce.
The one you had assumed got lost in the move.
You snatched your hand back.
There was a card tucked beneath the wine.
No envelope.
No signature.
Just three words written in a handwriting you had spent years trying to forget.
Welcome home, sweetheart.
The room tilted.
Then you noticed something else.
The closet door.
Open.
You were absolutely certain you had closed it.
A cold sweat broke across your skin.
You walked toward it.
Inside, hanging neatly on a hotel hanger, was a dress.
Dark blue.
Elegant.
The dress.
The one Leon had always loved.
The one he used to ask you to wear to dinners, galas, fundraisers—any excuse he could find.
The one you secretly hated.
Too tight. Too expensive. Too much like the version of yourself he preferred.
You hadn't seen it since the divorce.
Yet there it was.
Pressed.
Perfect.
Waiting.
Your knees nearly buckled.
He had been here.
Not someone.
Him.
He had stood in this room.
Touched these things.
Arranged them.
Waited.
Maybe hours ago.
Maybe minutes.
Maybe while you were downstairs checking in.
Your phone was in your hand before you remembered reaching for it.
No signal.
You stared at the top corner of the screen.
No signal.
That was impossible.
You moved to the window.
Still nothing.
To the door.
Nothing.
Your pulse kicked once.
Then again.
You unlocked the door and yanked it open.
The hallway was empty.
Too quiet.
Too still.
At the far end, the elevator doors were closed.
You stepped out.
The key card slipped in your damp palm.
Behind you, inside the room, your phone buzzed.
One time.
You froze.
Slowly, you turned.
The screen glowed from the bed.
A text.
You knew before you picked it up.
You knew before you read it.
You always forget to eat when you're scared.
Another buzz.
Have some chocolate.
Another.
You checked under the bed first. You always do that.
🖤 Okay, while I’m working on the next couple chapters of Flesh & Blood, I need help deciding what kind of Leon-induced emotional damage we’re doing next. 🖤
I have approximately 47 different Leon Kennedy one-shot ideas rattling around in my head at all times, and these are the ones currently fighting for dominance.
Which one would you want to read first? 👀
📊 POLL: Choose Your Flavor of Leon-Related Poor Decisions😏
🔒 The Kidnapper
Leon has spent years watching the world burn. He’s tired. Lonely. Desperate for something normal. Then he sees you—a glimpse of the life he never got to have—and decides he’s not letting it slip away.
The problem?
He never asked if you wanted it too.
🍷 The Stalker / Yandere
A new DSO data analyst finally works up the courage to say hello to the legendary Leon Kennedy during a team happy hour.
He smiles. He’s polite.
Then he becomes completely obsessed.
Because someone as sweet and innocent as you could get hurt.
And clearly you need someone to protect you.
Preferably him.
Forever.
❄️ Enemies/ Forced Proximity
Leon has been hunting a mercenary tied to Umbrella intelligence leaks for months.
When he finally finds her, she’s already bleeding, injured, and trapped in a snowstorm.
The nearest extraction point is impossible to reach.
Now they’re stuck in a remote safe house together for three days.
She hates him.
He doesn’t trust her.
And neither of them can leave.
🥃 The Ex He Can’t Let Go
Years after walking away, you stumble into the bar Leon frequents.
One glance is all it takes.
Because suddenly he’s remembering everything.
And realizing maybe letting you go was the biggest mistake of his life.
Unfortunately for you, Leon Kennedy isn’t known for giving up once he’s made a decision.
🔥 The Rookie
Veteran agent Leon Kennedy gets assigned to train a younger rookie.
She’s stubborn. Reckless. Determined to prove herself.
Leon tells himself she’s just another assignment.
Then she comes back from a mission bruised and shaken and someone has to explain exactly who hurt her.
(Spoiler: Leon handles it poorly.)
What type of Leon one shot do we wanna see next?
🔒 The Kidnapper
🍷 The Stalker / Yandere
❄️ Enemies/ Forced Proximity
🥃 The Ex He Can’t Let Go
🔥 The Rookie
Voting ended onMay 30
💬 Also feel free to comment or message me about what tropes you’d want.
Possessive Leon? Protective Leon? Emotionally damaged Leon? Morally questionable Leon? Leon desperately trying—and failing—to be normal?
Because apparently I only know how to write one man in twenty different shades of concerning. 🫡😌
ellievsbear
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
blakekathryn
tangentwithtanner
stormborns
titsay
