Series masterlist
AO3
Pairing: RE4!Leon Kennedy x CIA!Reader
Summary: You’ve spent your career being the hand that sweeps the world's atrocities under the rug. You’re cynical, you’re tired, and you’re definitely too old for Leon Kennedy’s brand of heroics. There are rules to this job: Don’t get attached. Don’t hesitate. Don’t trust anyone. You break all three somewhere between a dive bar, a hospital room, and Leon Kennedy looking at you like you’re something worth saving.
Content: 18+, graphic descriptions of violence, eventual smut, second person POV, no use of Y/N, age gap (older reader), coworkers to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, awkward Leon, almost kisses, romantic tension, sexual tension, survivor's guilt, eventual smut, avoidant attachment, past trauma, patching each other up,
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Leon moves through the empty concrete structure with his weapon raised, his eyes scanning the shadows, but the cold weight in his chest tells him everything he needs to know before he even clears the perimeter. The compound, tucked away precisely where the local informant had pointed them on the map, is a ghost town.
The silence down here is thick, absolute, and deeply frustrating.
He steps into what should have been the primary incubation chamber, his boots crunching over small pieces of discarded insulation and severed cables.
There are no bio-organic specimens, no containment vats, and no personnel. The heavy machinery has been unbolted from the floor, leaving behind nothing but clean, rectangular outlines in the dust and the faint, lingering smell of industrial bleach.
"They're gone," Leon says, his smooth voice tight with a mixture of anger and exhaustion as he lowers his handgun. He turns his head to look at you, his blue eyes carrying a weary frustration. "The whole damn place has been scrubbed. Like someone tipped them off exactly when our flight logs cleared Langley."
You walk past him, your jaw set in a hard, dangerous line as you trace a finger over a severed data cable.
"They didn't just pack up, Kennedy. They cleared out in a hurry," you say, your voice a low, gravelly rasp that reflects the absolute lack of patience you have left. You gesture toward a single, flickering terminal in the corner that the sweep team missed. "But the bastards were sloppy. They left a terminal on a local loop."
Leon crosses the room, his broad shoulder lightly brushing against yours as he leans over the terminal to watch you work. Your fingers fly across the mechanical keyboard with a practiced, aggressive speed, completely bypassing a secondary encryption block.
The pale blue light of the screen illuminates the sharp, beautiful determination in your eyes, and Leon finds himself momentarily, entirely distracted by how close you are. The faint scent of rain and gunpowder clings to your jacket, a combination that makes his pulse do a sudden, uncoordinated little flutter in his chest.
Focus, Kennedy, his inner monologue chides, a dry, self-deprecating smirk forming in his mind. You’re standing in an abandoned bioweapon facility, not a cocktail lounge.
"Look at the internal transit logs," you mutter, pointing a finger at a highlighted line of telemetry data. "The shipping manifests aren't leaving the country. They didn't export the samples. They just pushed the entire production line deeper into the foothills, further into the triple-canopy jungle where the satellite sweeps can't penetrate the canopy."
"Great," Leon sighs, leaning his palm against the desk, his face inches from yours as he studies the coordinates. "So we get to hike further into the parasite infested brush. And here I thought we were going to get to enjoy some of that local hospitality you promised me."
Before you can fire back with a dry, biting insult, a wet, rhythmic scratching sound echoes from the main ventilation shaft above the terminal desk.
Leon’s training clicks in instantly. He reaches out, his hand gripping your shoulder to pull you back into a defensive stance just as the metal grate collapses downward in a shower of sparks and rusted screws.
The ambush doesn't come from corporate mercenaries this time.
Out of the darkness of the ceiling vents drop three mutated, skinless creatures—quadrupedal Chimera variants with elongated, needle-sharp talons and jaws that split down the center, dripping with a thick, corrosive saliva that hisses against the concrete floor.
"Guess the cleanup crew just arrived!" Leon shouts, his weapon barking twice as he places two high-caliber rounds directly into the center mass of the closest creature. The beast screeches, its momentum staggered, but it lunges forward anyway, its claws tearing through the air.
"Move!" you bark, your submachine gun unleashing a tight, controlled burst that shreds the front leg of the second monster.
The retreat is a chaotic, tight-quarters nightmare.
The corridor is narrow, the flashing red emergency lights casting long, distorted shadows that make it impossible to track the creatures as they scramble along the walls and ceiling with a terrifying, wet speed.
Leon fires smoothly, dropping back step by step, his ears ringing with the deafening roar of the gunfire. He places himself slightly ahead of you, his eyes darting back to ensure your perimeter is clear.
You reach the final exit corridor when the third creature makes a desperate, blind lunge from an intersecting maintenance alcove.
You pivot on your heel to take it down, your movements fluid and practiced, putting a burst right through the monster’s skull, but you aren't fast enough to avoid its dying momentum. A jagged, calcified talon on the beast's front leg slices violently across your leg, tearing clean through the fabric of your tactical trousers and cutting a deep, nasty gash across your thigh.
You let out a sharp, ragged hiss of pain, your knee buckling underneath you as the hot copper scent of your own blood fills the air.
Leon doesn't stop to think, he just dives across the remaining distance, his broad frame skidding into the concrete as he fires three rapid shots into the twitching carcass to ensure it's dead.
He hooks a solid arm securely around your waist, pulling your weight up against his side before the other two creatures can close the gap.
"I'm fine! Get the fuck off me, Kennedy!" you snarl, your teeth clenched so tight your jaw aches, your hands aggressively pushing against his chest as you try to force your bad leg to bear weight. "It's just a scratch! I can walk on my own!"
"Yeah, and I'm the King of England," Leon shoots back, his voice dropping into a low, stubborn register that matches your own unyielding steel.
He completely ignores your fierce, vocal protests, tightening his iron grip around your waist and pulling your arm securely over his broad shoulders, anchoring you against his side.
"You're bleeding through your gear, and I am not leaving my favorite partner behind because your ego is too big for your boots. So shut up and let me help you."
"You are an incredibly annoying pain in my ass," you grunt, your voice a strained scratch, though you finally stop fighting his grip, letting your shoulder lean heavily against his chest as he guides your stumbling, uneven steps through the final blast doors and out into the rainy jungle night.
Leon keeps his weapon raised with his free hand, his pulse pounding furiously against his ribs—not from the adrenaline of the escape, but from the terrifyingly close proximity of your body against his, and the raw, heavy realization of how close he had just come to losing you.
As he helps support your weight through the dense ferns, he notes with a quiet, undeniable affection that for all your brutal language and sharp edges, you are holding onto his jacket tightly, trusting him completely to drag you out of the dark.
──────•✦•──────
The safehouse is a dingy, one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of a city Leon can’t even remember the name of anymore. It smells of damp wallpaper and the metallic, cloying scent of forty-eight hours of unwashed adrenaline.
The fluorescent light in the kitchenette flickers with a persistent, rhythmic hum that feels like a needle tapping against the inside of Leon's skull.
He’s already shed his tactical vest, his white undershirt stained with a map of soot and sweat, but he hasn't stopped moving. He can’t. Not until he checks on you.
He finds you in the cramped bathroom, sitting on the edge of a stained porcelain tub. The door is propped open just enough for him to see the scene, and it makes his stomach do a slow, nauseating roll.
You’ve cut your tactical pants away, revealing a jagged, angry gash across your thigh that’s still weeping crimson. You’re holding a curved suturing needle, your knuckles white, but your hands are betrayed by a fine, violent tremor—the kind of post-mission vibration that comes when the body finally realizes it’s not dead yet.
"You know, they usually teach us to use the sharp stuff on the bad guys, not ourselves," Leon says, his voice a low, tired rasp as he leans against the doorframe. He tries for a smirk, but it’s thin and fragile.
You don't even look up. "Go away, Kennedy. I’ve got it. I’ve had worse cuts from a dull can opener."
You try to bring the needle to your skin, but the metal tip dances erratically. Your inner monologue is likely screaming a litany of curses, but your face remains a mask of stubborn, icy resolve.
Leon doesn't leave. He enters the room, his boots heavy on the cracked linoleum.
"If you keep shaking like that, you’re going to embroider a pattern into your leg instead of closing the wound." He reaches down, his fingers gently but firmly closing around your wrist. "Let me. I’ve had plenty of practice putting things back together."
"I said I’ve got it," you snap, your gaze finally snapping to his. Your eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with the exhaustion of two days without proper sleep, but they still have that sharp, defensive edge. "I don't need a nurse, Leon."
"Good, because I’m a terrible nurse. I never remember to bring the lollipops," he counters, not letting go.
He stays there, patient and immovable, until you finally let out a long, jagged breath and surrender the needle.
He drops to his knees on the bathroom floor, ignoring the cold bite of the tile. He takes a sterile wipe, cleaning the area with practiced, steady hands.
His heart is thumping against his ribs—not from the adrenaline, but from the proximity. From the way your skin feels under his fingertips, even through the grit and the blood.
Amazing, Kennedy, he thinks, his inner voice dry and self-deprecating. Kneeling at her feet in a bathroom that smells like bleach and mold. You really know how to pick the romantic spots.
As he begins to work, the only sound is your shallow, uneven breathing. He’s focused, his brow furrowed, but he can feel the tension radiating off you in waves.
You’re too still. You’re the kind of person who uses sarcasm like a shield, but right now, you’re silent, and that’s what scares him.
Suddenly, you speak. Your voice isn't sharp anymore; it’s hollow, like a bell that’s been rung too many times. "Do you ever think about the count, Leon?"
He pauses, the suture thread suspended in the air. "The count?"
"The bodies," you whisper, staring at the wall over his head. "The ones we leave behind in the dirt. The ones we don't mention in the reports."
You go completely still, your leg beneath his hand as cold as marble. "I realized today that I didn't even blink while I was shooting what used to be people. I just checked my watch after. I’m terrified of the day I stop feeling the weight of it. I’m terrified that I’m becoming the same kind of monster we’re supposed to be hunting."
Leon stops stitching entirely. He sets the needle down on a clean gauze pad and looks up.
He doesn't offer a platitude.
He doesn't tell you it’s just the exhaustion talking.
He meets your gaze, his blue eyes intense and uncomfortably honest.
"You want to know why I trust you?" he asks, his voice a low vibration in the small room.
He reaches out, his thumb grazing the edge of the wound he’s just closed, his touch lingering far longer than it should.
"It’s not because you’re a legend at Langley. It’s not because you can outshoot half the STRATCOM."
He leans in closer, the scent of the mission—smoke and rain—filling the space between you. "It’s because you’re sitting here, shaking and terrified that you’re losing your soul. The day you stop worrying about the weight of those bodies is the day you’re dangerous. But as long as it hurts? As long as it makes your hands shake? Then you’re still the only person I want at my back."
The silence that follows is heavy, charged with a profound, terrifying respect that makes the air feel thick.
Leon doesn't move away. He stays kneeling there, his hand resting on your thigh, his gaze locked onto yours.
He sees the crack in your armor, the gentleness you hide behind all that bluntness, and it makes him want to do something incredibly unprofessional—like pull you into his arms and never let go.
"Finish the stitches, Kennedy," you finally murmur, but the bite is gone.
You reach down, your fingers brushing against his hand on your leg, a brief, electric contact that makes his breath hitch.
"Before I bleed out and you have to write a very long, very annoying report."
Leon huffs a small, shaky laugh, the tension breaking just enough for him to pick up the needle again. "Right. Paperwork. My old nemesis."
He finishes the job, his movements even more careful than before.
He knows that the wound on your leg will heal in a week, but the things you both carry? Those are permanent.
As he tapes the final bandage in place, he realizes that he’s not just stitching up a partner anymore.
He’s looking at the only woman who makes him feel like a human being in a world that wants him to be a weapon.
He stands up, offering you a hand, and for a second, he doesn't let go when you take it. He just stands there in the flickering light, holding onto you, wondering if the weight of the world might be a little easier to carry if you did it together.
──────•✦•──────
The humidity in the Peruvian rainforest isn't just weather; it’s a physical weight, a wet wool blanket draped over your shoulders that smells of rotting vegetation and ancient, damp earth.
You’ve been trekking through the green hell of the Amazon basin for ten days now, tracking a lead that has proven to be as elusive as a ghost.
Your skin is a canvas of angry, red welts from insects that seem to view high-potency DEET as a light seasoning, and your tactical gear feels like it’s fused to your body.
By the middle of the second week, Leon—the man who usually moves through disaster zones with the grace of a cinematic hero—starts to lag.
At first, you chalk it up to the grueling pace, but when his face turns a sickly, translucent shade of gray and he starts stumbling over roots he should have seen a mile away, the reality sets in. It’s not just the heat.
"You look like hell, Leon," you mutter as you finally call a halt for the night, shoving aside a massive fern to clear a space for the tent.
"Just... the humidity," he wheezes, dropping his pack with a heavy thud that tells you exactly how little strength he has left. "I'm fine."
Right. And I’m the Queen of England, your inner voice snaps, dry and unimpressed. The man is vibrating like a tuning fork and his eyes are glassy enough to be marbles, but sure, he’s 'fine.'
Fast forward four hours, and "fine" has officially left the building.
You’re sitting on the cramped, nylon floor of the tent, the air inside thick enough to drink. Outside, the jungle is a cacophony of shrieking primates and buzzing insects, but inside, the only sound is the ragged, wet rasp of Leon’s breathing.
He’s sprawled on his sleeping pad, his skin burning to the touch, caught in the grip of a fever that has turned his blonde hair into a matted, sweaty mess.
It’s likely a viral gift from one of the thousand mosquitoes that have been snacking on him, something nasty but—hopefully—not terminal.
Still, you aren't taking chances.
You spend the night in a state of hyper-vigilance, sitting cross-legged beside him with a first-aid kit and a canteen of purified water.
"Drink, Leon. Come on, don't make me use a funnel," you whisper, propping his head up.
He groans, a low, pained sound, and takes a few weak sips before his head lolls back against your arm.
He’s drifting in and out of a delirious fog, his eyes fluttering open but not quite seeing you. He reaches out, his hand trembling as he fumbles for yours, his fingers locking onto your wrist with surprising strength.
"Don't go," he mumbles, his voice a cracked, pathetic shadow of itself. "Stay. Please."
"Where am I gonna go, pretty boy? The nearest Marriott is five hundred miles away," you say, your voice soft despite the sarcasm.
He doesn't seem to hear the joke. He pulls your hand toward his chest, holding it like a lifeline. "I can't... I don't want to lose you," he stammers, his brow furrowing in a mask of feverish anxiety. "The only person... the only one who makes me laugh anymore. Don't leave me in the dark."
The bluntness of it catches you off guard, knocking the wind out of your lungs. Your brain, usually so quick to provide a sharp-edged defense, goes silent.
You look down at him—this legendary agent, this "silver bullet"—looking so small and shattered in the dim light of a tactical lantern.
In the quiet hum of the room, a sudden, aching clarity hits you right in the chest. You look at the deep lines of exhaustion etched into his face and realize, with a heavy sort of sorrow, just how profoundly lonely Leon S. Kennedy truly is.
He is a walking curriculum at the academy, a celebrated survivor, and a top-tier asset. STRATCOM, the president, the politicians in Washington—they all treat him as a weapon first, a precision instrument of the state, and a human being a distant second.
You know that exact brand of loneliness. You have spent more than half of your life moving through the dark like a ghost, buried under classified files, valued only for your body count and your cold efficiency. You know what it feels like to have people look at you and only see a tool to clean up their bloody messes.
A fierce, quiet resolve takes root deep inside you. You aren't going to do that to him. Whatever happens next in this multi-agency circus, you are done looking at his file.
You make a silent promise: from here on out, he is Leon first, and Agent Kennedy a distant, forgotten second.
You let out a soft, slow sigh, the harsh armor completely evaporating from your posture as you shift closer to the edge of the mattress. You don't pull your hand away from his chest. Instead, you reach up with your free hand, resting your palm gently against his forehead, your fingers tracing the line of his damp, messy blond hair.
"I'm right here, you big dork," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "I'm not going anywhere. Someone has to make sure you don't accidentally walk into a jaguar's mouth."
Since he’s checked out of reality, you find yourself saying the things that usually stay buried under twenty-five years of cynicism.
You find yourself leaning in, your voice barely a breath.
"You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be a hardened survivor, you’re an absolute disaster," you murmur to the unconscious man.
"You and your stubborn moral compass. You still think you can save everyone. It’s exhausting to watch, honestly."
You pause, tracing the line of his jaw with a fingertip. "I spent twenty-five years convincing myself that everyone in this business was either a shark or a corpse. Then you come along with your 'baby deer' attitude and your earnest blue eyes, and you go and ruin my perfectly good cynicism. It’s incredibly inconvenient, Leon. I had a very nice, cold heart before I met you."
You let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. "I actually admire it. The fact that you haven't let the world turn you into a bastard yet. It makes me want to... well, it makes me want to keep you around. Just to see if you can keep the streak going."
You’re exhausted, your eyes burning, but the thought of him waking up alone in the dark makes the fatigue feel irrelevant.
You stay like that for hours, monitoring his pulse, wiping his brow with a damp cloth, and whispering a litany of honest, terrifyingly soft truths into the humid air.
You tell him he’s the best man you’ve ever known, and you tell him that the thought of a world without his awkward bravery is more frightening than any bio-weapon you’ve ever hunted.
By dawn, the fever finally breaks. The jungle light filters through the tent in hazy, green shafts.
Leon stirs, his breathing finally leveling out. He blinks, his eyes clearing as they land on you. He looks exhausted, but the delirium is gone.
"Hey," he rasps, offering a weak, lopsided ghost of a smile. "Did I... did I say anything embarrassing?"
You look at him, and for a second, the weight of everything you confessed in the dark feels like it’s written on your face.
But then you blink, and the wall goes back up—mostly.
"You cried for your mommy and asked if I had any chicken nuggets," you lie effortlessly, reaching for the canteen. "It was pathetic, really. My respect for STRATCOM is at an all-time low."
Leon huffs a small, genuine laugh and closes his eyes, reaching out to squeeze your hand one last time before dropping off into a natural, healing sleep.
He has no memory of the night, no idea that he stripped away your last defense. But as you sit there watching him breathe, you realize the cynicism isn't coming back.
You’ve been found out, and as much as you want to be annoyed about it, you cannot bring yourself to.
──────•✦•──────
The Peruvian jungle is currently trying to swallow you whole.
The air is so thick with humidity and the smell of rotting ferns that you feel like you’re breathing through a wet sock, and your patience is officially thinner than the CIA budget.
Leon is finally back on his feet after his bout with the fever, but he’s moved from "delirious patient" to "suffocatingly protective martyr" in record time.
He’s leading the way through the undergrowth, his eyes scanning every rustle of the canopy with a frantic, sharp intensity. You can see it in the set of his shoulders—he is back in hero mode, and it’s making your skin itch.
"Leon, if you look at that tree any harder, it’s going to catch fire," you mutter, wiping sweat from your brow with a grimy glove. "Take a breath. We’re tracking, not storming the beaches of Normandy."
He doesn't even turn around. "We're close. The trail is fresh. Just stay behind me and keep your eyes on the perimeter."
Your inner voice lets out a long, weary groan. Stay behind him? Right. Because I haven't been doing this for twenty-five years. I’m just a helpless civilian who accidentally wandered into a bio-hazard zone. Iron-tight logic, Kennedy.
The situation comes to a head at the edge of a ravine.
A makeshift bridge of rusted cable and rotting wood spans a thirty-foot drop into a rocky creek. On the other side, the silhouette of an old research outpost looms through the mist.
It’s also rigged. You can see the thin, glinting tripwires stretched across the entrance of the bridge.
Leon stops, his hand raised. He looks at the bridge, then at you, and you can see the wheels turning. It’s the look he gets right before he does something spectacularly stupid.
"I’ll go across first," he says, his voice flat and "Agent Kennedy" serious. "I'll clear the wires, secure the far side, and signal you when it's safe. If the bridge gives out or the charges blow, you stay back and call for extraction. You don't follow."
"The hell I don't," you snap, stepping up beside him. "It’s a two-person breach, Leon. That’s the plan. You go over there alone, you're a target in a bottleneck. We go together, or I go first while you provide cover."
"No," he says, and this time his voice has a jagged edge. He steps in front of you, physically blocking the path. "I'm not letting you walk onto a rigged bridge. I've got the armor, I've got the experience with these specific traps. Stay back."
"The experience?" you repeat, your voice rising as the anger finally boils over. "I was disarming IEDs in the desert while you were still figuring out how to use a hairdryer, Leon! Step aside."
"I'm protecting my partner!" he shouts back, his blue eyes flashing with a sudden, defensive heat.
"You're not protecting me, you're being a fucking martyr!" you roar, shoving his chest with both hands. He doesn't budge—he's like a wall of stubborn muscle—but the physical contact breaks the dam.
"You think you’re the only one allowed to bleed for the mission? You think you have to do every single thing alone just so nobody else gets hurt? It’s not noble, Leon, it’s fucking insulting!"
He scoffs, his posture stiffening. "I'm the one they sent to handle this. If someone has to take the hit, it should be me. I can handle it. I've survived—"
"I don't care what you've survived!" you interrupt, stepping directly into his personal space, your face inches from his.
The humidity, the exhaustion, and the fear you’ve been burying all crash down at once. "I don't want to see you hurt, Leon. I don't want to see you dead because you were too busy being a hero to let me help you. Maybe you should try remembering that I actually give a fuck about whether or not you make it back to your apartment!"
The words hit the humid air and stay there, vibrating with a raw, blunt honesty that strips the "professionalism" right out of the jungle.
Leon freezes. The defensive retort dies in his throat, his mouth snapping shut as the weight of your words sinks in.
He looks at you—really looks at you—and the "Agent" mask shatters. Behind it is the man who clung to your hand in a fever dream, now looking completely stunned by your outburst.
You’re breathing hard, your chest heaving, your hands still hovering near his tactical vest. The silence that follows is deafening, punctuated only by the distant shriek of a bird and the frantic pounding of your own heart.
Great work, your inner voice whispers, for once devoid of sarcasm. You just told the STRATCOM’s most eligible bachelor that you’re terrified of losing him while standing in a swamp. What the fuck.
Leon’s gaze softens, the hardness in his jaw fading into something much more vulnerable.
He reaches out, his hand hovering near your shoulder before he finally lets it rest there, his thumb grazing the strap of your pack. "You..." he starts, his voice low and uncharacteristically shaky. "You mean that."
"Of course I mean it, you fucking idiot," you mutter, though the fire is gone, replaced by a weary, gentle ache. You look down at his boots, then back up at his face. "I'm your partner. That means we share the risk. You don't get to take it all for yourself just to keep my hands clean."
Leon stands there for a long moment, the tension between you thick enough to rival the jungle mist.
He looks like he wants to say a thousand things—to apologize, to argue, to kiss you right there on the edge of a ravine. Instead, he just nods slowly, his fingers tightening briefly on your shoulder in a silent promise.
"Okay," he whispers. "We go together. Two-person breach."
"Good," you say, a small, tired smirk finally returning to your face. "Now, let's go disarm this before the humidity melts my boots."
He doesn't let go of your shoulder until you start moving, and as you both approach the bridge, you don't miss the way he keeps his pace exactly matched to yours.
He’s still protective, but the "martyr" has left the building, and as you step onto the swaying wood, you realize that the only thing more dangerous than the mission is how much you’ve both stopped pretending you don't care.
The bridge groans under the combined weight of two people who are currently carrying enough emotional baggage to sink a battleship.
Leon keeps his eyes locked on the rotted slats of wood, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs that has nothing to do with the thirty-foot drop into the jagged rocks below. Every time the rusted cables shriek, he feels a spike of pure, unadulterated terror—not for himself, but for you, walking a hair’s breadth behind him.
She gives a damn, his mind repeats, the words looping like a broken record. She actually gives a damn.
He’s spent so long being the one who absorbs the impact, the guy who jumps in front of the explosion because it’s easier than asking for help, that your outburst back on the ridge has left him feeling more exposed than if he’d walked into a gunfight without a vest
"Step exactly where I step," he murmurs, his voice tight. "The left side of this cable looks like it’s held together by thoughts and prayers."
"I see it, Leon. I have eyes," you retort, though your tone is missing its usual jagged edge. You’re close—so close he can hear the slight hitch in your breathing over the rush of the creek below. "Just keep moving before the prayer part runs out."
You reach the far side, and Leon immediately drops into a crouch, his handgun drawn and scanning the perimeter of the research outpost.
The building is a concrete blight on the landscape, choked by vines that look like they’re trying to crush the life out of the walls.
"Trips at ankle height," he whispers, pointing out the nearly invisible glint of monofilament stretched across the doorframe. "And if I know Chimera's interior decorators, there’s a secondary pressure plate under that loose floorboard. They really lean into the ‘deadly hallway’ aesthetic."
"Predictable," you mutter, already kneeling to inspect the wiring. "It’s like they have a subscription to Villainous Architect Monthly. Give me a minute."
Leon stands watch, his back to you, his eyes darting between the dense treeline and the dark interior of the outpost.
He’s hyper-aware of your presence behind him—the soft click of your tools, the focused silence. He wants to apologize again, or maybe just tell you that he hears you, but the words feel like lead in his mouth.
Doing great, Kennedy. She bares her soul in a swamp and you’re currently debating the merits of tripod-mounted turrets.
"Clear," you announce, standing up and brushing the jungle grit from your knees. "After you, hero. And try not to trip on your own cape."
He lets out a small, dry huff of a laugh. "The cape is at the dry cleaners. You’re stuck with the standard-issue jacket."
The interior of the outpost is a claustrophobic nightmare. The air is stagnant, smelling of ozone, stale chemicals, and the unmistakable, sickly-sweet scent of biological rot.
It’s a labyrinth of shattered glass and overturned lab equipment.
You move in a practiced, silent sync—Leon takes point, clearing the corners while you watch his six.
It’s the kind of unspoken rhythm that only comes from months of shared danger, but today, it feels different. There’s a new gravity to it, a weight that makes Leon check his corners twice just to be sure the path is clear for you.
You find the viral samples in a reinforced cold-storage unit at the back of the facility. The vials are glowing with a faint, eerie blue luminescence inside their padded case. Leon secures the crate, his fingers steady despite the adrenaline still humming through his veins.
"Package secured," he says, his voice echoing in the hollow room. "Let's get the fuck out of here before the local wildlife realizes we've stolen their nightlight."
He pulls his comms unit to his lips, clicking the frequency for the extraction bird. "Hunnigan, this is Condor. Package retrieved. We’re moving to the secondary LZ. Tell the pilot to keep the engine running; the humidity is doing terrible things to my hair."
"Copy that, Condor," Hunnigan’s voice crackles back, sounding a world away in the comfort of a climate-controlled room. "ETA ten minutes. Don't be late."
As you head back out through the gloom, Leon catches your eye. You’re looking at him with that same blunt, unblinking intensity you’d used on the ridge. He stops for a second, the glowing blue crate held between his hands, the shadows of the jungle dancing across his face.
"You're right," he says suddenly, the words blurted out with that classic Kennedy awkwardness.
You pause, one hand on your holster. "About which part? The 'martyr' part or the 'idiot' part? You'll have to be specific."
Leon manages a small, lopsided smile—a genuine one this time. "About... everything. I’m not used to someone actually being worried." He takes a breath, his gaze softening. "I’ll try to keep the heroics to a manageable level. I'd like to make it back to that apartment too. I think I’m starting to like the coffee there."
You stare at him for a beat, your brain probably having a field day with the sheer earnestness of his face. Then, you let out a soft, huffed breath and pat his shoulder as you pass him, heading back toward the bridge.
"Good. Because if I have to carry you back through this swamp, I’m charging you for the manual labor," you tease, but your hand lingers on his arm for a second longer than necessary.
Leon watches you go, a warmth spreading through his chest that has nothing to do with the Peruvian sun.
──────•✦•──────
The trek back toward the secondary LZ is a grueling slog through knee-high ferns and thick, sucking mud that threatens to claim Leon's boots with every step.
The blue glow of the samples in the crate provides a ghostly, flickering light against the darkening emerald of the jungle canopy.
Leon is trying to focus on the mission—on the extraction, on the tactical perimeter, on anything that isn't the tectonic shift currently happening in his chest—but you aren't letting him retreat into the safety of the objective.
"You're doing it again," you say, your voice cutting through the humid drone of the cicadas.
You don't even turn around, but he can hear the firm, uncompromising set of your jaw in the way you articulate the words. "That look you get. Like you're calculating how much the world would weigh if you had to carry it all by yourself."
Leon wipes a smear of grime from his forehead, his breath hitching. "It's just the mission. I'm focused."
"Bullshit," you counter, stopping dead in your tracks and spinning around to face him.
The suddenness of it forces him to halt, the crate of vials bumping against his tactical vest.
"You’re not just focused. You’re atoning. You’ve been atoning for Raccoon City, for the people you couldn't pull out of the fire, for every name on a redacted list for the last ten years. You live like you’re trying to earn your right to breathe because you survived when they didn't."
Leon opens his mouth to offer a standard-issue Kennedy deflection—something about duty, or the job, or how he just wants to get the mission done—but the words die on his tongue.
You’re looking at him with an intensity that is both terrifying and heartbreakingly gentle.
"I've tried that, Leon," you say, your voice dropping into a low, weary rasp that resonates in the quiet space between the trees. "I spent a decade living like a ghost because I thought someone deserved the life I had more than I did. It is a very shitty way to live. It doesn't honor the dead; it just makes you one of them before your time."
Leon just stands there, the glowing crate held like a shield he no longer knows how to use. He feels ridiculously vulnerable, stripped of his armor and his STRATCOM credentials.
He’s the most dangerous man in the room, a lethal instrument of the state, and yet he feels like he’s standing in front of a mirror he’s spent years trying to break.
Say something. Anything. Crack a joke about the humidity. Mention how much you hate the soul-searching, his brain suggests, though its voice is uncharacteristically weak. Tell her she’s wrong. Tell her you’re fine.
But he isn't fine. And he can’t lie to you. Not when you’re looking at him like you can see every scar, both the ones on his skin and the ones he’s carefully hidden away in the dark.
He expects another lecture.
He expects you to point out his flaws with that sharp, CIA-honed precision, methodically stripping away whatever bravado he has left until his failures are laid bare in the dirt. He braces himself for the verbal sting, his shoulders tensing as you take a step closer, invading his personal space until the scent of your sweat and rain-soaked hair completely fills his senses.
But the sting never comes.
Instead, you reach out and pull him into a hug. It’s slow, deliberate, and devastatingly gentle. You wrap your arms around his waist, pulling his large, solid frame flush against yours.
Leon freezes. His arms remain pinned at his sides, the crate of stabilizers still clutched tightly in his right hand, his brain simply failing to process the transition from a fierce "tactical debate" to unconditional comfort.
The concept is entirely foreign to him. Leon is a man who has spent almost a decade navigating a reality where physical contact only ever means two things: a desperate, hyper-violent struggle for survival against monsters trying to tear the flesh from his bones, or the shallow, fleeting warmth of women who want a piece of the tragic hero for a single, meaningless night before vanishing with the sunrise.
He is used to being a weapon first, an asset. He is entirely used to being the one people lean on when the sky starts falling; he is used to being the anchor. Being the one held—being treated as something fragile enough to require protection—feels like a foreign language he’s never bothered to learn.
He knows you have your own extensive gallery of ghosts to worry about. He knows you’ve buried a small army’s worth of friends over twenty-five years of black ops cover-ups. And yet, despite the weight of your own mangled history, here you are.
You aren't looking at his pristine file or his strategic value. You are peering right through his armor, recognizing the raw, fractured psyche he desperately tries to hide behind cheesy one-liners, and you are actively offering him shelter anyway.
You are standing in the mud, making sure the Golden Boy doesn't do something incredibly stupid trying to play the immortal hero.
For a long, agonizing second, he just stands there, a pillar of confused muscle and repressed emotion. Then, the heavy crate is gently lowered to the mossy ground. Slowly, as if he’s afraid the entire moment will shatter into jagged pieces if he moves a fraction too fast, he wraps his arms around you.
He pulls you in tight, the sheer, sudden force of his grip revealing just how starved he is for this exact touch. His large hands splay across the back of your damp tactical shirt, and he buries his face deep into the crook of your neck, hiding his expression entirely in the messy curtain of your hair.
The heavy, humid silence of the jungle swallows you both. Leon breathes you in, the damp heat of the afternoon forgotten as he allows himself to just... exist.
He lets the suffocating weight of the "Golden Boy" persona fall away in the dark, resting his forehead heavily against your shoulder. It’s a brief moment, a fleeting pause in a life defined by violence and ghosts, but to Leon, it means absolutely everything. It’s a silent, beautiful acknowledgment that he doesn't have to be the hero for a single minute.
He doesn't have to be Agent Kennedy. He can just be Leon.
"You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled and shaky, completely devoid of its usual baritone confidence.
"I know," you whisper back, your hand moving to stroke the back of his head, your fingers tangling gently in the damp blonde strands. "Someone has to be."
Leon pulls back just enough to look at you, his face still flushed and his blue eyes uncharacteristically bright in the filtering canopy light.
The tension is thick, a physical hum in the air that rivals the vibration of the coming extraction bird. He looks like he wants to say something else—something about how you’ve ruined his ability to be a lonely martyr—but the distant thrum of rotors begins to shake the trees.
"Extraction’s here," he rasps, clearing his throat and trying to find his footing again. He picks up the crate, but his gaze lingers on yours for a beat too long.
Series masterlist
AO3
Pairing: RE4!Leon Kennedy x CIA!Reader
Summary: You’ve spent your career being the hand that sweeps the world's atrocities under the rug. You’re cynical, you’re tired, and you’re definitely too old for Leon Kennedy’s brand of heroics. There are rules to this job: Don’t get attached. Don’t hesitate. Don’t trust anyone. You break all three somewhere between a dive bar, a hospital room, and Leon Kennedy looking at you like you’re something worth saving.
Content: 18+, graphic descriptions of violence, eventual smut, second person POV, no use of Y/N, age gap (older reader), coworkers to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, awkward Leon, almost kisses, romantic tension, sexual tension, survivor's guilt, eventual smut, avoidant attachment, past trauma, patching each other up,
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The hum of the office’s industrial HVAC system has become a dull, brain-numbing thrum that Leon is convinced will be played on a loop in his personal version of hell.
It is 2:00 AM, and the windowless room feels like a pressurized capsule deep underwater.
He rubs the bridge of his nose, his eyes burning from fourteen hours of squinting at digital shipping manifests that all seem to blur into a single, endless string of shell companies and illegal cargo.
Across the desk, you are leaning back in a swivel chair, your head tilted back against the headrest as you stare at the ceiling tiles with a look of pure, unadulterated loathing.
"If I have to look at one more logistics code, I’m going to defect," you mutter, your voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates through the quiet room.
You groan, checking your watch and letting out a huff of disbelief.
"An hour. I have an hour-long commute back to my place near Langley. By the time I hit the pillow, I’ll have to wake up and do my hair for the morning briefing. This is a human rights violation."
Leon looks at you, his heart doing that annoying, rhythmic hitch it always does when you let your guard down. He’s equally wrecked—his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and his blonde hair looks like he’s been trying to pull it out by the roots.
Don’t overthink it, Kennedy. Be a human being, his brain suggests.
"Don't be dramatic," he says, a tired smirk playing on his lips. "My place is ten minutes away. I have a guest room with actual pillows and a door that locks. You can crash there and save yourself the two hours of highway-induced misery."
──────•✦•──────
Ten minutes later, the rainy D.C. streets are a blur of neon reflections, blue and red smears of light streaking across the windshield as Leon drives you toward his apartment.
The silence in the car isn't heavy; it’s the comfortable, exhausted quiet of two people who have survived enough gunfights and bureaucratic marathons to find peace in the mechanical hum of an engine and the rhythmic sound of windshield wipers.
Leon keeps his eyes fixed on the road, his hands gripped at ten and two. He’s hyper-aware of your presence in the passenger seat—the way you’re leaned back, eyes closed, the faint scent of office coffee and rain clinging to your coat.
Don’t make it weird, Kennedy, his brain warns with a dry, cynical edge. You’re being a good partner. Providing a sleeping solution. It’s practically a mission requirement.
Still, as he pulls into his parking garage, he finds himself checking the rearview mirror to make sure he doesn't have a stray smudge of ink on his face.
Leon leads you inside, his keys jingling with a sudden, jarring loudness in the quiet hallway.
He pushes the door open and steps aside, feeling a strange, fluttery spike of nerves he hasn’t felt since his first day on the force. This is his sanctuary—the one place where he isn't an agent, he's just Leon.
And now, you’re in it.
The air in the flat smells of cedar, old paperback books, and the faint, lingering tang of the coffee he’d brewed at five that morning. It’s lived-in, sparse but clean, and suddenly he’s worried it’s too sparse. Or maybe too messy?
"Make yourself at home," he says, his voice cracking just enough to make him want to walk back out the front door and keep going until he reaches the border. "The guest room is through there."
He disappears into his bedroom for a moment, the sound of him rummaging through a dresser drawer echoing in the small space. He emerges holding a faded gray t-shirt—a relic from his Academy days, soft and thin from a hundred washes, the fabric so worn it feels like a second skin.
"Here," he says, handing it to you with a slight, awkward shrug. He avoids meeting your eyes, focusing instead on the way your fingers brush his as you take the fabric.
"It’s not exactly high fashion, but it’s better than sleeping in slacks. Unless you’re the type who likes to be combat-ready at 3:00 AM, in which case... I have an extra vest?"
It’s a terrible joke, and he knows it the moment it leaves his lips. He lets out a small, self-deprecating huff. "Ignore me. I’m running on fumes."
He leads you to the bathroom, pointing out the stack of fresh towels with the kind of stiff, formal hand gestures usually reserved for briefing the Joint Chiefs. "Soap is there. Extra toothbrush in the mirror cabinet. It’s, uh... it’s the soft bristle kind. Better for the gums. "
Better for the gums? Really? Just stop talking, his mind begs.
Once the bathroom door clicks shut, Leon retreats to the kitchen, feeling like he’s just defused a bomb with three seconds left on the clock. He leans against the laminate counter, his breath hitching as he stares at a glass of water like it holds the secrets to the universe.
He’s trying to stay professional, trying to maintain that "partner" persona that keeps things safe and uncomplicated, but his brain is currently a riot of unhelpful thoughts.
He can hear the water running in the shower, and the sound makes the apartment feel suddenly, claustrophobically intimate.
He thinks about you in his shirt—the way the gray cotton will hang off your frame, the way the collar will likely slide down one shoulder. He thinks about you sleeping just a few feet away, wrapped in his linens.
Get a grip, Kennedy, he tells himself, taking a long, slow sip of the water. You’re a professional. You’re an agent. You’re... currently staring at a toaster like it’s a high-priority threat because a woman is in your bathroom.
He lets out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his face with his hands.
He’s survived Raccoon City, the Plagas, and a dozen global conspiracies, but standing in his own kitchen while you wash the day off in the next room is somehow the most terrifying mission of his life.
He just hopes he can make it through the next eight hours without saying something even more idiotic.
Then, the bathroom door clicks open.
When you emerge, Leon’s brain simply... stops working.
The shirt is massive on you, the hem hitting mid-thigh, revealing the long, pale line of your legs. The collar is stretched wide, sliding off one shoulder to reveal the jagged, white edge of a scar—a map of your service that usually hides beneath layers of silk and Kevlar.
You look soft, vulnerable, and devastatingly domestic in his clothes.
Leon stands there, frozen with his glass halfway to his mouth, his inner monologue screaming in a panicked, high-pitched frequency.
Well, that’s it. Pack it up. I'mnever getting this image out of my head. I want her in my clothes forever.
He realizes he’s staring—not just a polite glance, but a full-blown, wide-eyed gaze that would be embarrassing even for a rookie.
You catch his eye, your brow arching in that familiar, sharp way that usually precedes a verbal dismantling.
"You know, Kennedy," you tease, your voice dropping into a playful, sleepy drawl. "If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to start charging you for the view. Or did you forget what a woman looks like without a holster?"
Leon feels the heat rush up his neck, a deep, searing crimson that he’s helpless to stop. He clears his throat, finally managing to set the glass down with a hand that is definitely not as steady as he’d like.
"I was just... checking to see if the shirt fit," he lies, his voice sounding uncomfortably raspy. "It’s a bit big."
"Right. Very considerate of you," you murmur, stepping into the narrow hallway where the linen closet is located.
He follows you to point out the extra blankets, but the hallway is cramped, a space designed for utility rather than the lingering, heavy tension that currently fills it.
Leon ends up standing way too close to you, his chest nearly brushing your bare shoulder as he reaches for a high shelf. He can smell the soap from his shower on your skin, mixed with your own scent, and it makes his head spin.
"Blankets are... uh, right here," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper.
He’s looking down at you, his gaze trapped by the way the dim hallway light catches the gold in your eyes.
He knows he should step back.
He knows he should say goodnight and go to bed like a rational adult.
But as you look up at him, your breath hitching just a fraction in the quiet intimacy of the apartment, Leon realizes that 'rational' is a luxury he can no longer afford. He stays right where he is, his hand lingering on the closet door, caught in the gravity of a woman who has finally managed to disarm the President's most dangerous weapon without firing a single shot.
You don't let the moment linger long enough for him to actually recover his dignity. Instead, you offer him a lazy, half-lidded smirk that says you know exactly what kind of chaos you're causing, and then you pat his arm—a touch that feels like a branding iron through the thin sleeve of his shirt.
"Goodnight, Leon," you murmur, your voice dripping with a playful, sleepy silkiness. "Try not to dream about shipping manifests."
You turn and slip into the guest room, the click of the door latch sounding like a gavel in the silence of the hallway. Leon stands there for a full thirty seconds, staring at the wood grain of the door, his hand still hovering near the linen closet.
"Yeah. Goodnight. I’m... I'm just across the hall," he finally stammers to the empty corridor, his voice cracking just enough to make his inner monologue groan in agony. "If you need... pillows. Or a tactical flashlight. Or anything. I'm right there. In the room. Sleeping."
He practically retreats to his own bedroom, tripping over the threshold in his haste to escape the radiating heat of his own embarrassment.
He falls back onto his mattress, not even bothering to change out of his trousers, and stares up at the ceiling where the shadows of the rainy D.C. streets dance in rhythmic patterns.
His heart is a frantic percussion in the quiet room. All he can see behind his eyelids is the way that gray t-shirt—his shirt—hung off your frame. The way the hem brushed your thighs. The way the collar exposed that small, pale sliver of a scar on your shoulder.
You’re in his house.
You're in his clothes.
You're currently sliding under sheets that he washed and folded.
She’s in my bed, he thinks, the realization hitting him with the force of a flashbang. He quickly corrects himself, his eyes snapping open. Well, not my bed. The guest bed. But it’s still my furniture. My linens. My space.
He wonders, with a sudden and terrifying intensity, if the guest room will smell like you in the morning. If that sharp, clean scent of your perfume will linger in the fibers of the pillowcase. Then, he stops, squeezing his eyes shut as a wave of self-loathing washes over him.
God, you’re a pervert, Kennedy, his inner monologue snarls, dry and biting. A highly trained federal agent, and here you are, lying in the dark wondering about the smell of your spare bedding like some kind of basement-dwelling creep. Real professional.
He rolls onto his side, clutching his own pillow and trying to force his brain to shut down, but it’s a losing battle. The apartment feels different now—smaller, warmer, and infinitely more dangerous.
Every creak of the floorboards sounds like a reminder that you're just a few feet away, wrapped in his cotton, and Leon realizes that "ten minutes away" might have been the most perilous distance he's ever traveled.
Do you think the gray shirt looks better on him or you?
And more importantly, would you actually be there when the sun came up, or would you vanish back into the shadows of Langley before he could offer you a cup of that high-end coffee?
How long do you think it'll take before Leon finally stops "acting professional" and actually tells you he's been gone for you since that first briefing?
──────•✦•──────
The morning light is a cruel, unfiltered glare that cuts through the condensation on the kitchen windows, highlighting every dust mote dancing in the air of Leon’s apartment.
You emerge from the guest room feeling surprisingly human, having scrubbed the exhaustion from your face with cold water. You’re back in yesterday’s clothes—the slacks pressed as best as you could manage with your palms, the silk blouse tucked in with surgical precision.
To any casual observer, you look like the high-level operative you are: composed, untouchable, and ready to dismantle a regime before lunch.
You walk into the kitchen, the soft click of your heels on the hardwood announcing your arrival.
Leon is there, standing by the counter with a mug in his hand. He’s already dressed in a fresh suit—minus the jacket—but his hair is a damp, chaotic mess from a recent shower, and he has the haunted, wide-eyed look of a man who spent the night wrestling with his own conscience.
"Morning, Leon," you say, your voice smooth and entirely too steady for someone who got four hours of sleep.
Leon jolts, nearly sloshing coffee over his white shirt. "Morning," he manages, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
He clears his throat, his gaze flicking to you and then immediately back to the toaster as if it were a high-priority threat.
"Coffee’s in the pot. It’s... it’s the good stuff. Not the federal battery acid."
"You remembered my request. I’m touched," you tease, leaning against the kitchen island.
You watch him fumble with a spoon, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.
It’s fascinating, really.
This man has stared down biological horrors that would turn most people’s hair white, but a quiet morning in a kitchen with you has him on the verge of a meltdown.
You take a slow, deliberate sip of the coffee—it is, in fact, really good—and then you let a slow, mischievous smirk pull at your lips. It’s time to poke the bear. Or the baby deer.
"You know," you start, your tone conversational as you glance down at your rumpled blouse. "We’re going to be arriving at work at the exact same time. Me in yesterday’s clothes, walking in right behind you." You tilt your head, watching him over the rim of your mug. "The rumor mill is going to have a field day. By noon, the Director will think we’re engaged, and by the afternoon debrief, Evan will be asking when the housewarming party is."
The effect is instantaneous. Leon freezes, his hand tightening around his mug until his knuckles turn white. You watch the panic flare behind his blue eyes, followed quickly by that deep, scorched-earth blush that climbs from his collar all the way to his messy hairline.
"I—well, I mean—" he stammers, his brain clearly freezing as he tries to calculate the political and social fallout of such a scandal. "I can drop you off a block away? Or I can... I could go in late? We don't have to—it doesn't have to look like that."
God, he’s so easy to rattle, you think, feeling a surge of genuine, playful affection for the man.
You push off the counter, stepping into his space just enough to see him hold his breath.
"Relax, Leon," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, raspy drawl as you pat his shoulder. "I’m an expert at redirection. I’ll just tell them I spent the night in a high-stakes interrogation and you were my primary witness. It’s not even a lie, technically."
You offer him a wink, watching him struggle to form a coherent sentence. "Drink your coffee, pretty boy. We’ve got a world to save, and you look like you’re one joke away from an aneurysm."
Leon just stares at you, his mouth slightly parted, his "professional" mask completely shattered. He looks absolutely wrecked, and you find it entirely too satisfying.
"Right," he finally mumbles, taking a desperate gulp of coffee. "Interrogation. I can work with that."
You wonder much longer he can survive this kind of "professional" tension before he actually tries to make the rumors true.
──────•✦•──────
The ink on these financial spreadsheets is starting to look less like data and more like a personal insult.
You are leaning so far forward over the secure glass terminal that your nose is practically touching the display, your fingers flying across the trackpad as you scroll through a seemingly endless labyrinth of encrypted shipping manifests, shell companies, and falsified customs declarations.
The air in the secure room is freezing, smelling faintly of heated copper wiring and the aggressively chemical lemon wipes someone used to clean the desks. Your lower back is a solid sheet of pain from sitting in a government-issued rolling chair for nine hours straight, and your inner monologue is currently composing a deeply moving, highly profane eulogy for your sanity.
If I have to look at one more offshore banking routing number registered in the Cayman Islands, you think, your jaw tightening as you rub at a stubborn knot in your shoulder, I am going to personally find the head of the Chimera Syndicate and strangle him with a networking cable. Just for the sake of variety.
"Hey, tax evasion enthusiasts," you call out, your voice a gravelly, sand-papered rasp that cuts through the rhythmic clicking of keyboards.
"Look at this July manifest from 'Apex Logistics.' It’s a classic dummy corporation. No physical assets, one registered mailbox in Panama, and a paper trail that completely vanishes into thin air."
Evan leans over your shoulder, a cold cup of tea in his hand, his eyes narrowing as he tracks your cursor. "They’re flagging heavy refrigerated cargo containers. Certified as agricultural fertilizer, but look at the temperature requirements. Negative eighty degrees Celsius. You don't keep cow manure on dry ice."
Across the table, Leon straightens up from his own terminal. He has his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the corded, athletic muscle of his forearms, and his blond hair is a little less perfectly styled than usual—a clear sign that he’s been running his hands through it in frustration for the last three hours.
He walks over to your station, his solid, broad presence instantly cutting off the draft from the AC vent.
"The routing numbers on those shipments are bouncing through a secondary shell company based out of Lima," Leon says, his smooth voice dropping into that intensely focused, analytical register that always makes your pulse do a stupid, uncoordinated little flutter. He points a finger at a highlighted line on your screen. "Look where the physical tracking data cuts off. It’s not the coast. It’s the high-altitude cloud forests of the Amazonas region in northern Peru."
You tilt your head back, looking up into his chiseled face. "Peru," you drawl, a heavy, theatrical sigh vibrating in your chest. "Fucking marvelous. So we’re trading the humid, parasitic swamps of Colombia for high-altitude, oxygen-deprived mountain ridges. My knees are practically weeping tears of joy, Kennedy."
Leon lets out a soft, genuine laugh, a warm sound that completely shatters the sterile, stressful atmosphere of the terminal room. He leans his hip against the edge of your desk, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an incredibly playful, teasing brightness.
"Come on," he murmurs, his mouth curving into that crooked, slightly awkward smirk you’re becoming dangerously fond of. "Look on the bright side. The llamas are friendly, the geography is stunning, and I hear the local pisco sours are incredible. It’s basically a vacation. A working vacation where we happen to be hunting a highly illegal, mutated biological weapon lab."
"You really are an incurable optimist, aren't you, pretty boy?" you tease, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your face. You reach out, your fingers lightly tapping against his forearm, feeling the rigid, steady warmth of his skin beneath your touch. "A vacation. Right. I’ll make sure to pack my finest tactical sunhat. If a giant, mutated guinea pig tries to bite my face off in the Andes, I am personally using your leather jacket as a shield."
Leon blinks, his cheeks flushing a faint, endearing shade of pink at the sudden physical contact and the low, gravelly intimacy of your tone. He scratches the back of his neck, his signature schoolboy awkwardness returning in full force. "I, uh... I think my jacket has suffered enough structural damage for one month," he stammers slightly, clearing his throat.
Evan lets out a loud, raspy snort from across the desk, completely destroying the moment. "If you two are quite finished, we actually have a flight log to clear. The Director just signed off on the operational budget. You’re wheels up for Lima in six hours."
The playful light instantly vanishes from your eyes, your professional, hardened mask clicking right back into place as you sit up straight. You stare at the digital map of Peru now populating the main screen, your heart settling into a steady, cold rhythm.
"Alright, let's get the satellite terrain scans for those coordinates," you command, your voice turning into that fierce, unyielding authority that leaves no room for corporate bureaucracy. "If the Chimera Syndicate built a laboratory in the mountains, they’re going to have limited extraction points. Let’s figure out how to box the bastards in before we even touch down."
Leon steps back to his terminal, his posture shifting seamlessly from the awkward, charming guy into the lethal, hyper-competent operative you trust with your life.
But as he glances back at you over his shoulder, the intense, lingering warmth in his blue gaze tells you everything you need to know: the walls are crumbling, and whatever nightmares are waiting for the two of you in the Peruvian clouds, you aren't facing them alone.
──────•✦•──────
The basement armory of the STRATCOM headquarters smells of gun oil, floor wax, and the bruised egos of a hundred field agents who came before you.
You’re currently standing in front of a rack of combat knives, weighing a balanced Karambit in your hand while Leon meticulously inspects a standard-issue survival knife like he’s looking for a microscopic flaw in the steel.
"You’re overthinking it," you say, your voice echoing slightly in the sterile, low-ceilinged room. "It’s a blade, not a soulmate. You point the sharp end at the bad guy and try not to get blood on your boots."
Leon huffs, a dry, amused sound. He doesn't look up from the blade.
"Precision matters. In a close-quarters struggle, a quarter-inch of reach is the difference between going home and ending up as a redacted file. But I wouldn't expect a CIA 'point-and-click' specialist to understand the nuances of a proper edge."
Your inner monologue lets out a sharp, cynical bark. Nuances? This man treats a knife like it’s a high-maintenance girlfriend.
You turn toward him, leaning your hip against the gear table. "‘Point-and-click’? Careful, pretty boy. I’ve put more miles on a combat blade than you’ve put on that hair product you love so much. In a real scrap, I’d have you on the floor before you finished reciting the manufacturer’s warranty."
Leon finally looks at you, a challenge sparking in those deep blue eyes. He sets the knife down with a deliberate clack. "Is that so? You think you can take down a STRATCOM veteran with just 'nuance-free' aggression?"
"I don't think, Kennedy. I know," you counter, a playful, dangerous smirk pulling at your lips. You gesture toward the padded sparring mats at the far end of the armory. "Unless you’re afraid of losing your 'Golden Boy' status to a girl from Langley."
"The mats. Now," Leon says, his voice dropping into that focused, mission-ready register that always makes a small, traitorous part of you shiver.
The spar begins as a physical chess match. You shed your tactical jackets, down to just your black undershirts, and the shift in energy is palpable.
You move first—you’re faster, a blur of practiced, kinetic motion. You’re a product of the CIA’s ruthless efficiency; you don't fight fair, you fight to end it. Leon, however, is a wall. He’s stronger, his movements grounded and economical, honed by years of surviving things that shouldn't be survivable.
You lunge, a feint toward his ribs that he catches with a forearm block that feels like hitting a steel pipe. You use the momentum to spin, sweeping for his ankle, but he hops the strike and lunges for a clinch.
For a few minutes, it’s a blur of heavy breathing, the scent of salt and exertion, and the dull thud of bodies hitting the mat.
Your brain is providing a running commentary of dry insults. Come on. He’s built like a tank, but tanks don't turn well. Pivot. Use his weight.
You see your opening when he commits too heavily to a shoulder throw. You slip under his center of gravity, a move that requires more trust in your own knees than you probably have, and trip his lead foot while driving your weight into his chest.
The air leaves his lungs in a sharp woof as he hits the mat hard. Before he can roll, you’re on top of him, pinning him down with a practiced, brutal grace.
You’ve got your knees firmly planted on either side of his hips, pinning his lower body, and your forearm is pressed across his collarbone, just shy of his throat.
You’re both gasping for air, the silence of the armory amplified by the frantic thrumming of your hearts.
A single bead of sweat drips off the tip of your nose, landing right on the collar of his damp shirt.
Your hair has fallen out of its tie, framing your face in a messy curtain. You look down at him, your chest heaving, and let a triumphant, jagged smile take over.
"See?" you wheeze, your voice a low, mocking drawl. "I told you. Easy to take down. Maybe STRATCOM needs to up their recruitment standards if this is the best they’ve got."
You expect a retort. A one-liner about "lucky breaks" or "dirty tricks."
But Leon doesn't say a word. He’s looking up at you, and the heat in his gaze has nothing to do with the exercise. His blue eyes are dark, focused on your face with an intensity that makes the playful insult die in your throat.
Slowly, almost tentatively, Leon reaches up.
His hand is large, his skin warm as he brushes a stray lock of hair away from your forehead and tucks it behind your ear. His thumb lingers for a heartbeat, grazing the curve of your cheekbone with a gentleness that feels completely out of place in a basement full of weapons.
"You're... relentless," he whispers, his voice a gravelly vibration that you feel through your knees.
The air in the room suddenly feels ten degrees hotter.
Your heart, which had been slowing down, kicks back into a frantic, uneven rhythm. For a second, you think he might pull you down, or you might lean in, and the "professional boundaries" will finally go up in smoke right here on the blue vinyl.
But you’re a CIA veteran; you know when to retreat from a compromised position. You force a sharp, barking laugh and push off him, springing to your feet in one fluid motion.
"Relentless and currently winning," you say, reaching down to grab your jacket from the floor.
You don't look back as you head for the door, your brain screaming at you for being a coward.
"Try to get some ice on that ego, Kennedy. I’d hate for you to be too sore to carry my bags on the next mission."
You hear him behind you—the sound of him scrambling to his feet, followed by the inevitable, adorable stammer.
"I—my ego is fine! And I'm not carrying your bags! That was a technicality!"
You smirk as you hit the elevator button.
Nice work, pretty boy, you think, feeling the ghost of his thumb still burning against your skin. Let’s see how you handle the debrief.
Series masterlist
AO3
Pairing: RE4!Leon Kennedy x CIA!Reader
Summary: You’ve spent your career being the hand that sweeps the world's atrocities under the rug. You’re cynical, you’re tired, and you’re definitely too old for Leon Kennedy’s brand of heroics. There are rules to this job: Don’t get attached. Don’t hesitate. Don’t trust anyone. You break all three somewhere between a dive bar, a hospital room, and Leon Kennedy looking at you like you’re something worth saving.
Content: 18+, graphic descriptions of violence, eventual smut, second person POV, no use of Y/N, age gap (older reader), coworkers to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, awkward Leon, almost kisses, romantic tension, sexual tension, survivor's guilt, eventual smut, avoidant attachment, past trauma, patching each other up,
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The rainy D.C. weather is doing absolutely nothing to improve your spectacular headache.
You sit in a secure, subterranean intelligence terminal deep within the concrete belly of the agency's headquarters, watching the final strings of the decrypted Geneva files map themselves across a massive, high-definition wall monitor. It takes exactly three seconds for the reality of the data to set in, and it makes your stomach do a slow, sick flip.
The Chimera Syndicate isn’t just importing and exporting raw viral materials anymore. The decrypted manifests, telemetry logs, and structural blueprints reveal that they have a massive, fully operational breeding facility hidden deep within the dense, triple-canopy rainforests of Colombia.
It is an industrial-scale nightmare factory, custom-built to mass-produce refined Plagas vectors right under the nose of international law enforcement.
Colombia, your inner monologue drawls, dripping with heavy, exhausted sarcasm. Fantastic. Because if there's one thing my fifty-year-old knees absolutely love, it's trekking through humid mud while dodging mutated bugs and drug cartel mercenaries.
You lean forward, resting your elbows on the edge of the terminal desk, ready to dive deeper into the facility's structural weak points. "Hey, tech support," you call out, your voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Pull up the secondary server logs from the Geneva archive. I want to see the biometric signatures of the buyers who funded the Colombian infrastructure."
The young tech specialist sitting at the primary console—a kid whose skin looks like it has never seen a day of actual sunlight—types a rapid sequence into his mechanical keyboard.
He freezes.
He types it again, his brow furrowing as a flashing red error prompt populates his screen.
"Uh, ma'am?" the kid stammers, his voice cracking slightly. "I... I can't. The data partition for the buyer profiles is gone."
You don't move, but your entire body goes entirely, dangerously rigid. "What the fuck do you mean it's gone, kid? Pull it up from the secondary backup."
"No, you don't understand," the specialist mutters, his fingers trembling slightly over the keys as he pulls up a system diagnostic. "It didn't glitch. It was manually, securely purged from the local CIA mainframe less than twenty minutes ago. Someone used a high-level administrative bypass code to wipe the entire sector."
A cold, suffocating wave of pure fury hits your chest, vaporizing the last frayed remnants of your sanity.
An internal mole.
A high-ranking, clean-shaven suit sitting somewhere in this very building, actively protecting the monsters who are selling bioweapons.
The deep-seated, systemic disillusionment you have carried for twenty-five years suddenly boils over into white-hot, uncontrollable rage.
Before your brain can even register the choice, you slam your palms against the desk, the heavy thud echoing like a gunshot through the terminal room. You lunge forward, grabbing the tech specialist by the stiff collar of his ironed shirt, dragging him halfway out of his ergonomic chair until his terrified face is inches from yours.
"Who logged into that terminal?!" you snarl, your teeth clenched so tight your jaw aches, your voice a terrifying, serrated blade. "Give me a fucking name before I paint this pristine console with your teeth!"
"I don't know! I swear to God I don't know!" the kid shrieks, his eyes wide with a pure, unadulterated terror that shows he has never been in a room with a real field agent before.
"Hey! Back off! Let him go!" a couple of STRATCOM analysts shout from the back of the room, but they don't dare step closer to you.
You look like a woman who is entirely prepared to start a small war in the middle of Langley.
Suddenly, a pair of thick, remarkably solid arms wrap securely around your torso from behind.
Evan pulls back with everything he has, his boots skidding against the linoleum floor as he physically drags you away from the trembling tech specialist.
"Stand down! Stand the fuck down!" Evan grunts in your ear, his voice thick with desperate authority as he locks his arms around your chest. "You're going to catch a federal assault charge before we even get a flight tracker, you crazy bastard! Let him go!"
You struggle against his grip for one violent, white-hot second, your breathing ragged and uneven, before the cold reality of the situation forces its way through the fog of your anger.
Evan doesn't let go of you immediately, keeping his grip firm until he feels the rigid, lethal tension slowly drain out of your spine.
You step back, smoothing down the front of your blouse with trembling hands, your inner monologue turning viciously cynical. God, I love this agency. We bleed in foreign mud just so some bastard in a three-thousand-dollar suit can sell out the mission parameters for a fat Swiss bank account.
Through the ringing in your ears, you notice a shadow standing near the heavy glass doors of the terminal room. Leon is standing there. He had walked in right at the peak of your outburst, and he had witnessed the entire, ugly, unvarnished display of your volatile temper.
You close your eyes for a brief fraction of a second, waiting for the lecture.
You wait for the pristine, heroic Golden Boy to deliver some textbook, self-righteous speech about operational decorum, or professional restraint, or whatever the hell they teach the pretty boys at the academy.
But the lecture never comes.
Leon doesn't look horrified, and he certainly isn't judging you.
Instead, his bright blue eyes are filled with a profound, quiet understanding, his mouth set in a hard, grim line that matches the heavy weight in your own chest. He steps forward, completely ignoring the frantic whispers of the terminal staff, and catches your arm with a firm but surprisingly gentle grip.
"Come with me," Leon says softly, his voice a calm, steady anchor that completely cuts through the buzzing tension of the room.
He doesn't give you room to argue, guiding you out of the terminal and down a quiet, dimly lit corridor until he pushes open the door to a private, completely empty breakroom. He lets the heavy door click shut behind them, effectively locking out the frantic, bureaucratic chaos of the main intelligence grid.
You sink heavily against the edge of the laminate counter, burying your face in your hands as the massive crash of the adrenaline leaves you feeling completely hollowed out.
Leon doesn't push you to talk.
He moves quietly around the small room, his boots making a soft, comforting sound against the tile. You hear the distinct, metallic rattle of a cheap coffee machine, followed by the slow, depressing drip of generic government-issued grounds filtering into a stained glass pot.
After a few long, heavy minutes of silence, a paper cup is gently nudged into your peripheral vision.
You pull your hands away from your face and look up. Leon is standing right in front of you, holding out a steaming cup of absolute slop.
He offers you a faint, crooked, and completely honest shadow of a smile.
"Here," Leon says, his voice dropping into a low, comforting octave. "Drink up. It tastes exactly like battery acid and despair, but it’s hot."
You let out a short, raspy, completely cynical chuckle, taking the warm paper cup from his hand. "You really know how to romance a girl, Kennedy," you murmur, your voice a tired scratch as you take a small sip. It really does taste like battery acid. "Christ. I think the CIA buys their coffee beans from a junkyard."
Leon lets out a soft, genuine breath of a laugh, leaning his hip against the counter right next to yours, his broad shoulder lightly brushing against your sleeve.
The physical proximity is warm, steady, and entirely devoid of the professional walls everyone else in this building builds around themselves. He stares down at his own paper cup, his expression turning serious, his thumb tracing the rim of the cardboard.
"They do," Leon agrees quietly, his tone shifting into something deeply weary, something that reveals the heavy scars underneath his leather jacket. "I saw the server logs before they were purged. You were right about the bottleneck in the layout, and you're right about the wipe. Someone very high up is cleaning the slate for the Chimera Syndicate."
You lean your head back against the upper cabinets, closing your eyes as the warmth of the cup seeps into your palms. "Twenty-five years," you whisper, the unvarnished exhaustion bleeding through your blunt armor. "Twenty-five years of cleaning up the bloody messes these men make in dark rooms, only to watch them erase the evidence whenever it becomes inconvenient for their stock portfolios. It makes me want to burn the whole goddamn building to the ground."
Leon doesn't offer you a cheap, patriotic platitude. He doesn't defend the system.
He just stands there beside you in the quiet breakroom, his presence a solid, unyielding comfort in the gloom.
"I know," he says simply, his blue eyes fixed on your face with a fierce, unwavering clarity that makes your chest feel suddenly, dangerously tight. "The system is completely corrupt. It's been broken since the day Raccoon City went up in smoke. But we aren't doing this for the people who own the desks upstairs."
He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dropping into a low, intense promise. "We're going to Colombia, and we're going to tear that breeding facility apart. Together. And whoever the hell is pulling the strings in Washington isn't going to save them from us."
You open your eyes, looking up into his chiseled face. The boyish, awkward charm is entirely gone, replaced by the lethal, fiercely protective man underneath—and you realize, with a sudden, quiet thud of your heart, that you are very glad he is the one standing in the dark with you.
──────•✦•──────
The humidity inside the subterranean bunker system is a physical entity, pressing down on Leon’s chest like a wet wool blanket.
Deep beneath the canopy of the Colombian jungle, the air smells of rotting vegetation, damp clay, and the heavy, metallic tang of industrial grease. Sweat tracks lines through the dirt on Leon’s face, his dark tactical shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin as he moves through the claustrophobic concrete tunnels.
The walls are slick with condensation, dripping into stagnant pools of water that reflect the dim, sickly yellow glow of the auxiliary lighting grid.
Leon keeps his gun raised, his muscles coiled, his blue eyes constantly scanning the intersecting maintenance corridors. He is used to dealing with chaotic drop zones, but this place feels uniquely suffocating. It is supposed to be a stealth infiltration to locate the Chimera Syndicate’s primary breeding facility, but every instinct he possesses is screaming that you're walking straight into a trap.
He glances briefly at you, marveling at how you manage to look entirely unbothered by the oppressive jungle heat.
You move ahead of him with a low, predatory center of gravity, your submachine gun cradled against your chest as if it were an extension of your own body.
Seriously, Leon thinks, his inner monologue dryly analyzing his own rapidly accelerating pulse. How does she look like a vintage cinematic spy while I look like a drowned rat?
He clears his throat, attempting to break the suffocating tension with a characteristic, slightly clumsy one-liner as you both reach a wide junction.
"You know," he whispers, his voice cutting through the steady drip of water, "I was promised a tropical vacation when I signed up for South American operations. I'm starting to think the agency's travel agent lied to me. Where are the margaritas?"
You don't even turn your head, though the slight, sarcastic twitch of your jaw tells him you heard him. "Shut up and check your six, pretty boy," you mutter under your breath. "The local wildlife doesn't mix well with your hair products."
The plan had been beautifully simple on paper: infiltrate the sub-level maintenance tunnels, establish a secure perimeter, and map out the primary breeding chambers of the Chimera Syndicate.
But as Leon steps past a rusted generator housing, the sudden, deafening crack of an assault rifle shatters the subterranean quiet.
The ambush hits you like a physical wall of lead.
Muzzle flashes strobe in the darkness ahead, illuminating the brutal, scarred faces of local mercenaries.
These aren't standard cartel thugs; they wear high-end tactical gear adorned with the polished, three-headed beast sigil of the Chimera Syndicate, and they are firing with disciplined, overlapping lanes of suppression.
Concrete chips spray wildly into the air, slicing across the darkness as a bullet grazes the rusted metal right above Leon’s ear.
"Guess they didn't get the memo about our scheduled tour," Leon shouts over the deafening roar of gunfire, diving heavily behind a thick concrete pillar.
He pokes his weapon out, returning a tight sequence of fire that drops a mercenary advancing along the left catwalk. He glances over at you, his heart hammering against his ribs, a classic, slightly awkward quip already forming on his lips to mask the sudden spike of adrenaline.
"You know, if this is how Colombia welcomes guests, I think I'm leaving a terrible review on the agency travel forum."
You don't even look at him. You are already pinned behind a stack of rusted steel crates, the relentless impact of automatic rounds sending a shower of sparks over your shoulders.
The communication grid cracks over the earpieces—a frantic, static-heavy mess of screaming analysts and exploding logistics coordinators back at the surface extraction point. The chain of command isn't just shattered; it has been completely pulverized within the first thirty seconds of contact.
Leon watches in absolute fascination as you take absolute, unyielding control of the chaos. Your posture hardens into pure iron.
You reach up, violently slamming a hand against your tactical radio to override the panicked chatter of the Langley handlers, and your voice cuts through the static like a serrated blade.
"All units, shut the fuck up and listen to my mark!" you command, transitioning seamlessly into a rapid-fire, fiercely commanding Spanish that flows with the sharp, flawless authority of a seasoned guerrilla commander. "Diego! Do you copy me?! The primary entrance is a kill zone! The Americans at the surface are compromised! I need the local guys to swing around to the western drainage tunnels right fucking now!"
Leon suppresses a breathless, dry chuckle as he reloads his weapon, his inner monologue turning delightfully sarcastic at his own expense. Note to self: never, under any circumstances, get on her bad side when she’s speaking another language. Or any language, really.
A burst of static rattles through the comms before a rough, heavily accented voice responds. "We copy you, officer! We are moving into the drainage shafts, but the syndicate has an armored bulkhead blocking the lower path!"
"Then blow the damn thing to pieces!" you bark back into the mic, your voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly intense register that echoes off the wet concrete walls. "Listen to me carefully, Diego. We are retreating down the secondary maintenance corridor. Tell your boys to establish a heavy suppression line at the mouth of the cistern. If any of these corporate mercenaries try to cross that threshold, you paint the walls with them. Do you understand me?!"
"Understood! Moving now!"
You cut the link, slamming a fresh magazine into your rifle with a crisp, violent click that makes Leon’s heart do a strange, uncoordinated stutter that has absolutely nothing to do with the mercenaries currently trying to kill him.
You glance across the gap between your pillars, your eyes locking onto his blue gaze with a fierce, brilliant clarity.
"Move your ass!" you yell over the din of a detonating grenade down the hall, a sharp, wild smirk breaking through your commanding mask. "Our ride is waiting in the sewers, and I am not dying in a humid hole because you wanted to save your jacket!"
Leon huffs out a breathless, genuine laugh, bracing his boots against the slick floor as he prepares to run. "Right behind you," he mutters, his eyes tracing the fierce determination in your face. "Lead the way, officer."
You aren't just an officer anymore. You’re a force of nature. You’re barking orders in a rapid-fire, localized Spanish that sounds nothing like the textbook dialect he’s used to, your voice carrying a razor-sharp authority that has a group of ragtag local resistance fighters moving like a disciplined platoon.
The retreat through the secondary maintenance corridor is a blurred nightmare of strobe-lit gunfire and splashing water.
Leon keeps pace with you, his boots slamming hard against the wet concrete as the two of you hurdle rusted machinery and slick pipes. Behind you, the heavy thud of mercenary combat boots echoes through the tunnel, accompanied by the occasional blind burst of automatic fire that ricochets wildly off the low ceiling.
"Just a little further!" you yell over your shoulder, your rifle raised to fire a short, suppressing burst down the intersecting hallway to keep the pursuit at bay.
Leon raises his custom weapon, ready to provide cover as you pivot toward the final set of stairs leading down to the cistern. "I'm right behind you," he starts, trying to maintain that cool, unbothered cadence he always relies on.
A deafening, isolated crack shatters his sentence.
A high-caliber mercenary round tears through the gloom, biting aggressively into the edge of the concrete pillar next to his head before tearing directly across the back of his left arm. Leon lets out a sharp, ragged grunt as the sheer kinetic force of the bullet staggers him forward. He drops to one knee, his weapon clattering against the slick floor as his hand instantly flies to his arm.
Your head snaps around, and for a terrifying fraction of a second, the commanding, unbreakable mask you wear completely slips. Your eyes widen with a raw, intense panic as you lunge across the slick floor, grabbing him by the front of his tactical vest and dragging him forcefully behind the iron framework of a massive water pump.
"Leon!" you bark, your voice dropping into a rough, strained register that completely abandons your usual sarcastic detachment. "Where the fuck did it hit you? Talk to me!"
Leon gasps, his teeth clenched so tight his jaw aches as a white-hot wave of pure agony radiates from his upper arm.
He forces his eyes open, looking up into your face, which is currently hovering mere inches from his. Despite the blinding pain, his inner monologue notes with a stupid, stubborn sort of pride that it is the first time you’ve actually called him by his first name instead of 'pretty boy' or 'Kennedy.'
"Just... a scratch," he wheezes, a strained, incredibly awkward smile attempting to form on his pale lips as he grips his shoulder. "The jacket... it's ruined. It wasn't... tactical."
"Shut the fuck up," you snarl, your fingers rapidly tearing away the ripped fabric of his shirt to inspect the damage.
The bullet had clean-grazed the meat right over his left upper arm. It is a deep, messy furrow—bleeding heavily and raw, but missing the bone and the major artery by a matter of millimeters.
You let out a short, shaky breath, the terrifying tension in your shoulders dropping just enough for your fierce, protective instinct to take over.
"Diego!" you scream into your radio, your commanding Spanish returning as you pull Leon's arm over your shoulder to lift his weight. "We are at the threshold! Bring down the suppression fire right now! Kennedy is hit!"
The response is immediate.
From the darkness of the lower cistern, a massive wall of automatic fire from the local resistance group erupts, chewing through the doorway behind you and completely cutting off the advancing Chimera mercenaries.
The deafening roar of the resistance rifles provides a violent, beautiful umbrella of safety.
"Come on, hero," you grunt, your arm wrapping firmly around his waist, anchoring his solid frame against your side as you guide his stumbling steps down the rusted iron stairs. "Let's get you out of this hole before I decide to leave you here for being an idiot."
Leon lets out a breathless, painful chuckle, his head sinking slightly against your shoulder as the heavy stench of the sewers rises to meet them.
The pain is agonizing, but as he feels the fierce, unyielding grip of your arm keeping him upright in the dark, he realizes he doesn't mind the detour one bit.
──────•✦•──────
An hour later, the chaos is a dull roar in the distance, replaced by the oppressive, dusty silence of a safe house on the outskirts of the jungle. The "bathroom" is little more than a cramped concrete box with a cracked mirror and a single, flickering bulb that hums like a swarm of angry bees.
Leon is perched on the edge of a stained porcelain tub, his shirt discarded on the floor, while you stand directly between his knees. The space is so tight that he can feel the heat radiating from your body, the scent of your sweat and woodsmoke filling his senses.
He watches you through hooded eyes as you prep a medical kit. Your blunt, sharp-tongued personality has vanished, replaced by a focused, almost clinical quiet.
"Hold still," you mutter, and the sheer contrast of your voice—no longer a weapon, but a low, soothing vibration—makes his heart do a pathetic, uncoordinated thud against his ribs.
Your touch is what finally undoes him.
He expects the rough, "rub-some-dirt-on-it" attitude you usually reserve for the brass, but instead, your fingers are feather-light as you dab antiseptic onto the graze.
The contrast hits him with a heavy, aching clarity. He realizes, with a sudden tightness in his throat, that he is completely unused to being handled with actual care. Over the years, his body has ceased to feel like his own; it is property of the state.
When he gets hurt, he doesn't get comforted. He gets fixed.
He is used to the clinical, detached touches of government medics who treat him like a vehicle undergoing routine maintenance, slapping on stitches and pumping him full of localized blocks so he can get right back into the meat grinder.
And when the adrenaline fades and the nightmares crowd his bedroom, the only solace he ever finds is in the hollow, fleeting warmth of meaningless one-night stands—temporary distractions leaving him more isolated than before when the morning light hits the sheets.
But you are handling him like a human being.
You’re leaning in close, your brow furrowed in concentration, your eyes reflecting a deep, unvarnished empathy that makes Leon feel exposed in a way no bullet ever could.
He’s visibly confused, his mind racing to reconcile the woman who used a hairpin to lobotomize a guard in Geneva with the woman currently treating his skin like it’s made of fine china.
"You know," he starts, his voice sounding uncomfortably raspy in the small room, "for someone who spends half her time telling me what an idiot I am, you’re being remarkably gentle. If I didn't know better, I’d think you actually liked having me around."
He’s trying for a one-liner, something to break the mounting, heavy tension, but it falls flat, sounding more like a genuine question than a quip.
You don't look up, but he sees the corner of your mouth twitch. "Don't get used to it, pretty boy. I just don't want to have to explain to the STRATCOM why their favorite poster child came back with a preventable infection," you reply, but the bite is gone from your words.
You blow softly on the wound to cool the sting of the antiseptic, and the sensation of your breath on his bare skin sends a jolt of electricity straight down Leon's spine.
He’s a grown man, a veteran of more horrors than most people can imagine, and yet here he is, trapped with you between his knees in a dusty Colombian shack, acting like a high schooler with a crush.
His thoughts are wandering to places they absolutely shouldn't go—the curve of your neck. The way your pulse is thrumming in the hollow of your throat. The fact that you haven't pulled away yet.
"There," you whisper, finally smoothing a bandage over the graze.
You linger for a second, your palm resting flat against his uninjured shoulder, your gaze finally meeting his. The empathy in your eyes is overwhelming, a soft, grounded warmth that makes the cynical part of his brain he’s cultivated for ten years go completely silent.
Leon clears his throat, his hands hovering tentatively near your waist, his fingers twitching with a sudden, desperate urge to pull you against him before he catches himself and tightly grips the porcelain edge of the tub instead.
Nice work, Kennedy, he thinks bitterly, his inner voice dripping with self-sarcasm. Get shot, get saved, and then lose your mind because a CIA woman was nice to you for five minutes.
But as you offer him a small, tired, and uncharacteristically warm smile, he realizes that no matter how hard you try to hide behind your sharp edges, he’s finally seen the heart underneath the armor—and he’s never been more in trouble in his entire life.
──────•✦•──────
The air in the safehouse has settled into a stagnant, heavy chill, the kind that seems to seep out of the very mud bricks of the walls.
Leon lies on a threadbare cot in the corner, staring at the ceiling fans that remain motionless.
Sleep is a distant country he isn’t allowed to visit tonight; every time he closes his eyes, he feels the phantom jolt of the bullet graze or hears the rhythmic, staccato pulse of the gunfire from the tunnels. Finally, the silence becomes too loud to bear. He pushes himself up, his shoulder stiff and protesting, and wanders into the small common area.
He finds you there, seated at a scarred wooden table, the low hum of a single kerosene lantern casting a flickering, amber glow that carves deep shadows into the planes of your face. You aren't sleeping either. You’re focused, your hands moving with a fluid, mechanical grace as you clean your sidearm, the rhythmic clack-slide of the metal parts providing the only heartbeat in the room.
Leon lingers in the doorway for a moment, his shadow stretching long and distorted across the floor. He feels that familiar, clumsy hesitation—trying to figure out if he’s intruding or if he’s welcome.
"You know, most people take up knitting or counting sheep when they can't sleep," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that breaks the stillness.
He walks over, pulling out a creaking chair across from you. "I'm starting to think you and sleep had a messy breakup and haven't been on speaking terms for a decade."
He’s aiming for a light, easy quip, but in the heavy atmosphere of the room, it feels more like an olive branch. You don't look up immediately, your thumb tracing the slide of your weapon, but a faint, tired hint of a smile touches your lips.
"Sleep is for people who don't have to keep an eye on STRATCOM agents who attract lead like magnets," you reply, though the usual sharp bite of your sarcasm is replaced by a weary, almost gentle cadence.
The conversation starts in the shallows, a tethered exchange about the humidity and the quality of the local coffee—which Leon jokingly describes as "liquid asphalt with a hint of cinnamon." But as the lantern flickers, the superficiality begins to melt away, leaving something raw and unvarnished in its place.
Leon finds himself talking about things he usually buries under layers of professional detachment. He mentions Raccoon City, not as a tactical summary, but as a weight—the suffocating heat of the fires, the look in the eyes of the people he couldn't save, and the crushing, quiet burden of being the one who got to walk out of the crater.
"Sometimes I think I didn't actually survive," he admits, his gaze fixed on his hands. "I think I just got recruited by the ghosts to keep their accounts balanced."
He looks up, expecting a jab about his "dramatic flair," but you’re looking at him with a stillness that is unnervingly perceptive.
You set the barrel of your gun down on the table, the metal clicking softly against the wood.
"I joined the CIA because I wanted to be the hand in the dark that kept the world safe," you say softly, your voice barely louder than the hum of the lantern.
You look into the flame, the orange light dancing in your eyes, making the weariness there look ancient.
"I wanted to be the thin line. But after twenty-five years, Leon, you realize you're mostly just the hand that holds the rug while they sweep the atrocities underneath it."
You begin to speak of the decades spent in the periphery, watching as the agency you gave your life to orchestrated "necessary" casualties and polished the granite over civilian graves to keep the narrative clean. You describe the slow, agonizing erosion of your faith, not as a sudden break, but as a steady drip of acid that eventually dissolved the woman who believed in the mission.
Leon watches you, and a profound, aching clarity settles in his chest. He realizes in this moment that your sarcasm—the sharp, blunt-force trauma of your wit—isn't an expression of arrogance or a lack of care.
It’s a shield.
It’s the armor you’ve forged to protect the small, empathetic core that still bleeds every time a "collateral damage" report crosses your desk.
You aren't a cynic. You’re a romantic who got tired of watching the world burn, and your humor is the only thing keeping the smoke out of your lungs.
He feels a quiet, electric connection to you, a recognition that goes beyond the STRATCOM and the CIA. Beyond the mission and the monsters. He’s spent so long looking for a partner who could keep up with him in a firefight, but he realizes he’s finally found the only person who can keep up with him in the silence.
"Well," Leon says after a long beat, his voice thick with a sudden, uncharacteristic sincerity that makes his own inner monologue wince.
He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing against yours for just a second before he pulls back, his thumb rubbing the back of his neck in that dorky, high-schooler gesture he can't seem to shake.
"For what it’s worth... I think you’re doing a hell of a job holding the rug. But if it ever gets too heavy, I've got a pretty decent shoulder. Even if it is currently full of holes."
He’s a grown man, a legend in the field, and he’s pretty sure that was the cheesiest thing he’s ever said, but as you look at him—really closely, with a vulnerability that matches his own—he doesn't care.
He realizes he’s no longer interested in the "golden boy" act. He just wants to be whoever it is you need him to be in the dark.
The flickering lantern light catches the silver of your handgun’s barrel as you slide it back into place, a heavy, final sound that punctuates the weight of your words. You let out a long, shuddering sigh that seems to deflate the tension in your shoulders just an inch.
"Humanity is a mess, Leon. But I guess we’re the idiots holding the broom," you remark, the corners of your mouth twitching with a weary, dark humor that Leon finds himself gravitating toward like a moth to a flame.
He stays there, leaning his weight against the table, simply watching the way the light dances across your knuckles. He’s content to exist in this quiet bubble of shared disillusionment, but then he notices a subtle hitch in your movement.
You’re guarding your left side, your arm pulled slightly closer to your ribs, a defensive posture so ingrained he almost misses it.
Leon’s blue eyes narrow, his internal alarm bells ringing with a persistent, annoying clarity.
"You’re guarding your left side," he notes, his voice dropping into that focused, observant register he uses when the stakes are high.
You still for a fraction of a second, the lantern light freezing in your eyes, before you look back at your weapon as if it has all the answers.
"Got grazed on my scapula," you say casually, as if you’re discussing a minor paper cut rather than a jagged furrow carved by a high-velocity projectile. "It’s fine. I’ve had worse from a dull kitchen knife."
Leon doesn't move, but his brow furrows.
"It’s not fine. You can’t reach that yourself, not properly, and if it gets infected in this humidity, we’re both in trouble. Let me help."
He’s expecting a sharp retort, a blunt dismissal that paints him as an overbearing nuisance, and you don't disappoint.
"I've been patching myself up since before you had a driver's license, Kennedy. I can manage a scratch."
Leon doesn't back down; he steps closer, the space between you shrinking until he can smell the faint, sharp scent of the gun oil on your hands.
"Humor me, please," he says softly, and the lack of a quip in his voice seems to catch you off guard.
You look up at him, your expression flickering with a rare, genuine surprise, as if the idea of someone actually wanting to care for you without a tactical reason is a foreign concept. You study his face for a long beat, searching for the joke, but all he offers is a steady, earnest gaze that he knows makes him look like a persistent puppy.
Finally, you let out a defeated sigh, tossing the cleaning rag onto the table.
"If you make a single joke about this, Kennedy, I’m kicking you out of here and telling the resistance you’re a double agent," you warn, though the edge in your voice is frayed.
Leon huffs a quiet, relieved laugh, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "No jokes. I promise. My professional bedside manner is legendary, mostly because I usually don't have one."
You stand up and, with a series of efficient, unceremonious movements, pull your dark t-shirt over your head.
Leon’s breath hitches, a silent, traitorous sound he hopes is drowned out by the hum of the lantern.
Sure enough, the graze is there. A raw, angry-looking streak of red across the skin of your shoulder blade.
But as he reaches for the medical kit, his thoughts begin to wander into dangerous, unhelpful territory.
He tries very hard to focus on the task, to maintain the clinical detachment of a field medic, but it’s impossible to ignore the warmth of your skin as he sits behind you, or the soft, floral-and-steel scent of you that fills his lungs.
His hands are steady, but his mind is a riot.
He’s a grown man, a seasoned agent, yet he’s currently agonizing over the exact pressure of his fingers against your back.
He begins to clean the wound, the antiseptic-soaked gauze dabbing at the raw skin, and as he works, his eyes begin to wander over the map of your history written in white, faded lines.
There are scars everywhere—jagged reminders of close calls, surgical incisions, and the blunt force of a life spent in the shadows. They are a testament to twenty-five years of surviving things most people don't even believe exist.
"You've given them a lot of your life," he observes softly, his voice barely a whisper in the cramped room.
The observation isn't a judgment. It’s a realization of the heavy cost of the broom you’ve been holding.
You go still for a moment under his touch, the muscles in your back tensing before you slowly turn your head to look at him over your shoulder. The lantern light catches the silver in your hair and the deep, weary empathy in your eyes as you hold his gaze.
"So did you, Leon," you say, your voice a low, grounding vibration that seems to bind the two of you together in the quiet dark.
Leon stops mid-motion, the gauze hovering above your skin, and realizes that for all his one-liners and his heroics, he’s just as marked by the broom as you are—and he’s never felt less alone in the mess.
He watches the steady rise and fall of your shoulders as he applies the final strip of medical tape, his fingers lingering just a fraction of a second too long on the warmth of your skin before he finally retreats.
The medical kit clicks shut with a definitive, hollow sound that seems to amplify the stillness of the room.
You don't wait for a comment; you simply reach for your shirt and shrug it back on, the fabric settling over the bandage with a soft rustle.
You look smaller now, somehow, stripped of the tactical bravado and the sharp-tongued armor. You let out a breath that sounds like it’s been held for decades, your gaze dropping to the scarred wood of the table.
"I'm tired, Leon," you admit, the words quiet and devoid of their usual sarcastic bite. "I'm so damn tired of the lying, the paperwork, and the taste of bad coffee in places God forgot. Every morning I wake up and think today’s the day I hand in the badge and find a quiet house with a garden."
He stays quiet, sensing that any quip he could offer—something about his own retirement plan involving a lot less gunfire and a lot more sleep—would fall devastatingly flat. You lean forward, the lantern light catching the glint of a memory in your eyes.
"But then a case rolls in. Some fucked up assignment that reminds me why I can’t just walk away."
You tell him about an operation years ago, a sanctioned hit on a weapons dealer in a coastal city. You had the shot lined up, the cold steel of the trigger against your finger, but luck—or a lack of it—intervened.
The target’s wife walked into the room. You saw her face, saw the genuine, domestic ignorance in her eyes; she had no idea her husband was selling death to the highest bidder.
"The protocols were clear. No witnesses," you say, your voice turning into a low, haunted rasp. "I let her go. I took the heat, got raked over the coals by the brass, and lost a promotion for it."
Leon feels a heavy, sinking sensation in his chest as he listens.
He’s spent his career plagued by many cover-ups, but he knows the CIA’s map is drawn in shades of gray that would make even a STRATCOM agent’s head spin.
You look up at him, a faint, defiant spark returning to your expression.
"That’s why I don't quit. Because if they’d sent someone else—someone who followed the manual to the letter—that mother would have been killed in front of her children. I stay because I still have enough humanity left to be the wrong person for the job."
It’s a staggering admission of a moral burden he’s not sure he’s ever seen anyone carry so openly, and Leon feels a sudden, sharp ache of respect that leaves him momentarily paralyzed.
He wants to say something profound, something that would acknowledge the weight of your sacrifice without sounding like a Hallmark card written by a federal agent. He shifts in his chair, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck in that clumsy, habitual way.
"Well," he starts, his voice cracking slightly before he clears his throat. "I guess... I guess it’s a good thing the CIA has at least one person who isn't a robot. I mean, the benefits are terrible, but the dental plan is—actually, no, the dental is also bad."
He winces internally at the botched attempt at a joke, his brain screaming at him to just shut up and be sincere for once.
"What I mean is... you're a good person. Even if you're sometimes forced to do things you aren't proud of."
You don't get angry at the fumbled sentiment. Instead, you look at him and offer a small, tired smile—one that reaches your eyes and makes the lantern light look dim by comparison. You shake your head slowly, a soft, huffed laugh escaping you.
"You're a real poet, Kennedy. Truly," you tease, but the edge is gone, replaced by a warmth that makes his ears burn. You stand up, the chair scraping against the concrete floor, and gather your cleaning kit. "I'm going to sleep. Try not to let the ghosts keep you up too late."
As you walk toward your cot, Leon stays seated at the table, watching your shadow fade into the darkness of the hall. His arm hurts, and he’s currently trapped in a jungle safehouse with a woman who just dismantled his entire worldview with a single anecdote.
He realizes he isn't just intrigued anymore. He's completely, hopelessly floored.
──────•✦•──────
The Colombian dawn bleeds into the sky, a sickly, bruised lavender cutting through the thick, choking mist of the jungle canopy. The tropical storm from the night before has slowed into a miserable, clinging drizzle that makes the humidity feel like a physical weight pressing down on your chest. Everything smells like wet earth, rotting vegetation, and the sharp, chemical tang of gunpowder from your rifle.
You stand on a muddy, jagged limestone ridge overlooking a clearing where the local resistance has managed to coordinate a rogue extraction chopper.
The rhythmic, distant sound of the blades cutting through the low clouds is the most beautiful thing you’ve heard all week, but your internal alarm is already screaming.
Nothing is ever this easy, your inner monologue notes, dry and completely devoid of optimism. If a black ops extraction goes off without a hitch, it usually means you’re actually dead and your brain is just hallucinating a happy ending.
Down in the ravine, Leon is moving through the dense ferns, his left arm pressed tightly against his side. The stitches you gave him in the safehouse are holding, but he’s running on pure stubbornness and whatever adrenaline he has left in his tank.
Suddenly, the jungle explodes.
It isn't gunfire this time. It’s a sickening, wet crunch of tearing wood and shattering stone as the treeline at the edge of the clearing is obliterated. Out steps a creature that makes your stomach do a slow, disgusted flip.
The Chimera Syndicate didn't just build a breeding facility down here; they left a guard dog. It’s an armored brute, a grotesque, towering amalgamation of human muscle and calcified, chitinous plating that looks like a mutated, overgrown Tyrant variant. Its massive, malformed arms swing like wrecking balls, instantly crushing a boulder in its path as its milky, blind eyes track the sound of the approaching chopper.
"Fucking marvelous," you mutter under your breath.
You don't panic. You don't hesitate.
You drop to one knee in the thick, red mud of the ridge, bringing the heavy stock of your sniper rifle firmly against your shoulder.
Despite running on thirty-six hours of absolute sleep deprivation, a spectacular lack of caffeine, and a diet consisting entirely of stale military rations, your hands are rock-steady. The moment the rifle rests in your grip, a profound, icy calm washes over you. The world narrows down to the crosshairs of your thermal scope.
You click your tactical radio, your voice a low, gravelly tone cutting right through the static in Leon’s earpiece.
"Leon, we’ve got a massive, ugly problem breaking through the north treeline," you announce calmly, your finger resting lightly against the trigger. "Big, armored, and looks like it skipped brain day. Do not engage, do not try to be a hero, pretty boy. Just run."
Down in the ravine, you see Leon’s head snap up toward your ridge, his weapon drawn. "Easier said than done!" he pants over the comms, dodging to the left as the brute hurls a shattered tree trunk directly into his path. "This guy seems really eager to get my autograph!"
"Shut up and move your ass to the western path," you command, your tone switching seamlessly into that fierce, guiding authority. "On my mark, slide behind the basalt columns. Three... two... one... now."
As Leon lunges behind the rock formation, the brute roars, its massive fists slamming into the earth where he had been standing a microsecond before. Through the scope, you track the creature's movements perfectly, identifying a tiny, unarmored seam in the calcified plating right behind its knee. You take a slow, deep breath, holding it, and pull the trigger.
The heavy sniper round barks into the valley, the violent recoil biting into your shoulder. Down below, the bullet strikes with pinpoint accuracy, shattering the creature's joint. The brute drops to one knee with a guttural scream of agony.
"Nice shot!" Leon yells, scrambling over a log and putting more distance between himself and the monster.
"Don't stop to admire the scenery, Kennedy," you drawl playfully, racking a fresh round into the chamber with a crisp, mechanical clack. "He's got another knee and a very bad attitude. Keep moving toward the clearing. Next outcrop is yours in five seconds. Move!"
You provide a flawless, terrifyingly precise umbrella of sniper cover from the ridge.
Every time the armored brute tries to regain its footing or track Leon through the dense jungle terrain, you place another high-caliber round exactly where it hurts, shattering its defenses and systematically blinding its sensory organs. You guide Leon through the chaotic, muddy maze of the ravine like a chess grandmaster, your steady voice over the comms the only thing keeping him ahead of the monster's destructive wake.
By the time Leon sprints into the clearing and hurls himself through the open bay door of the hovering resistance chopper, the brute is slumped into a heavily bleeding, immobilized mass of flesh at the edge of the trees.
You smoothly stand up, sling your heavy rifle over your shoulder without breaking a sweat, and slide down the muddy embankment, jumping into the chopper as the pilot guns the engine and lifts you up into the safety of the clouds.
──────•✦•──────
The transition from the humid jungle to the high-altitude transit flight back to the States is a blur of vibrating aluminum and the deafening, constant drone of the military transport plane’s engines. The cabin is dim, cold, and smells heavily of hydraulic fluid and exhaustion.
You are sitting on a canvas bench against the metal wall, your legs stretched out in front of you, staring blankly at your muddy boots. You are so tired your bones feel heavy, the cynical, protective walls of your mind finally lowering just enough to let the crushing fatigue take over.
Slowly, you feel a presence shift beside you. Leon sits down on the bench right next to you. The cabin is practically empty, with plenty of room to spread out, but he chooses to sit close—so close that his broad, solid shoulder is lightly brushing against yours.
You look at him out of the corner of your eye. His blond hair is a complete disaster, his face is smudged with soot, and he looks entirely spent.
You don’t pull away. You let your shoulder lean back against his just a fraction, letting the comfortable, heavy silence speak for itself in the roar of the engines. There is a strange, quiet intimacy in the contact, a mutual recognition of survival that doesn't require a single word.
Leon stares at the scratched metal floor for a long time before he finally turns his head to look at you, his bright blue eyes carrying a softness that makes your chest feel suddenly, dangerously tight.
"Hey," he says, his voice a low whisper that barely carries over the drone of the plane. He hesitates, a faint, curious smirk touching his lips. "Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that? I've seen some great marksmen, but you... you were reading that monster's mind before I could even see it."
You let out a short, raspy, completely quiet chuckle, tilting your head back against the fuselage. You look at his earnest, handsome face, and decide to let a tiny piece of your carefully guarded history slip through the cracks.
"I was a sniper in the military before the CIA recruited me into their little black ops circus," you reply smoothly, offering him just the smallest, rarest piece of your past. You give him a playful, incredibly gentle nudge with your shoulder. "Turns out, shooting targets that don't talk back is excellent preparation for dealing with people like you, Kennedy."
Leon blinks, a genuine, warm smile breaking across his face as he absorbs the information, his shoulder pressing back against yours with a lingering, steady warmth.
"A sniper," he murmurs, his eyes locked onto yours with a dawning respect and a subtle, undeniable affection that he isn't even trying to hide anymore. "Explains the terrifying focus. I guess I'm lucky you're on my side."
"Incredibly lucky, pretty boy," you murmur back, closing your eyes as the plane carries you both back toward Washington. "Now shut up and let me sleep before I decide to use you for target practice."
hi! a minor (user is @bayonettalover1234567) is reblogging your fanfic with smut, just incase you didnt know
Hi! All my fanfictions containing content I deem adult only (mostly smut or gore) are appropriately tagged in the description. I'd advise minors to not interact with these but ultimately it's not my job to monitor who reads these, that's on the parents. Thanks for letting me know anyway.
Guys I just realized I've never posted this cool comission I did for @xozoelivia. I blame my finals for that. Anyway, it was super fun to draw and I love how it came out 🩵
Series masterlist
AO3
Pairing: RE4!Leon Kennedy x CIA!Reader
Summary: You’ve spent your career being the hand that sweeps the world's atrocities under the rug. You’re cynical, you’re tired, and you’re definitely too old for Leon Kennedy’s brand of heroics. There are rules to this job: Don’t get attached. Don’t hesitate. Don’t trust anyone. You break all three somewhere between a dive bar, a hospital room, and Leon Kennedy looking at you like you’re something worth saving.
Content: 18+, graphic descriptions of violence, eventual smut, second person POV, no use of Y/N, age gap (older reader), coworkers to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, awkward Leon, almost kisses, romantic tension, sexual tension, survivor's guilt, eventual smut, avoidant attachment, past trauma, patching each other up,
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The air in Geneva is crisp, smelling of expensive alpine air and the kind of old money that makes your skin itch.
You stand in the lobby of the Grand Hotel, adjusting the drape of a floor-length silk gown that costs more than your first car. It is a deep, midnight emerald—a color that screams "discreet wealth”.
You catch your reflection in a gilded mirror and sigh.
You’ve spent the last twenty-five years more comfortable in Kevlar and dirt than in silk and heels, and the transition always makes you feel like a tiger forced to wear a tutu.
Next to you, Leon is currently losing a wrestling match with his own collar.
He looks spectacular in a tuxedo, there is no denying that; the black wool narrows his waist and broadens his shoulders in a way that has half the socialites in the lobby doing double-takes.
However, he is currently scowling at his reflection, hooking a finger under his stiff silk collar and tugging with enough force to potentially decapitate himself.
"I’m convinced this thing was designed by someone who hates the human respiratory system," Leon mutters, his voice dropping into that low, earnest grumble that always seems to tickle your ribs.
He adjusts his bowtie for the tenth time, only to have it sit at a slightly crooked, defiant angle. "Give me a tactical vest and a horde of Ganados any day. At least those are straightforward."
You step into his space, your heels clicking softly on the polished marble.
"If you keep mauling that collar, you’re going to walk into a high-society gala looking like you just survived a bar fight," you say, your voice a dry, playful drawl.
You reach up, batting his large, restless hands away with a gentle tap. Your fingers move with the practiced efficiency of a woman who has spent years fixing Evan’s ties and stitching up bullet wounds. You smooth the silk, straighten the bow, and pat the lapel of his jacket.
"There. You look like a respectable socialite instead of a disgruntled penguin."
He stills under your touch, his blue eyes dropping to yours with an expression that is almost comically grateful. Up close, you can see the faint lines of tension around his eyes, the subtle sign that he is completely out of his element.
It is a bizarre realization to have: Leon Kennedy can drop a Licker at fifty yards while backflipping over a laboratory bench, but put him in a room full of Swiss philanthropists and he looks like a five-year-old at a piano recital.
It is weirdly, infuriatingly endearing.
"Thanks," he exhales, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. "I just don't get the point of all this. We could just breach the secondary basement entrance and be done with the Plagas samples before the first course is served."
"And miss the opportunity to see you try to identify a salad fork?" you tease, letting your hands linger on his chest just a second longer than necessary before stepping back.
"Where’s the fun in that? Besides, this is a charity gala, Kennedy. We’re here to blend in, charm the donors, and keep our eyes on the prize. Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself. It’s for the kids, or the whales, or whatever it is they’re pretending to save tonight."
Leon lets out a short, dry laugh, his gaze trailing over the curves of your gown with a slow, appreciative intensity that makes your cynical braim momentarily stall.
"I'll try. But if I have to talk about the 'nuances of French viticulture' for more than five minutes, I’m calling for an extraction."
"You'll be fine," you reply, hooking your arm through his and leaning in close enough to catch the scent of his cologne—something crisp and woodsy that definitely didn't come from a drug store.
"Just stay close to me, keep your mouth shut unless you're drinking, and try not to reach for your gun every time a champagne cork pops. You’re with a professional now."
He looks down at you, a lopsided, slightly awkward smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It is a look that doesn't belong in a den of vipers like this gala, yet somehow, it makes the whole ridiculous mission feel a little more human.
"Lead the way, Officer," he whispers.
You lead him toward the ballroom, feeling the familiar weight of a knife on your leg and the unfamiliar warmth of his arm under yours, thinking that for a man his age, he still has a lot to learn about the most dangerous monsters of all: people who lunch.
The target is a man named Julian Vane, a low-level biological broker with the fashion sense of a disco-era pimp and the moral compass of a parasitic worm. He is exactly the kind of sleaze you’ve spent twenty-five years learning how to manipulate.
Standing in the center of the gilded ballroom, surrounded by the tinkling of crystal and the pretentious drone of a string quartet, you shift into a persona that feels like a tight, itchy costume.
You lean into Vane’s space, your voice dropping into a sultry, practiced purr that makes your internal monologue want to scream. You laugh at his jokes—none of which are funny—and watch as his eyes track the movement of your throat when you take a sip of champagne.
It is a performance, a tactical dance where every tilt of your head and every "accidental" brush of your hand is a calculated move.
"Oh, Julian," you whisper, leaning closer until you can smell his cloying, expensive cologne. You reach out, your fingers tracing the silk lapel of his tuxedo jacket with a feather-light touch. Your eyes are wide and admiring, the perfect picture of a woman captivated by a man with too much money and too little sense.
"You’re far more dangerous than people give you credit for, aren't you?"
As his ego inflates to near-bursting, your other hand moves with the silent, surgical precision of a ghost.
Your fingers dip into the inner pocket of his jacket, finding the cold, hard plastic of the access keycard. In one fluid, practiced motion, the card is gone, tucked safely into the small of your back against the silk of your dress.
You give him one last, lingering smile, promise to meet him by the terrace in ten minutes, and turn on your heel.
You navigate the crowd toward the back of the ballroom, your face a mask of social grace until you slip into a dimly lit service alcove where Leon is waiting.
The second the heavy velvet curtain falls behind you, shielding you from the eyes of the gala, your entire demeanor shifts. You double over slightly, physically mimicking a gagging motion, and wipe your hand against the side of your gown as if you’ve just touched a slug.
"Ugh, I absolutely hate doing that," you hiss, your voice returning to its usual blunt, weary rasp. "I feel like I need to be hosed down with industrial-grade disinfectant. That man is ninety percent hair gel and ten percent unearned confidence."
Leon is leaning against the stone wall of the alcove, his arms crossed over his chest.
In the shadows, the black wool of his tuxedo makes him look like a phantom, but the amused, lopsided smirk on his face is very much real. He’s been watching the whole thing from the bar, likely nursing a ginger ale and pretending it was scotch.
"I don't know," Leon teases, his blue eyes glinting with a rare, playful light. He pushes off the wall and steps into your space, the close quarters of the alcove making him feel much larger than usual. "You looked like you were having the time of your life. I think you might have a future in theater if the CIA ever gets tired of you."
"Don't start with me, Kennedy," you grumble, pulling the keycard out and brandishing it like a trophy. "I did the heavy lifting. Now we just have to get to the vault before Mr. Hair Gel realizes his pocket is lighter."
Leon chuckles, a low, warm sound that vibrates in the small space. He reaches out, his hand hovering near your shoulder before he thinks better of it.
"Hey, look, if it's that traumatic for you, I can always take the next guy," he offers, his voice dropping into that earnest, slightly awkward hero-tone. "I’ve got a lot of charm when I try. I could be very persuasive."
You stop, your hand on the door leading to the service hallway.
You slowly look him up and down, taking in the slightly crooked bowtie and the earnest, slightly boyish expression that sits so strangely on a man who has seen the end of the world. You step toward him, patting his chest firmly with the keycard before tucking it away.
"Bless you for your confidence," you say, your voice dripping with sweet, maternal sarcasm. "Truly. But I think we’d both like to finish this mission before sunrise. You just stick to the shooting; let the grown-ups handle the flirting."
You don't wait for his response, slipping through the door and leaving him standing in the shadows, mouth slightly open as he tries to find a retort.
You can practically hear the gears in his head grinding as he stammers out a half-formed, "Hey, I'm a grown-up," but you are already ten paces down the hall, a smirk finally touching your lips.
──────•✦•──────
The transition from "sophisticated socialite" to "walking lethality" happens in the span of a single heartbeat.
You’ve just secured the vials of the experimental Plagas strain, the cold glass heavy in your clutch, when the service elevator dings and spits out four guards with submachine guns and very little interest in your evening gown.
The vaulted stone corridor turns into a thunderous tunnel of gunfire and shattered masonry.
You dive behind a heavy marble pedestal, the silk of your dress snagging on a decorative molding with a sickening tear.
Rest in peace, two thousand dollars of CIA-funded couture, you think bitterly as you draw your compact sidearm.
Leon is already in rhythm, his gun barking with the rhythmic, clinical precision that has made him a legend. He is a whirlwind of movement, covering your flank while you lay down suppressive fire, but the hallway is narrow and the guards are desperate.
In the chaos, one of the survivors lunges at you from a side door, his hand clamping down on your forearm with a bruising grip that knocks your gun off-target.
He is a big guy, smelling of cheap cigarettes and adrenaline, and he makes the mistake of thinking your silk-clad arms are soft.
You don't even blink. You reach up with your free hand, pluck the long, steel hairpin from your updo, and jam it into his eye socket with the practiced indifference of someone who has done this a hundred times before.
He shriekes, a high, wet sound that is cut short when you regain control of your weapon and put a single, decisive bullet through his forehead. You shove his corpse away, smooth a stray lock of hair, and re-center your sights.
"Remind me never to get on your bad side," Leon pants from across the hall, having just dropped the last guard. He is staring at the dead man, then at the blood-stained hairpin you are casually wiping on the guard’s uniform.
"Too late, Kennedy. You’re already on the list," you shot back, your voice a playful, dangerous purr. You grab the samples and gesture toward the service exit. "Move. More of them are coming."
The escape is a blur of shadows and sharp turns. Somewhere between the wine cellar and the loading docks, a stray bullet ricochets off a steel pipe, singing past your ear and catching Leon.
You hear him hiss, a sharp intake of breath that makes your stomach do a weird, uninvited flip. He doesn't slow down, and neither do you, not until you burst through a heavy iron side door into the biting midnight air of Geneva.
The temperature drop is like a slap to the face. You are standing in a narrow alley, sweat cooling instantly on your skin, your breath coming in white plumes.
You start to shiver, the adrenaline dump leaving you shaky and exposed in your ruined emerald dress.
Before you can even mutter a complaint about the cold, Leon is there. He moves with a slight stiffness, but he doesn't hesitate to peel off his tuxedo jacket. He drapes the heavy, warm wool over your shoulders, the fabric still carrying the heat of his body and the faint, reassuring scent of his cologne.
It is only then that you notice the dark, spreading stain on the white linen of his dress shirt, right over his left shoulder blade.
"Sorry about the mess," he murmurs, his voice a bit rough as he gestures to the blood now smearing the interior of the jacket he’s just given you. "I’ll buy you a new one. Or, you know, pay the dry cleaning bill."
You look at the blood on the expensive silk lining, then up at his tired, earnest face—the face of a man who has just been shot but is still worried about ruining your dress.
Something about the absurdity of it all—the tuxedo, the bioweapons, and the eye-piercing hairpin—finally breaks through your professional veneer.
You burst out laughing. It isn't a polite, socialite giggle; it is a loud, genuine bark of a laugh that echoes off the damp alley walls.
"Kennedy, you idiot," you wheeze, clutching the lapels of his jacket to keep the warmth in. "You’re bleeding through a thousand-dollar shirt and you’re apologizing for the dress?"
He blinks, looking a little bewildered by your reaction, a faint, sheepish smile finally touching his lips. "I'm just trying to be a gentleman. Isn't that what the CIA expects from the STRATCOM?"
"The CIA expects me to come back with the samples and a pulse. Everything else is a bonus," you reply, your laughter subsiding into a gentle, playful smirk.
You reach out, your fingers lightly grazing his uninjured shoulder, your voice softening just a fraction. "Honestly? I’d love a vacation. A beach, some actual sunshine, and a drink with a tiny umbrella. But at this point? I’d settle for just one assignment where nobody tries to kill us and you don't end up as a pincushion for stray lead."
"I'll see what I can do," he promises, his blue eyes holding yours in the dim light of the alley. "But no promises on the tiny umbrellas."
"Typical," you sigh, though you don't pull away. "Come on, pretty boy. Let’s get you patched up before you ruin any more of my wardrobe."
──────•✦•──────
The midnight oil at Langley doesn’t burn; it flickers with a pathetic, fluorescent buzz that makes you want to drive a knife straight into the circuit breaker.
It is nearly two in the morning, and the sterile interior of the CIA headquarters has settled into that eerie, vacuum-sealed quiet that only exists when the daytime bureaucrats have gone home to their comfortable suburban beds. The air is dry, over-filtered, and smells aggressively of commercial carpet cleaner and the burnt sludge resembling coffee at the bottom of your ceramic mug.
You are slouched so far down in your ergonomic office chair that your spine is practically a liquid asset, your head tilted back against the rigid plastic headrest. Your eyes are fixed entirely on the frosted glass light fixture directly above your desk, where a single, tragically dead housefly has been trapped for ages.
Across the cluttered desk, the soft, rhythmic clicking of a mechanical keyboard suddenly ceases. Evan stops typing, lets out a long, theatrical sigh, and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes until his skin turns a blotchy red.
He breaks the silence first. “Hey.”
You don’t look up. “If you’re about to ask me to proofread your section, I will walk out of this building and never come back.”
“I’m not,” he says.
That gets your attention. You glance over, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That sounded suspiciously like a setup.”
He leans back in his chair, rolling his shoulders, expression somewhere between amused and mildly sleep-deprived.
“It’s not a setup,” he says. “It’s an observation.”
“Oh good,” you mutter. “My favorite kind of conversation.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Let’s talk about Leon.”
You don’t move a single muscle. You don’t tilt your head, and you don’t break your intense, spiritual communion with the dead fly in the light fixture.
But deep in the center of your chest, a familiar, razor-sharp spike of heat flares up. Your pulse gives a stupid, uncoordinated little thud that you immediately suppress with twenty-five years of deeply ingrained field discipline.
“What about him?” you drawl, your voice a low, gravelly friction in the quiet room. “Did he finally realize that leather jackets aren’t recognized tactical gear, or did he finally trip over his own hair and break that pristine jawline?”
“Ha. Very fucking funny,” Evan replies, entirely unbothered by your deflection.
He leans back in his chair, interlocking his fingers behind his head and looking at you across the mountain of manila folders with a knowing, infuriatingly patient expression. It’s the look he gives you when he thinks he’s entirely ahead of the play.
“I’m talking about the way the kid looks at you. Like you’re some kind of rare artifact he’s desperately trying to figure out. STRATCOM’s pristine golden boy has a massive, textbook crush on you, in case you’re too busy insulting the senior directorate to notice.”
You let out a sharp, genuine snort, the sound echoing loudly off the bare walls of the cubicle.
You finally sit up, your joints popping in protest as you lean forward and fix your longtime partner with a flat, thoroughly unimpressed stare.
“Evan, please. A blind person could deduce that much,” you say, tossing a stray highlighter onto the desk. “The man is about as subtle as a goddamn flashbang in a public library. Every time I walk into the room, he looks like he’s trying to remember his own name.”
You rub your temple, where a dull ache is beginning to form. “And for the record, we’re both pushing fifty. Can we please stop using the word ‘crush’? It makes me feel like I should be braiding your hair and writing his initials in a pink glittery notebook. It’s embarrassing.”
Evan chuckles, a dry, raspy, tobacco-stained sound that shakes his shoulders. “Fine. He has a ‘profound, multi-agency professional interest’ in you. Whatever the hell helps you sleep at night, you old cynical bastard. So, what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” you shoot back instantly, your voice dropping into a hard, definitive flat line.
You pick up your pen, flipping it between your fingers with a sharp, aggressive speed.
“I’m going to do absolutely fucking nothing. He’s a junior asset on a joint task force, he’s almost twenty years younger than me, and his file is a psychological disaster zone. I’m not here to get involved with a pretty boy who doesn't know how to handle his liquor.”
The playful banter vanishes from the air like smoke.
Evan’s smile slowly fades, his posture shifting into something much heavier, much more tentative. He looks at you for a long, quiet moment, the hum of the computers filling the void between you.
“You know…” Evan says softly, his voice dropping an octave, filled with a cautious, rare gravity. “You know he’s not Marcus, right?”
The name hits the room like a physical blow. Your fingers freeze mid-flip, the plastic pen slipping out of your grip and clattering against the desk with a sound that feels as loud as a gunshot.
Your entire body goes rigid, the playful, sarcastic armor you wear like a second skin instantly hardening into ice.
You tilt your chin up, your eyes narrowing into a dangerous, razor-thin stare that has made local warlords back down in the field.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Evan?” you ask sharply, your voice dangerously quiet, completely stripped of any warmth or humor.
Evan doesn't flinch, but he raises his hands slightly in a defensive gesture, his eyes filled with a weary, deep-seated concern that you absolutely hate seeing. “It means you keep everyone exactly six feet away from you at all times. It's clear as day why you do it, and it’s been clear for years.”
Your chest feels incredibly tight, a cold, suffocating weight pressing down on your lungs as the memory of a scorching morning in Tripoli tries to claw its way to the surface.
Do not go there. Do not let him in.
“You are not getting paid to psychoanalyze me, Evan,” you say, your voice cutting through the space between you like a serrated blade, entirely devoid of the usual brotherly affection.
You slam the laptop lid shut with a controlled, violent snap.
“You’re getting paid to finish the logistics report on the Geneva vector. So focus on the goddamn screen and leave my personal life out of it.”
Evan stares at you, his mouth opening as if to push back, but he reads the absolute, unyielding stone in your eyes. He lets out a slow, deflated sigh, shaking his head as he drops his hands back onto his keyboard.
He knows the conversation is over.
He knows the steel shutters have come down, and when you look like that, there isn't a force on earth that can pry them back open.
“Yeah,” he mutters quietly, his fingers beginning to tap against the keys once more. “Right. Back to the report.”
You lean back in your chair, your hands trembling slightly as you slide them into your jacket pockets to hide the movement.
You turn your gaze back to the ceiling, but you don't see the fly anymore. Your mind is fixed entirely on the memory of blue eyes, a crooked, awkward smile, and the terrifying realization that your walls might not be nearly as thick as you thought they were.
Hey! I love your formatting (specifically point blank). How do you go about formatting your fics? Mine (not this acct) feel like walls of text even with dividers and photos. T_T
That's a tough one to explain because I go by vibes, but I'll try!
I find my dividers on Tumblr or Pinterest or make them in Canva, and I find the pictures on Pinterest. For the gradient text there are tutorials on Tumblr that explain how to do it!
I usually use two bigger dividers, one at the beginning of the post, then one before the main contents of the chapter.
I'll then put my title in either the
bigger or
biggest
styles and also use bold
Then I put three separate pictures cropped into squares, and then I surround them with two smaller/daintier dividers.
Finally for the description part I usually use the option that makes the text smaller (next to strikethrough) and also use the option to
indent
the text so you don't have to scroll to view the entire description section.
is there anything you used/did specifically to get that good at writing (genuinely asking for ref lol) or were you just born with insane talent because oh my god, it’s everything. AND you can draw??? pleaaase you’re amazing! I love everything single thing you put out 🫶
stem student to stem student, idk how you do it all
Hii, apologies in advance if this is a little chaotic, I'm a chaotic person. I'm so happy you like my fics 🩵
I wasn't born with any talent honestly, neither writing nor drawing. But I've been practicing consistently even before writing fanfiction. I've also been drawing almost everyday for over a decade now.
As for the writing part—I'm not a native English speaker, but I've been fortunate to attend a language school hiring native speakers. So I have some experience in both creative writing and academic writing, I also read a lot, both fiction and non fiction. I think my biggest advice is consistency, write as often as you can and read as much as you're able, it really helps build your lexicon and familiarize you with common phrases and techniques. If writing a multiple-chapter story seems scary write a one shot, or even a single scene. Honestly, you just gotta start and stay consistent.
As for my time management—I'm finishing vet school, so while I have some classes, I mostly have clinical placements and this includes call shifts, so I have lots of free time this year. And during classes I usually draw to help me focus.
Series masterlist
AO3
Pairing: RE4!Leon Kennedy x CIA!Reader
Summary: You’ve spent your career being the hand that sweeps the world's atrocities under the rug. You’re cynical, you’re tired, and you’re definitely too old for Leon Kennedy’s brand of heroics. There are rules to this job: Don’t get attached. Don’t hesitate. Don’t trust anyone. You break all three somewhere between a dive bar, a hospital room, and Leon Kennedy looking at you like you’re something worth saving.
Content: 18+, graphic descriptions of violence, eventual smut, second person POV, no use of Y/N, age gap (older reader), coworkers to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, awkward Leon, almost kisses, romantic tension, sexual tension, survivor's guilt, eventual smut, avoidant attachment, past trauma, patching each other up,
Comment or DM to join the taglist
The ringing in your ears has finally subsided into a dull, rhythmic throb by the time the sweep is finished. The compound is officially secure, or at least as secure as a frozen concrete tomb full of pulverized flesh and shattered glass can ever be.
The tech boys are inside, hunched over monitors and stripping servers of the remaining encrypted data—remnants of a highly sophisticated Plagas strain that branches out far beyond this single Eastern European cell, weaving deep into a much larger, uglier syndicate network.
As the frantic adrenaline of the firefight slowly drains from your system, it leaves behind a hollow, icy exhaustion that settles straight into your joints. You need to get out of the suffocating smell of scorched copper and old biological decay.
You push open a heavy, rusted fire door at the back of the facility, stepping out into the brutal clarity of the freezing night. The wind has dropped to a bitter, stagnant chill, and overhead, the dark clouds have parted just enough to let a sliver of pale, unforgiving moonlight wash over the snow-dusted gravel.
You spot him almost immediately.
Leon is sitting on an overturned wooden supply crate near a stack of decommissioned fuel drums. He hasn't bothered to put his jacket back on; he’s just in his dark tactical shirt, his broad shoulders hunched forward as he aggressively breaks down his custom handgun.
He is working with a fierce, almost frantic speed, a rag clutched in his hand as he scrubs the slide with an intensity that looks less like standard equipment maintenance and more like an attempt to erase something invisible from the metal.
You slow your stride, your boots crunching softly on the frozen gravel to give him fair warning.
You’ve seen that exact look on too many soldiers to count. It’s the rigid, hyper-focused posture of a man desperately trying to outrun the crash that happens when the survival high wears off.
You stop a few feet away, leaning your hip against one of the cold fuel drums and looking down at him. "You're going to scrub the finish right off that thing, Kennedy," you say softly, your voice a low, gravelly scratch in the dead silence of the courtyard.
Leon doesn't look up, his fingers moving with practiced, mechanical precision as he snaps the barrel back into the frame. "Just making sure the mechanism is clear," he mutters, his tone a little too tight, a little too practiced. "Don't want any misfires on the next run."
You don't say anything at first. You just reach into your inner jacket pocket, your fingers bypassing the stolen cigarettes for a moment to pull out a small, heavy silver flask—filled with a surprisingly decent bourbon you'd smuggled out of a safehouse in Bogota. You step closer, invading his personal space just enough to break the icy boundary of his focus, and hold the flask out in front of his face.
"Here," you say plainly, breaking right through your usual wall of sharp sarcasm. "Drink. You look like shit, and frankly, I don't feel like dragging your pretty corpse back onto the cargo plane because you forgot how to breathe."
Leon's hands freeze on the grip of his gun. He stares at the silver flask for a long, quiet second, before he finally lets out a short, hollow laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
He tilts his head up, offering you a weak, entirely defensive smirk as he attempts to deflect with that stubborn, boyish charm of his.
"Hey, I always look good," he quips, his voice lifting just enough to mimic his usual confidence. He reaches up with a gloved hand, running his fingers through his swept blond bangs to adjust them. "The hair is structurally engineered to survive biological outbreaks."
It’s a terrible joke, completely cheesy and defensive, but you don't call him out on it. Your eyes slide down to his hands as he sets the handgun back on his lap. Beneath the thick fabric of his tactical gloves, his fingers are trembling.
It’s a very slight, rhythmic vibration—a subtle, betraying nod to the hidden memories that are currently rattling around inside his chest like a loose screw.
He tries to clasp his hands together to hide it, but you’ve been in the dark too long to miss a tell like that.
Jesus, kid, you think, a wave of genuine, heavy empathy softening the cynical edges of your mind. You really are just an unfortunate bastard who survived a nightmare, playing dress-up in a government suit.
Instead of pushing him, instead of demanding he talk about whatever ghosts just whispered in his ear inside that laboratory, you simply unscrew the cap of the flask yourself. You take a sharp, burning swig, letting the amber liquid sear the back of your throat, and then sit down on the frost-covered gravel right next to his wooden crate, your shoulder lightly brushing against his knee.
You offer the flask back to him, your movements slow and entirely unthreatening.
Leon watches you, his blue eyes searching your face behind the dark frame of his thoughts. He seems completely thrown off by the sudden absence of your biting tongue.
Slowly, he reaches out and takes the silver container from your hand. His trembling fingers brush against your skin, and you don't pull away, letting the steady, solid warmth of your hand ground him for a brief second.
He takes a long, desperate swallow of the bourbon, his chest expanding as he lets out a shuddering, ragged breath. He screws the cap back on but doesn't hand it back, holding the heavy metal between his palms as if it’s an anchor.
You lean your head back against the wooden supply crate, staring up at the vast, freezing expanse of the night sky, letting the silence settle over the both of you like a heavy blanket.
You don't offer any cheap words of comfort. You don't give him some textbook agency speech about how he did a good job inside. Instead, you just offer him your silent, unfiltered presence—a quiet, mutual understanding sitting out here in the dirt.
You let him know, without a single word spoken, that he isn't the only one out here haunted by the things that scream in the dark.
──────•✦•──────
The interior of the C-130 aircraft is a symphony of rattling rivets and the low, guttural thrum of four engines struggling against a brutal crosswind. The air is thick with the smell of stale coffee, hydraulic fluid, and the lingering scent of gunpowder that seems to have woven itself into the very fabric of Leon’s jacket.
Every time the plane drops into a pocket of dead air, the stomach-churning lurch sends Leon’s shoulder bumping against yours, a contact that makes his pulse spike in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the turbulence.
He watches you out of the corner of his eye. You are currently using a folded-up tactical manual as a makeshift pillow against the vibrating fuselage, looking entirely too relaxed for someone currently being tossed around in a glorified tin can.
He clears his throat, the sound nearly lost to the mechanical roar of the cabin, and tries to find a way to bridge the gap that doesn't involve him sounding like a teenager on his first bus ride.
"You know," he starts, his smooth voice raised just enough to cut through the deafening, constant drone of the engines, "I’ve survived three different viral outbreaks, but I think this pilot is actively trying to kill us. Do you think he got his license from a cereal box, or is he just a big fan of rollercoasters?"
It’s a classic, clumsily delivered Leon Kennedy one-liner, wrapped in that distinct, earnest awkwardness that usually makes younger analysts look at him with starry-eyed sympathy.
You slow-blink at him over the rim of your collar, your sharp, intelligent eyes gleaming in the dim amber light. You don't slide into an easy conversation, but you play along just enough to keep him guessing, deflecting his clumsy advance with a razor-thin, biting wit.
"If you're scared, Kennedy, you can always ask the loadmaster for a sick bag and a comforting blanket," you shoot back, your voice a low, gravelly, beautifully sarcastic scratch.
Leon lets out a short, self-deprecating chuckle, his mouth curving into that crooked, slightly awkward smirk. He leans forward just a fraction, his broad shoulders shifting against the canvas strap of his seat, completely helpless against the magnetic pull of your teasing energy.
"Hey, I'm just looking out for you. I thought maybe you needed a brave, highly decorated federal agent to hold your hand through the bumpy parts."
You let out a genuine, quiet snort, tilting your chin up to fix him with a devastatingly dry look. "Bless your heart," you drawl playfully, your tone laced with a smooth, intimate warmth that makes his pulse do a sudden, entirely uncoordinated stutter. "But I was flying through tropical typhoons in unmarked helicopters while you were still trying to figure out how to shave. If I want someone to hold my hand, I'll find a guy who doesn't panic when a plane shakes."
"Ouch," Leon mutters, pressing a hand over his chest as if physically wounded, though his brain is absolutely reeling.
Christ, she’s quick, he thinks, a helpless smile tugging at his lips as he watches the play of the shadows across your chiseled features. I’m a top-tier special agent, and she treats me like a mildly amusing nuisance.
Before he can respond, you’ve already closed your eyes again, retreating back into your cocoon of self-assurance and leaving him hanging on a cliffside of his own making.
Across the narrow, equipment-strewn aisle, Evan has been watching the exchange with the grim, unblinking focus of a gargoyle. As you drift off into a light doze, the older man leans over the gap, his face illuminated by the flickering instrument lights.
"I'd stop while you're ahead, Kennedy," Evan says, his voice low and gravelly, stripped of its usual grumpy sarcasm.
Leon blinks, taken aback by the sudden shift in tone. "Just a bit of conversation, Evan. Keeps the blood moving," Leon tries to deflect, but Evan isn't buying it.
He shakes his head, his eyes moving toward you before settling back on Leon with a heavy, paternal weight.
"She’s not a game, Leon. And she’s not some rookie who’s going to fall for the leather jacket and the heroics. You play around with her just to see if you can, and she’ll take a piece out of you that you won't get back."
Leon’s brow furrows, his brain stalling. "I'm not playing games," he says, and for once, the words don't feel like a one-liner; they feel heavy.
Evan sighs, the sound lost to a particularly loud groan from the airframe. "Twenty-five years of this shit doesn't just leave you with a good pension. It leaves you with ghosts that have teeth. She’s seen things that make Raccoon City look like a Sunday brunch, and she’s buried more friends than you’ve had hot dinners. Unless you’re serious—unless you’re ready to carry half that weight—walk away."
Leon looks back at you, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest against the vibrating wall. He feels a sudden, profound sense of gravity, a realization that your playful hot-and-cold demeanor isn't just a personality trait—it’s a fortress.
He’s a man old enough to know better than to go chasing after a woman who builds walls out of sarcasm and smoke. And yet, as the plane lurches through the dark, he realizes he’s already decided that the view from the top of those walls might be worth the climb.
──────•✦•──────
The safehouse in Stuttgart smells like industrial cleaner, and the depressing aroma of stale coffee that has been sitting in a glass pot for twelve hours straight.
It is a secure, subterranean bunker buried beneath a completely unassuming logistics warehouse, completely isolated from the pristine, rain-slicked German streets above. The walls are painted a uniform, mind-numbing shade of institutional gray, completely covered in dry-erase boards, pinned surveillance photographs, and high-resolution tactical maps that you are currently staring at with a look of profound, unadulterated boredom.
You lean back in a creaking metal folding chair, propping your heavy combat boots directly onto the edge of the central conference table. The tech boys from the agency have been huddled over three separate laptops for six hours, their faces illuminated by the pale, cold blue glow of the monitors as they chip away at the encryption keys you hauled out of the Eastern European compound.
"If that fan clicks one more time, I am going to put a point-forty-five round through the housing," you mutter to no one in particular, your voice a low, gravelly rasp that reflects the absolute lack of decent sleep you've had over the last forty-eight hours.
Evan, sitting two seats down with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, doesn't even look up from his notepad. "It's an air filtration system, you absolute barbarian. It keeps us from breathing in the mold. Try to exercise a modicum of patience."
"Patience is a luxury for people who didn't spend three weeks eating freeze-dried rations in Bolivia, Evan," you shoot back, shifting your weight and crossing your arms over your chest.
Christ, your groan inwardly, if the CIA wanted me to suffer through German bureaucracy, they could have at least provided a safehouse with functioning heating. My knees feel like they’re filled with crushed glass.
Across the table, Leon is leaning over the shoulder of a young agency cryptographer. He has a pristine, dark leather jacket draped over the back of his chair, standing in just a form-fitting gray shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the broad, disciplined lines of his shoulders. He is listening intently to the analyst's rapid-fire explanations, his brow furrowed in that hyper-focused, intensely serious look that you are quickly realizing is his default when he isn't trying to be a charming smartass.
Suddenly, one of the laptops lets out a sharp, electronic chime.
The young analyst practically jumps out of his skin, his fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard. "I'm through," he breathes, his voice cracking slightly with excitement. "The secondary data partition from the compound's mainframe... it's completely decrypted."
The entire room shifts. Even the stiff STRATCOM handlers in the back stand up, hovering like vultures over a fresh carcass. The monitor flashes, displaying a highly organized ledger of digital transactions, transport manifests, and a digital invitation embedded with an encrypted barcode.
You drop your boots off the table with a heavy, deliberate thud, leaning forward to squint at the screen. "Well, don't keep us in suspense, kid. What did our local syndicate friends leave behind in their digital trash can?"
Leon straightens up, his blue eyes scanning the decrypted text rapidly before he looks across the table directly at you. A faint, knowing smirk hitches at the corner of his lips.
"Looks like our Chimera broker isn't interested in selling his merchandise in dirty back alleys anymore," he says, his voice smooth but carrying that distinct, playful lilt he uses whenever he's trying to match your energy. "He’s going upscale."
"Define upscale, Kennedy," you say, arching a single, highly skeptical eyebrow. "Because if it involves me putting on another tactical vest and wading through a swamp, I’m going on strike."
"Try a high-society charity gala in Geneva," Leon counters, leaning his palms flat against the map table, his eyes locking onto yours with a challenging, amused brightness. "The 'Children of Tomorrow' foundation. It’s happening in four days at a private lakeside estate. According to the ledger, a high-ranking Chimera representative is using the event as a front to auction off refined Plagas samples to a select group of international buyers."
You let out a loud, theatrical groan, burying your face in your hands for a brief second. A charity gala. Fantastic. Pure psychological torture.
"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," you mumble through your fingers. You look up, fixing Evan with a venomous stare. "Tell me I get to be the sniper on the ridge. Tell me I get to sit in the freezing mud for twelve hours with a thermal scope. Anything is better than having to make small talk with European billionaires who smell like caviar and tax evasion."
Evan lets out a dry, raspy chuckle, clearly delighting in your profound misery. "Not a chance. You're senior black ops. You know how to navigate a high-value crowd without drawing blood in the first five minutes—usually. Besides, the security grid at this estate is entirely closed-circuit. You can't shoot your way into a vault that requires a dynamic biometric keycard."
Leon shifts his weight, his eyes tracing the sudden, irritated slump of your shoulders. He lets out a soft laugh, a genuinely warm sound that cuts through the sterile tension of the safehouse bunker.
"Come on," he teases, leaning in just enough to invade your peripheral vision. "It won't be that bad. You get to dress up, drink champagne that costs more than my monthly government stipend, and watch me look entirely ridiculous in a tight tuxedo."
You turn your head slowly, fixing him with a thoroughly amused look. A dangerous, incredibly playful spark flares up in your chest.
"Oh, trust me, Kennedy," you drawl, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across your face as you lean forward over the table, your voice dropping into a low, intimate purr. "The only thing that's going to keep me from blowing my own brains out during a charity auction is the sheer, unadulterated joy of watching you try to navigate a high-society ballroom without tripping over your own boyish charm. Do they even teach you how to use a salad fork at the academy, or do you just use your combat knife for everything?"
Leon blinks, completely caught off guard by the sudden, sharp shift in your demeanor. The playful, predatory confidence in your eyes catches him right in the chest, and you watch with immense internal satisfaction as a faint, tellsome pink hue creeps up his neck, completely dismantling his smooth exterior.
"I'll have you know my table manners are impeccable," he stammers slightly, a little flustered as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck, his signature awkwardness returning in full force. "I... I can use a salad fork just fine."
"We'll see about that," you tease, standing up from your chair and tossing your empty coffee cup into the recycling bin with a fluid flick of your wrist.
You look over at Evan, your professional mask clicking right back into place as you tap the table. "Alright, let's get the structural schematics for this estate in Geneva. If we're going to steal a bioweapon from a bunch of billionaires, I want to know exactly where the fire exits are before I put on a pair of heels."
Leon watches you walk toward the main tactical board, his blue eyes wide and entirely captivated as he tries to steady his own racing pulse.
He shakes his head, a helpless, breathless smile breaking across his face as he realizes that this trip to Switzerland is going to be a very different kind of dangerous.
Hey! Just wanted to let you know that the recent Leon picture you reblogged is actually AI. You're an artist so I figured you'd care and wanted to give you a heads up!
Hi love! Thank you so much for bringing this to my attention. It's hard nowadays to tell apart AI generated pictures from legitimate 3D renders or digital art, unfortunately. I also thought I'll use this ask to make my stance on AI clear as a creator—I do not support generative AI. The best part of being human is our desire to create, to use our minds to make art, to appreciate the beauty of the world around us. Do not exchange it for computer generated images. So, to sum things up—fuck AI.
AO3
Pairing: RE4R!Leon Kennedy x CIA!Reader
Summary: You’ve spent your career being the hand that sweeps the world's atrocities under the rug. You’re cynical, you’re tired, and you’re definitely too old for Leon Kennedy’s brand of heroics. There are rules to this job: Don’t get attached. Don’t hesitate. Don’t trust anyone. You break all three somewhere between a dive bar, a hospital room, and Leon Kennedy looking at you like you’re something worth saving.
Content: 18+, graphic descriptions of violence, eventual smut, second person POV, no use of Y/N, age gap (about 10 years, older reader), coworkers to lovers, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, awkward Leon, almost kisses, romantic tension, sexual tension, survivor's guilt, eventual smut, avoidant attachment, past trauma, patching each other up,
Series masterlist
AO3
Pairing: RE4!Leon Kennedy x CIA!Reader
Summary: You’ve spent your career being the hand that sweeps the world's atrocities under the rug. You’re cynical, you’re tired, and you’re definitely too old for Leon Kennedy’s brand of heroics. There are rules to this job: Don’t get attached. Don’t hesitate. Don’t trust anyone. You break all three somewhere between a dive bar, a hospital room, and Leon Kennedy looking at you like you’re something worth saving.
Content: 18+, graphic descriptions of violence, eventual smut, second person POV, no use of Y/N, age gap (older reader), coworkers to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, awkward Leon, almost kisses, romantic tension, sexual tension, survivor's guilt, eventual smut, avoidant attachment, past trauma, patching each other up,
Comment or DM to join the taglist
October 2006; Langley, VA
The fluorescent lights of the Langley briefing room vibrate at a frequency that feels like a drill pressing into your temples.
You slide into the chair next to Evan, the plastic creaking under your weight, and don’t even bother to take off your sunglasses. The dark lenses are the only thing standing between your splitting headache and the sterile, blinding whiteness of the room.
If the CIA brass expects you to sit through a joint task force meeting looking like a poster child for federal efficiency, they should have given you more than twelve hours on a cargo plane to wash the dirt out from under your fingernails.
You slouch back in the uncomfortable, padded chair, casting a thoroughly miserable side-eye at Evan, who looks entirely too pristine. He is sitting there, tapping away at his encrypted tablet, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and a functioning eight hours of sleep.
It is deeply offensive.
You lean back, cross your arms, and let out a long, audible sigh that telegraphs exactly how much you want to be anywhere else.
A few STRATCOM members are already scattered around the mahogany table, looking far too polished for nine in the morning.
Then the heavy double doors swing open, and the atmosphere in the room shifts instantly.
Am an walks in, and you can practically hear the collective indrawn breath of the room's junior analysts.
He’s dressed in a navy suit, moving with a controlled, athletic grace that screams overachiever. Blond hair, slightly too long to be regulation-perfect. Blue eyes that scan the room quickly—not lingering, not searching for attention, just… clocking exits, people, angles.
Habit.
He makes the less experienced members of the team turn their heads like he’s a celebrity walking a red carpet.
To them, he’s a living myth, a ghost story made flesh.
To you, he’s just the guy who’s about to make this meeting thirty minutes longer than it needs to be.
He doesn't play into the attention, though. In fact, he looks slightly uncomfortable with the way the room has gone quiet, offering a small, almost apologetic nod to the senior staff as he makes his way to the only empty chair.
He’s not swaggering; he’s just... some guy. A guy who happens to look like he’s stepped off a recruitment poster, which only makes your current state—caffeine-deprived and cynical—feel more haggard.
You know the file, though. Everyone in the building does.
Leon S. Kennedy
Raccoon City survivor. STRATCOM’s golden boy. The President’s personal silver bullet for every bio-organic nightmare that crawls out of a test tube.
He sits directly across from you, his blue eyes meeting yours for a fleeting second with a sincerity that feels out of place in a room full of sharks.
You know the type of man they say he is.
You’re a lot more interested in the one who just sat down like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
“Tell me we’re not on babysitting duty,” you mumble to Evan, barely moving your lips. “I thought STRATCOM had their own nursery for the ones with nice hair.”
Evan doesn’t even look up from his tablet. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. And why the fuck are you wearing sunglasses indoors? You look like a hungover bodyguard.”
You tip the glasses down just enough to fix him with a bloodshot stare. “I am hungover. And jetlagged, Evan. Which explains the sunglasses, the mood, and why I might bite the next person who speaks above a whisper.”
Without a word, Evan slides his steaming cardboard cup of coffee toward you.The rich, bitter scent of dark roast hits your nose, and for a fleeting second, you feel a faint surge of genuine, gentle affection for the man.
You blink at the cup, then at him. “You’re going soft on me,” you tease, your voice a raspy shadow of its usual self. “Next thing I know you’ll be knitting me a cardigan.”
“I’m just trying to keep you from becoming homicidal,” he counters, still looking at his screen. “For once, I’d like to get through a joint task force meeting without a formal HR complaint. Drink the caffeine and be a professional.”
You take a sip. The bitter heat does wonders for your soul, even if it doesn’t touch the headache.
You and Evan watch the STRATCOM contingent out of the corner of your eyes.
“I thought he’d be taller,” Evan whispers, nodding subtly toward Kennedy.
You snort directly into your coffee, the sound muffled but sharp enough to make a STRATCOM staffer a few seats down look over in disapproval. You flash the suit a venomous glare until he looks away.
“I just hope there’s some actual skill behind that pretty face. I’m too old to be a glorified nanny. If we have to pull him out of a fire, they better pay me double.”
“There must be something to him,” Evan muses. “The guy’s been through enough viral hellscapes to be a walking petri dish. If he wasn’t good, he’d be a zombie or a puddle of goo by now.”
You let out a dry, cynical breath, staring down at the dark swirling liquid in your cup. Evan isn't wrong, but decades of watching tactical operations dissolve into chaotic bloodbaths because some suit in Washington wanted a political win has completely eroded your faith in the system. You’ve seen too many "heroes" get chewed up and spit out by the meat grinder of black ops.
Evan glances at your empty hands, then back to his screen. “Speaking of the devil... did you actually review the briefing documents I forwarded you?”
You lean your head back against the rigid spine of the chair, closing your eyes behind the comforting dark barrier of the shades. “Didn’t have time between the shit brass keeps pulling out of their collective asses. They had me running a three-week marathon through the Bolivian brush tracking a phantom lead that didn't exist. My brain is fried, Evan.”
Evan sighs, a familiar, fond sound. He slides his tablet directly into your lap. “Well, look at it now. Tell me what you think of the extraction protocol.”
You crack your eyes open, pulling the tablet up and scrolling through the classified tactical mapping for the upcoming raid on an European crime syndicate. Your eyes skim the coordinates, the perimeter deployment, the estimated response times, and the structural analysis of the target compound.
Within thirty seconds, the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of the plan makes your blood pressure spike. It is an absolute bottleneck. A tactical suicide pact written in neat, Arial-font bullet points.
“What do you think?” Evan asks, though he clearly already knows the answer.
“I think it’s a shitty plan,” you say, your voice flat and definitive. “The moron who drafted this is clearly huffing glue. I’m going to have to give them the benefit of my very thorough expertise.”
Evan lets out a dry, raspy chuckle, shaking his head. “Expertise? Is that what we’re calling it now? You’re clearly the personality hire on this team. I’m the one who does the actual work around here.”
“Shut up and let me look at how many ways they're trying to get us killed,” you mutter playfully, elbowing him lightly in the ribs.
While you are staring down at the glowing screen, your blunt words echoing softly in the quiet room, you feel the distinct sensation of eyes on you. You casually tilt your head up, your gaze tracking through the dark tint of your sunglasses.
He had clearly caught your comment about the glue. But instead of the typical, defensive puffing of the chest you usually get from high-ranking male operatives—instead of the offended, stiff arrogance of a man whose reputation had just been casually dismissed—he looks entirely intrigued.
One of his eyebrows is slightly arched, a faint, almost imperceptible trace of amusement dancing in his blue eyes. He leans back slightly in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze steady and assessing as he watches you handle Evan’s tablet. He isn't intimidated by your abrasive, foul-mouthed demeanor at all. If anything, the slight, curious smirk hovering near his lips suggests he finds the absolute lack of corporate filtering refreshing.
You hold his gaze behind your lenses, dryly noting that at least the kid has a sense of humor.
At the front of the room, the Deputy Director clears his throat, the sound amplified by the briefing room’s microphone as he taps a button on his remote.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let's get down to it," the Director says, his voice flat and bureaucratic as the main projector screen flickers to life. A massive intelligence dossier populates the center display, dominated by a stark, stylized graphic of a mythological beast—three heads, a serpent's tail, a predator's posture. "Over the last fiscal quarter, our joint intelligence web has flagged a rapidly expanding shadow organization. They utilize this creature—the Chimera—as their formal sigil, and the intelligence community has formally dubbed them the Chimera Syndicate."
He clicks to the next slide, revealing high-resolution satellite imagery of fortified black sites and intercepted cargo manifests. "This isn't your standard black-market cartel. The Chimera Syndicate has recently taken up dealing BOWs on a massive scale across European sectors. They are actively acquiring fractured Umbrella assets, securing refined viral strains, and selling bio-organic weaponry to the highest international bidders. And that brings us to their primary distribution hub."
He clicks the remote again. The projection screen behind him flashes to a highly detailed, brightly colored tactical overlay of the primary target compound in Eastern Europe. He begins to drone on about standard insertion protocols, tracing a neat little red line directly through the main courtyard. He speaks with the smooth, unearned confidence of a man who has never had to wash a colleague's blood out of a pair of combat boots.
As the details of the operation spill out of his mouth, the last frayed threads of your patience finally snap.
The insertion point is a funnel. The secondary extraction route relies on a bridge that your own intelligence reports indicated was structurally compromised three weeks ago. They are practically rolling out a red carpet for the Chimera Syndicate's heavy artillery.
You lean over to Evan, not even bothering with the concept of a whisper. “This is bullshit.”
The entire room goes dead silent. The air conditioning unit suddenly feels incredibly loud.
The Deputy Director freezes, his red laser pointer trembling slightly against the digital map on the wall. Slowly, he lowers the remote and turns his head, glaring at you over the wire rims of his spectacles with a look of radiating self-importance. It’s the exact kind of bureaucratic condescension that usually makes you want to reach into your jacket for a flask.
“Officer? Did you have something you wanted to share with the rest of the group? Or were you too busy admiring your own reflection in those glasses?”
He expects an apology. He wants you to shrink back, to mutter a sorry, sir and let him finish his fantasy of a flawless victory.
But you’ve been in the dark too long to care about his ego.
“I said,” you repeat, sitting up straight and pulling the sunglasses off your head, “this is bullshit.”
The Deputy Director’s face transitions into a delicate, dangerous shade of mauve. “You are forgetting who you are speaking to, Officer,” he says, his teeth clenched so tight you can hear the enamel grinding. “This is a highly sensitive tactical operation engineered by top-tier military minds.”
“No,” you fire back, leaning forward and slamming your sunglasses onto the polished wood table with a sharp, echoing crack. “You’re forgetting who you’re speaking to. Twenty-five years of service in black ops. Unmatched field experience. You brought me into this circus for my expertise, so you’re damn well getting it. This plan isn't an operation—it’s a fucking suicide note.”
A few years ago, a comment like that would have gotten you escorted out of Langley by armed guards. But you have built a reputation heavy enough that even senior leadership cannot simply dismiss you or pretend your record doesn't exist.
You’ve survived the kind of clean-up jobs that keep these directors awake at night, and they know it.
Before he can order you out, you stand up, stepping up to the edge of the long conference table. You point a finger directly at the glowing projection screen and systematically begin to dismantle their beautiful, pristine plan.
“Look at your primary insertion point,” you command, your voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You are funneling three separate tactical teams right into a cross-section of overlapping kill zones. The syndicate has elevated sniper perches on the north and west ridges. If you drop the teams there, they’ll be fish in a barrel before their boots even hit the mud.”
The Deputy Director opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off with a brutal wave of your hand. “Furthermore, whoever drew these perimeter lines completely ignored the existing ventilation and maintenance routes running beneath the sub-level labs. They appear right here on the 1998 Umbrella blueprints, but I guess looking at older schematics was too much fucking work for your analysts.”
You lean over the table, glaring directly into the Director's eyes. “Your planners are assuming the enemy is going to behave predictably and according to conventional military rules. These people are dealing bio-organic weapons. They don't play by the Geneva Convention.”
The Director’s face goes from mauve to a deep, embarrassed crimson as he realizes he has absolutely no data to counter your points, because every single word out of your mouth is entirely, undeniably correct. Around the table, the other military officials suddenly avoid eye contact with him, quietly nodding and adjusting their papers, silently acknowledging the massive, fatal flaws you are exposing.
“So go ahead,” you finish, tossing your pen down onto the table. “Send them in through the front door. And then you can be the one to explain to the families why their sons and daughters are now sentient, mutated piles of sludge.”
You sink back into your chair, breathing heavily, the thumping in your head returning with a vengeance.
Evan leans over, rubbing his temple. “Always the same shit with you,” he whispers, though there’s a fond, weary undercurrent to his voice. “You could at least try to soften the tone, you know? Just once? For the sake of my blood pressure?”
You turn your head slightly, a small, sharp smile playing on your lips. “I could soften it, Evan. I really could. But I just don't give a fuck anymore. Seen enough crap that makes Guantanamo seem like a great retirement destination.”
The front of the room is silent for a painfully long moment. The Deputy Director looks at the screen, then at his notes, and finally clears his throat, his posture deflating. With an incredibly grudging, bitter nod, he addresses the room. “We will... take these variables into consideration. The briefing is paused for sixty minutes while we recalculate the insertion vectors.”
“Of course you will,” you murmur, leaning back and tapping your pen lightly against the table.
Evan exhales, a long, weary sound. “You know, one day they’re actually going to throw you out of one of these rooms. Permanently.”
You shrug faintly, a playful glint returning to your eyes now that the pressure is off. “Then they shouldn’t invite me. I’m a terrible guest.”
He snorts under his breath.
Across the table, Leon Kennedy is still staring.
He isn’t offended.
He looks captivated, his blue eyes wide with a mix of shock and dawning respect. There’s a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s fighting the urge to grinright there in front of his superiors.
He looks like a man who has spent far too many years surrounded by tightly wound politicians and yes-men who are too terrified of losing their pensions to speak the truth—and he’s just realized he's sitting across from a kindred spirit.
You catch his eye, hold it for a second to make sure he’s paying attention, and give him a quick, mischievous wink.
Leon blinks, completely caught off guard. A faint, genuine flush of color creeps up the collar of his shirt and colors his neck. He looks down at his folder, clearing his throat awkwardly as you turn your attention back to your coffee, thoroughly satisfied with the morning’s entertainment.
──────•✦•──────
The tarmac at the private airfield in the Eastern Slav Republic feels like a sheet of ice, the kind of cold that doesn’t just nip at your skin but takes a personal interest in your bone marrow. As the transport plane’s ramp hisses open, the Eastern European wind rushes in, smelling of jet fuel, pine needles, and the vague, metallic tang of an impending storm.
You pull the collar of your shearling jacket up against the chill, stepping down the ramp onto the frost-heaved asphalt. Your boots crunch on the thin layer of ice already forming over the puddles. Instantly, that familiar, leaden weight settles deep in your chest—the crushing boredom and cold dread of another black ops circus kicking off in a corner of the world that God forgot.
A few yards away, Leon Kennedy is hauling a heavy tactical crate off the hydraulic lift. He handles the weight with an easy, fluid strength, his biceps straining against the fabric of his dark tactical shirt, but his head isn't entirely in the game.
Ever since you verbally castrated the Deputy Director back at Langley, the boy has been walking on eggshells around you, trying to solve you like a puzzle he can't quite piece together. He’s clearly used to two types of people: starry-eyed rookies who treat him like a plastic action figure, or stiff STRATCOM suits trying to measure their dicks against his file.
He isn’t used to a woman who treats him like a regular peer and tells his bosses to shove their tactical maps where the sun doesn’t shine.
The local contact, a grizzled man named Yuri with skin like cured leather and a suspicious twitch in his left eye, waits by a rusted-out UAZ. He looks ready to bolt the second he sees the American “advisors” unloading crates of high-tech hardware.
The STRATCOM team leader is already smoothing his tactical vest, preparing to march over and deliver some textbook, aggressively formal diplomatic introduction that will probably make the poor bastard leak information out of sheer panic.
You don't give them the chance. You bypass the handlers entirely, stepping past a stack of gear, and walk straight toward Yuri, your posture losing the aggressive, combat-ready edge you hold in the briefing room.
“Zdrastvuy, Yuri,” you say softly, your Russian rolling off your tongue with ease. You place a gentle hand on his forearm, your eyes softening. “We heard about your brother. I am truly sorry. No man should lose family to these monsters.”
Yuri freezes, his defensive posture melting instantly. He looks at you and sees the empathy there—the genuine, weary kindness of someone who has seen too many brothers lost.
He nods slowly, his eyes brimming with a sudden, shaky trust. He wipes his nose with the back of a dirty glove and begins to speak rapidly, the words spilling out of him in an anxious, desperate torrent of Russian.
He points a trembling finger toward the jagged white peaks rising in the distance. He tells you everything. He details the exact paths the Chimera cell has been using to move their crates into the foothills, the approximate headcounts, and the strange, guttural noises echoing from the abandoned mining shafts at night. He is trusting you with his life because you had the decency to treat him like a grieving human being before treating him like an asset.
From the corner of your eye, you see Leon stop what he’s doing. He’s holding a tactical vest, frozen mid-motion, watching the exchange.
You can almost hear the gears turning in his head: Who is this person?
One minute you’re a human buzzsaw in a conference room, and the next you’re comforting a terrified informant in his mother tongue like a saint in tactical boots.
He is visibly, utterly stunned. The cognitive dissonance is practically short-circuiting his pretty blond head.
You finish the exchange with Yuri, promising him that his village will be bypassed in the coming sweep, and turn back toward the team. The professional mask slides back into place, though your inner monologue remains as cynical as ever.
Great. Now all I need is a coffee and a lobotomy to forget the smell of this airfield.
Evan is currently cross-referencing a digital manifest next to a stack of ammunition crates and looking predictably miserable about the temperature.
You don’t say a word as you walk up to him; you simply reach into his tactical jacket pocket with the practiced ease of a pickpocket, your fingers finding the familiar rectangular shape of his cigarette pack and the cold metal of his Zippo.
“Hey,” Evan grunts, not even looking up as you flip the lid and spark a flame. “You know, those things will fucking kill you one day," he grumbles, crossing his arms against the biting wind. "And for the love of God, you are a government employee. Buy your own damn cigarettes for once."
You flick the Zippo open with a sharp, metallic clink, shielding the small flame from the bitter wind with your palm as you light up. You take a long, deep drag, the harsh smoke burning beautifully in your lungs, before blowing a neat gray cloud into the freezing air. You wink at him through the haze.
"Why would I buy my own, Evan? Using your supply is significantly more cost-effective. It's called resource management."
"You’re a parasite," Evan grumbles, though there’s no real heat in it. "A highly armed, middle-aged parasite."
You shoot him a sharp, playful grin and nudge his shoulder with your elbow. “Consider it a fee for my charming company. It’s a bargain.”
"Your company is a recognized hazard to my physical and mental health," he snorts under his breath, turning his attention back to the tablet, though the distinct, affectionate twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth gives him away completely.
You feel that heavy gaze on you again. You turn your head just enough to see Leon still watching you, his expression a mix of bewilderment and something that looks suspiciously like intrigue.
He looks like he wants to say something—probably some heroic one-liner about the mission or a polite comment on your linguistics—but he seems to realize he doesn’t have the right opening.
You catch his eye and let the smoke drift out of the side of your mouth, giving him a look that’s equal parts Can I help you? and Try to keep up.
Instantly, the legendary Leon S. Kennedy completely loses his nerve.
His cheeks turn a faint, tellsome pink against the freezing cold, and he abruptly rips his gaze away, suddenly becoming profoundly, intensely interested in the adjustment strap of his left combat boot. He starts pulling at a buckle that doesn't even need adjusting, his fingers working with a nervous, clumsy speed that is entirely uncharacteristic of a top-tier federal agent.
You watch his sudden, burning embarrassment, a sudden bubble of genuine, suppressed amusement fluttering in your chest.
You take another drag of your cigarette, hiding your smirk behind the smoke.
Poor guy, you think, suppressed amusement bubbling in your chest. He’s a legend in the field, but he’s absolutely out of his depth here.
This is going to be a very long, very entertaining week.
──────•✦•──────
Leon adjusts the weight of his tactical vest, the Velcro snapping with a sharp, rhythmic sound that matches the pounding of the blood in his ears.
He feels like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. He’s seen a lot of things in his time—monsters that defy biology and politicians who defy logic—but you are proving to be a different kind of anomaly.
One minute you are a hurricane, dismantling a Director’s career with the surgical precision of a scalpel, and the next, you are crouched in the dirt, speaking Russian with a softness that seems to physically soothe a trembling informant.
It’s a jarring duality, a shift in frequency so fast it leaves him with a lingering sense of vertigo.
Evan follows his line of sight without a shred of subtlety, his gaze drifting over to where you stand by a rusted armored truck, looking entirely too comfortable for a woman in a frozen wasteland. A knowing, weary flicker crosses the older officer's face, the look of a man who has seen this particular brand of fascination take root before.
“Careful,” Evan says dryly, his voice cutting through the whistle of the wind. “She bites.”
Leon huffs out a quiet breath, the vapor clouding in front of his face. “Yeah, I got that impression,” he mutters, thinking of the way you’d winked at him after essentially lighting the briefing room on fire.
“Good,” Evan replies, shifting his weight. “Then you’re ahead of most people.”
There’s a beat of heavy, cold silence between them as Leon hesitates. He shouldn't ask; he’s a professional, and he has a job to do that involves BOWs, not interpersonal psych-evaluations.
But against his better judgment, he finds the question slipping out anyway. “She always like that?”
Evan raises an eyebrow, a skeptical glint in his eyes. “Like what?”
Leon gestures vaguely toward you, his hand dropping as soon as he realizes how transparent he’s being. “That. The... the 180-degree switch.”
Evan looks back at you again, watching as you flick ash into a metal tray with a flick of your wrist, looking completely unbothered by the fact that you are the center of gravity for every set of eyes on this tarmac.
“Depends,” Evan says after a moment. “You mean the part where she terrifies people in meetings, or the part where she talks a scared informant off a ledge like it’s nothing?”
Leon exhales through his nose, the cold air stinging his sinuses. “Yeah. That.”
He’s trying to reconcile the blunt instrument he saw at Langley with the gentle soul currently promising a Russian man safety.
“Both are real,” Evan shrugs, his expression unreadable. “People are rarely just one thing, Kennedy.”
Leon frowns, unsatisfied. “That’s helpful.”
Evan gives him a look that is pure CIA ice. “I’m not here to be helpful. I’m here to make sure she doesn’t get herself killed doing something reckless.”
Leon’s gaze snaps back to the older man. “Reckless?”
Evan’s mouth tilts into a grim, knowing shadow of a smile. “You’ll see.”
The warning is far from reassuring, but it fuels the fire of Leon's curiosity.
As Evan moves off to check the perimeter, Leon finds his feet moving toward you before he can talk himself out of it.
You are still leaning against the truck, the cigarette tucked between your fingers, looking like you belong in a vintage spy film rather than a bio-hazard containment zone.
He stops a few feet away, feeling that familiar, slightly clumsy charm of his start to misfire. “You know, I’m starting to think you have a twin,” he says, trying for a smooth tone and landing somewhere near 'vaguely confused.' “Because the person who nearly made the Director cry in D.C. didn't seem like the type to hold hands with local informants.”
You turn your head slowly, a curl of smoke drifting from your lips as you look him up and down with that devastatingly dry, self-assured gaze. Leon feels a sudden, sharp urge to check if he has something on his face or if he’s standing in a puddle.
“It’s called multitasking, Kennedy,” you reply, your voice a low, melodic contrast to the harsh wind. “You should try it. It saves a lot of time on paperwork.”
Leon lets out a short, dry laugh, leaning his shoulder against a stack of crates to hide the fact that he’s slightly off-balance.
“I usually stick to one personality at a time. It's less confusing for the monsters I shoot.” He pauses, his blue eyes searching yours, trying to find the seam where the two versions of you meet. “Which one is the act?”
You take another drag of the cigarette, your eyes softening just a fraction, though the sharp intelligence behind them remains.
“Neither,” you say simply, exhaling the smoke into the gray sky.
You flick the ash away and step closer, invading his personal space just enough to make his heart do a weird, uncoordinated stutter.
“You’ve been at this circus long enough to know that being a ‘golden boy’ is its own kind of mask,” you murmur, your tone shifting into something terrifyingly perceptive. “Am I right?”
Leon feels a hit of genuine, stinging recognition. He’s spent years being the hero, the survivor, the flawless agent, often at the cost of the man underneath the leather jacket. He looks down at you, realizing that for all your sarcasm and sharp edges, you are seeing him with a clarity that most people miss.
“Maybe,” he admits, his voice dropping an octave. “But I usually wait until the second date to get profiled.”
You let out a genuine, raspy laugh—a bright, surprising, beautiful sound in the miserable gloom of the airfield—and pat his upper arm with a hand that is surprisingly, comfortingly warm despite the freezing cold.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Kennedy,” you tease, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m not profiling you. I’m just trying to see if you’re actually as interesting as your redacted file claims you are.”
As you pull your hand away and walk off to rejoin Evan at the command vehicle, Leon is left standing entirely alone in the freezing wind. He stares at his clipboard, completely tongue-tied, realizing that for the first time in a very long time, he is the one who has been left entirely caught off guard.
──────•✦•──────
The sterile, flickering lights of the facility hum with a low-frequency buzz that sets Leon’s mind on edge, the air thick with the antiseptic tang of chemicals and the metallic stench of old blood.
The raid was supposed to be a surgical strike—in, out, secure the samples—but as the sirens begin to wail, Leon knows the "plan" he’d defended back at Langley has officially gone to hell.
He is moving through the corridors with his gun drawn, his senses dialed to an eleven, when the wet, rhythmic slapping of flesh against metal echoes from the ceiling vents.
Before he can even shout a warning, a pair of Lickers drop from the shadows, their raw, exposed brains glistening under the strobing emergency lights and their elongated tongues lashing out like whips.
Leon’s instinct is to dive in front of you, as he prepares to shoulder the brunt of the assault, but you are already three steps ahead of him.
You don't scream. You certainly don't freeze.
Instead, you drop into a low crouch, your movements fluid and practiced, and unleash a controlled burst from your submachine gun that catches the first creature mid-leap.
You move with a lethal, terrifying grace, pivoting on your heel to put a round through the second creature’s skull just as it lunges.
As the monsters slump into twitching heaps of gore, you don’t even look winded. You simply glance over at Leon, who is still half-poised for a heroic rescue that wasn't needed, and offer a devastatingly calm smirk.
"Don't worry, Kennedy. I can actually shoot," you say, your voice dripping with that dry, playful sarcasm that seems to be your default setting. "Try to keep up, pretty boy."
Leon finds himself completely stunned, a sudden, ridiculous wave of heat rushing up his neck at the nickname.
Pretty boy.
Christ, he’s a federal agent who has stared down a Tyrant, but you managing to call him a pretty boy in the middle of a biological weapon ambush leaves him feeling more flustered than he cares to admit. He clears his throat, quickly lowering his weapon from its defensive arc and sliding into a low piece of concrete cover right next to you.
"Nice shooting," he quips, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts. "Did you try asking them politely in Russian first? Maybe they just needed a hug and a cigarette."
You reload your weapon with a metallic clack that is entirely too smooth, your eyes fixed on the door as you raise an eyebrow at him. The flickering light catches the sharp, confident line of your jaw, and Leon finds himself momentarily distracted by the fact that you look incredibly good in the middle of a warzone.
"If I wanted to chat with a monster, Kennedy, I could have stayed in Washington," you shoot back, your tone perfectly flat and unimpressed. "At least these ones don't pretend to have a soul before they try to eat you."
Leon lets out a short, startled chuckle, shaking his head as he prepares to breach the next room.
He realizes, with a sinking sort of clarity, that he is wildly out of his depth with you. He’s used to being the most capable person in the room—the one people look to when the world starts ending—but you don't look to him for anything other than a little bit of entertainment.
It’s frustrating, bewildering, and, if he’s being honest with himself, completely intoxicating.
Leon moves with you through the flickering dimness of the lower laboratories, his boots crunching over shattered glass and spent brass casings.
The facility is a graveyard of failed ambitions and bio-hazardous waste, but every time the emergency strobes pulse, his eyes find the back of your head or the steady line of your shoulders. He finds himself attempting to bridge the silence, his social skills feeling about as refined as a flashbang.
"So," he starts, his voice echoing slightly against the reinforced concrete walls, "is the 'pretty boy' thing a standard CIA field designation, or do I get a special badge for that?"
He’s trying for suave, but it comes out with that distinct, earnest Leon Kennedy awkwardness—the kind that usually works on college students or younger agents, but seems to bounce off your skin like a ricochet. You don't even turn around, though he can hear the unmistakable lilt of a laugh in your throat.
"It’s a temporary rank, Kennedy. Don’t get too attached to it; you’re one bad hair day away from a demotion," you reply, your tone dry.
Leon huffs a small, self-deprecating smile, adjusting his grip on his weapon.
"Tough crowd," he mutters, though the frustration is entirely surface-level. Beneath it, he’s enjoying the friction, the way you refuse to let him settle into his usual rhythm.
As you push through a set of heavy, hydraulic double doors, the air clears slightly. You find Evan waiting in a secure junction point, leaning against a console with a rifle slung over his shoulder and a look of profound boredom on his face.
"Hey, you," Evan calls out, his voice raspy from the recycled air. He looks you over with a clinical, brotherly eye, his relief manifesting as a grumpy grunt. "Glad to see you're still kicking. I wasn't looking forward to filling out the paperwork for a new partner."
You stop for a second, shifting your weight and giving him a stern look.
"What, you doubt my survival skills now, Evan? After fifteen years of me pulling your ass out of the fire?" You ask, your voice dripping with faux-indignation.
Evan doesn't even blink, his gaze shifting briefly to Leon before returning to you. "Frequently," he replies without a beat.
You shake your head, a genuine, fond smile tugging at the corners of your mouth—the kind of look Leon hasn't quite earned yet—before you gesture toward the dark corridor leading to the main server room.
"Look lively, boys. We've got a virus to steal and a long flight home," you call out over your shoulder, already moving forward into the gloom.
Leon stands there for a moment, watching the way you navigate the shadows with a confidence that borders on the supernatural.
He’s supposed to be the seasoned veteran, the one who’s seen it all and done it all, but you’ve managed to make him feel like he’s back in Raccoon City—uncertain, outclassed, and desperately curious.
He watches the sway of your tactical belt and the way you check your corners with a lethal, effortless grace, and he realizes he’s in so much fucking trouble.
It’s a ridiculous sensation for a man of his age and standing, a schoolboy crush wrapped in a layer of professional respect and a healthy dose of "what the fuck is wrong with me," but as he follows you into the dark, he can't bring himself to mind.
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