๊ฉ โ WORK WIFE | O1. OFFICE CULTURE
content ๊ฉ 8k words ๏ผ fem!reader ๏ผ fake marriage ๏ผ undercover mission ๏ผ coworkers to lovers ๏ผ friends to lovers ๏ผ office romance ๏ผ slowburn ๏ผ usstratcom leon ๏ผ inaccurate depictions of the us government and usstratcom lol ๏ผ slow burn ๏ผ mutual pining ๏ผ relationship decay (reader has a kinda shitty boyfriend) ๏ผ jealousy ๏ผ typical fake dating tropes ๏ผ canon typical violence ๏ผ eventual fluff angst smut (in that order) ๏ผ reader is a hottie idk ๏ผ as always, reader has a background but NOT in a way that diminishes being a reader insert ๏ผ i half ass headers a lot | ao3
โถ โ usstratcom!leon kennedy x handler!reader
A running joke in the office is that handlers and field agents are spouses.
You've been Leon Kennedy's "wife" for three years. This doesn't really matter, not until after uncovering the only viable way to infiltrate a German businessman financing B.O.W. research was to play a perfectly traditional married couple, you're assigned undercover alongside Leon Kennedyโas his actual wife because unfortunately management appears to have mistaken years of professional compatibility for convincing marital chemistry. Now you have to survive Germany, maintain the cover, and absolutely not let the fake marriage become more complicated than it already is.
The running joke in the office is that handlers and agents are work spouses.
You do not know how this happened, nor where this custom came from, all you know is that youโve been Leon Scott Kennedyโs wife for three years and if anythingโs going to change, itโd be his haircut every five weeks, not your work arrangements. This originally did not bother you, as you work a job with stellar pay. However, the agent youโre handling is a pain in your ass and doesnโt understand when to quit.
You should also note that upper management would later take the joke seriously.
For the past two days, Leon has been surveilling a wealthy German businessman suspected of financing B.O.W. research through shell companies. This was great for you and terrible for him. Even if Leon was the star of USSTRATCOM, it didnโt give him immunity to the mundanity of surveillance and intel missions, the types of assignments the agency gives him that you know from years of handling him, bore him out of his mind. You find it bizarre. Because Leon, from whatever you gathered, should probably be in love with mundanity.
"Kennedy, left corridor," on the other side, your voice is rather muffled, static noise accompanying every sound that emits from deep within your vocal chords. Youโve been suspicious for a while nowโthirty two minutes elapsed, you countedโthat the mansion Leon was in, owned by the man Leonโs supposed to be gathering intel on in one of his (and your) boring surveillance missions, was deliberately blocking signals within his house. Deeper than you thought when you originally assisted Agent Faraday in infiltrating into this mansion to plant bugs.
Over the hazy comms, you hear Leonโs low voice. Somehow, youโre able to decipher the sound of skin rubbing on fabric and the distinct whip of a handgun that he definitely does not need to take out from hidden beneath his tailored suit jacket. "The right one looks faster."
There is a coffee mug at the far left side of the operations roomโs desk, untouched and already room temperature cold from your neglect. Operations always smells clean whenever you come in. That is a fact. Itโs because the air freshener in the room is a subtle black currant-smelling fragrance that you yourself chipped in for the officeโmostly because you couldnโt stand how stuffy the air smelled back when you only just started working. Your hand twitches against the black, slightly unresponsive mouse. Folders upon folders are sprawled on the sleek white desk and the binder youโve used since a year agoโblack, funnily decorated with stickers youโve collected over the yearsโis open, showing the sheets of paper with near unintelligible scribbles bound by its ring.
Your fingers jitter and your eyebrow which twitched from a throbbing pain only a second ago twitches again at the statement and you glare at the monitor that hosts Leonโs head from a grainy upwards camera angle, as if he could see you. This is a common occurrence in your professional relationship with him. Leon does not listen to you at first. Ever. Itโs annoying, but itโs a simple tumbleweed rolled by the wind which requires a simple solution: you kick them.
You speak into the mic again, a deliberate hiss following, though no real malice strikes in your cadence even as you enunciate every syllable of your words, "the right one also has four armed guards."
Finally, Leonโs voice rumbles back, the audio not improving even a little bit. "You always focus on the negatives," he says, turning his back around and tilting his head up, staring directly into the camera youโre focused on. Casually, he rolls his head exaggeratedly in mock disapprovement, fixing the lapels of his suit jacket right after. Right as your headset dims its audio, you hear one of your coworkers mutter without looking upโheโs arguing with his wife again.
"I'm your handler. Focusing on negatives is my entire job," you mutter.
Thereโs nothing over the radio for just about five seconds, only static. All at once, the only things you hear, see, and feel are your uncomfortable, red-soled kitten heels digging into your toes, the smell of air freshener, and the distant sensation of not being cooped up in a large but mentally cramped desk all day. You guarantee, even if you stand up right now, with the daze from your constant sitting, your lack of hydration, and the only food youโve consumed being a buttered croissant you ate one bite of, you wouldnโt even be allowed to by your own body.
"Do you ever wonder what it'd be like if I got a handler that supported my choices?" Leon finally responds to your quip. You see him from the camera briefly glancing at the door on the right but he shakes his head, the motion subtle enough not to draw any attention, not subtle enough to escape your eye. The sudden thought that Leon trusts your judgment always leaves a prideful feeling right in your throat all the way down to your stomach, and the thought that he mightโve stopped because heโs afraid of pissing you offโthough, thatโs unlikelyโalso fills you with amusement.
Thereโs a stubborn knot-like ache at the start of your eyebrow ridge, but you merely press a knuckle to the area, eyes drifting towards the as-accurate-as-it-gets live GPS tracking on the first monitor above, to the CCTV feeds on the third monitor. You switch between the views, then speak into the mic.
"Every day," you nod to nobody in particular, but still, you watch him roll his shoulders slowly on the feed. You close your eyes again and wait for Leonโs response. This time, you donโt open them as quickly and instead you try to envision the layout of that German manโs estate. This has become a habit of yours over the yearsโover several years of collecting floor layouts and architectural maps, visualizing whatever it is youโre looking at with the half-assed unyielding focus youโd give when you temporarily rest your eyes.
"Really?" he asks speculatively, eagerly, loosening his tie. You donโt know where the hell this habit of his came from but youโve noticed, Leon always loosens his tie exactly thirty minutes into surveillance.
Your mouth twitches at his keenness, brittle nail tapping against the desk office once more in rhythmic beats. "Every day I thank God you didn't," you murmur. Leon catches the way youโve started slurring your words, fatigue resting between the microscopic gaps between your bones and deep inside your muscles. "You would hate being with anybody else."
"Calm down, tiger," Leon gruffs into his radio and you leave it at that.
Checking through the feed, you look at each corridor that leads into one another and eventually the main hall. Your eyes snag on the man you were supposed to be gathering intel on. A classic tuxedo, satin lapels; Friedrich Hohenzollern, famously not part of the Hohenzollern family, at least not directly, stands straight in the middle within the frame from where the camera is positioned. Itโs only now that the fundraiser event has actually begun and you watch the influx of guests, ones that arenโt early, just right on time, come in one by one.
You squint at the monitor. Two, four, six, eightโyouโve had a habit of counting in pairs, mostly because you have a weird tie-up with the concept of balance. A self-admittedly bizarre reason for counting in pairs when the much more mainstream reason of wanting to count faster was there. Still, biting a peeled piece of skin on your lip, you count under your breath the couples arriving one by one into the estate.
You donโt even register that youโve picked up a pen, not yours, office given, and begun spinning it around between your fingers. It takes a second, then it registers in the form of your widening eyes. Youย remember that previous surveillance only had partial guest listsโthis was really the first operation with full coverage. You immediately scatter to check your files. Through the two months of on-and-off investigations youโve found yourself assisting on, not one man, or woman, that comes near to Hohenzollern comes alone.
"Kennedyโฆ" you call out. The jitters in your body have made way to your leg, bouncing rapidly as you scoot closer in your chair into the desk. "Count the couples."
From the cameras, you see Leonโs face, obstructed by the grain, yet you can see the ridge of his brows, and the fine lines forming as he bunches them up. His eyes take a quick look and you reckon heโs counting the same way as you, then he finally states, like some revelation he finally pieced together. "Everybodyโs got somebody."
Sixty seconds and less is all it takes for you to push your chair back, softly calling out to your coworker in the same near lifeless condition as you are until he turns around and gives you raised brows and a smile, frame softening right as you speak. Itโs ten minutes and less after you ask him if he could get a file on Hohenzollernโs love life and wife. Your coworker nods and at that, you thank Behavioral Analysis for already having a file on him waiting while Intelligence has been building a caseโwith you helping closelyโon him for months.ย
You slump down into your chair, putting on a triumphant smile at your own unproven hypothesis.ย
You close your eyes, enough for you to take a minuscule amount of time to sleep right after you confirmed everything with Leon and he was successfully out of that Mediterranean estate, now driving back to his hotel. Fifteen minutes of small REM bliss with your mouth slightly ajarโonly fifteen more minutes later, youโre gently woken up by that same coworker, handing you a blue file presumably holding whatever records they had of Hohenzollern. That file is yours, only, one that you bought for your cases and your cases alone (and which you fought your supervisor to use) so you wouldnโt trouble yourself in tracking where the newest info is.
When you take a look at it, you realize four things. The first being Hohenzollernโs wife died seven years ago and he remarried quickly, the second being Hohenzollern had a traumatic childhood involving severe and troubling mommy issues, Hohenzollern has a very strict and bizarre constitution of what a family is, can and should be, and he distrusts anybody who doesnโt have a partner. You let out a dry snort. Suddenly every witness interview made sense. You are taking this to upper management. Well, you have to.
A thought comes: this is probably why Hohenzollern probably found joy in eugenicist B.O.W projects.
"Kennedy," you say into your earpiece, "you there yet?"
"Almost," he says, pulling up to his hotel, some dingy place near a Koreatown that somehow had stellar mattresses. You watch through the camera in his car with slapdash effort, the same lazy smile still on your face. Youโd just have to finish the reports today and hope that you wonโt get a scolding from upper management because you and your agent managed to extract zero data from the target. This should be the end of it for a couple of weeks.ย
Morning in the office came without deliberation. Finalizing the reports took you not as long as you imagined, and yet you couldnโt sleep a wink the next night, even after finishing all of your tasks of the day at the office. Restlessness still settled easily in your muscles to the point where when you did eventually feel sleepy, it was at five in the morning. You couldnโt risk sleeping for two hours and accidentally oversleeping. Three Red Bulls. 240mg of caffeine, 3000mg of taurine.
Leon Kennedy flew back from Germany looking exhausted.ย
"[Name]," from a moderate distance, you hear your name being called out. Itโs miserable how youโre still cooped up on a desk with no sleep gained, just not the console room desk with the sterile black currant freshener, but your own cubicle. Youโre tapping your singular long nail on the surface of your desk at the time. Turning around with suspicions that it must be your agent, youโre not surprised at all when you see the worn out hero of the firm standing right in front of you with three long strides.
"Kennedy," you give him a lax smile. You hoped that your lethargy isnโt that apparent to him, you guessed from your other coworkers not batting an eye at your state, you looked presentable enough for the office. You lean on your desk, twiddling with a pencil. "Howโs it going?"
"Could be better," he murmurs, eyes spanning across your rigid yet slightly swaying build. Heโs not in his gear anymore, a gun holstered on his hip but thatโs about it, wearing a brown leather jacket that youโre sure he absolutely loves to death considering how many times youโve seen him walk into office with it. "Anything new on the case? Did you finish upโ"
"Morning sweetheart," Leonโs cut off mid sentence, snapping his mouth shut with a curious glance to who spoke. You look to your left and you shrug when you realize itโs just a guy from Information Technology, nodding at you with a simper, a plastic cup of coffee in hand.ย
Not noticing the soured expression Leonโs got on his face, you greet back. You wave lightly, one hand on top of the heavy glass jar on the far end of your desk, filled with candy. "Morning Grayson."
"...Anything new on Hohenzollern?" Leon carefully asks, the slight rasp in his voice imminent enough that you frown. No doubt the doing of Leonโs lack of hydration habitsโand really, the only times he only ever drank properly wasโฆ after a hangover.
"You came all the way over here to ask about paperwork?" you lean back into your chair, quirking up a soft, incredulous brow.
"I came over here because you're writing it," Leon responds simply, shrugging his shoulders. Truth be told, itโs not a very rare sight for you to see, hear, and feel Leon flirting with women. Thereโs a thing about him however. Though you know thereโs a very fine line between him flirting for fun, and him flirting because itโs just how heโs wired to be, youโve learnt over the years that Leon is not a womanizer.
You snort, smile reaching up to your tired eyes. You also donโt realize that you instinctively reach out to his arm, squeezing it fleetingly before trailing down and letting go, some small tick that made the tiny muscles at the base of his hair follicles contract. "Flattered."
One beat passes where you just stare at his eyes and he stares at yours. You donโt look at it directly, but from the peripheral of your vision, you see Leonโs thumb rubbing the knuckles of his pointer finger in mindless, circular motions. Eventually, it gets too unbearable and so, he questions casually, "...Who was that?"
"The guy,โ Leon gestures back, glove-clad fingers motioning to where Grayson was. Right, Leon wasnโt in the office during the morning most timesโrest time was special for him, even if heโd eventually become cooped up in his office doing paperwork. You find it sort of funny. The image people have of Leon Kennedy is that he spends 365 days a year rappelling out of helicopters but sadly, Leon spends three days fighting a bioweapon, then three weeks explaining why he had to fight a bioweapon.
"Oh. Grayson?" you look back to the spot which the man was at just a minute ago, then your head gently returns. "IT."
"He calls everybody sweetheart?" thereโs no jealousy in his voice, not that you can make out. Just the sound of a coworker being mildly confused why their coworker is being called sweetheart by another coworker. Itโs not necessarily a secret that youโre attractive, and it didnโt help tank your allure that daddy was a hot shot in the government. Lots of people wanted to cozy up to you once they knew you were [Name] Cancelloti instead of just [Name]. Still, the sound of someone openly flirting with you rubbed him the wrong way, and he wonders if Human Resources thought this was okay.
"No," you blink. In hindsight, this should probably be a bigger deal to you, especially since you have a boyfriend. Even if he never understood your job and missed your birthday only a few days back, only calling two days later with a hasty apology. "Just me, I think."
For a second, Leon is in thought. His hip, which youโve noticed has been resting idly on your desk for the many minutes heโs spent at your cubicle, finds itself straightening. He shifts his weight, shoving a hand into his pocket, then mumbles, "...Weird."
You smile at that, the tension in the balls of your shoulders dropping and letting your weight shift onto your spine instead of your arms. "You jealous, Kennedy?" playfully teasing him, your tongue juts out just slightly from your mouth, covering the top row of your teeth.
"You made a face,โ you spin back, pushing yourself deeper into your desk. Your focus diverts from his eyes, those stupid blue eyes that youโre quite sure have been getting bluer over the years, if thatโs even possible, back to your carefully organized binder. Or unorganized, depending on how you look at how youโve not updated your current operations tab.
"I made my normal face,โ at this, a smirk comes onto your lips completely unintended. From your pocket, you retrieve a packet of Hi-Chew, grape flavor, and stick it in your mouth almost discreetly. Leon raises an eyebrow at him but doesnโt comment. It isnโt always grape, which Leon knows, mostly from hearing you chew very loudly on comms to annoy him, last week was strawberry. Before Germany, it had been green apple.
Leon remembers very suspiciously the month you started your communal desk jar filled with Foxโs glacier fruit mint candies. Your coworkers steal them easily, Leon not an exception to this. And yet, he knows that you almost never take from your jar, you bring your own candy that you rotate weekly.
Teeth sinking into the taffy-like candy, you scribble something unintelligible into the margin of your binder, in the gray tab featuring all your personal notes. It simply read call Jacob tonight, just in handwriting that was the result of horrible sleep. You finally look back up at him. "You looked like you wanted to arrest him."
"I don't have the authority,โ he mutters in that same deadpan, straight tone of his that you know is jokingโa feat your coworkers have asked you several times onโjudging from the upwards then downwards cadence of his voice. Across the room, you see Faraday leaving the floor using the elevator. You assume heโs getting his morning coffee.
"...Did the briefing room call yet?" he regains his footing almost immediately. The smile on your face deepensโthat subject change was almost smooth.
"Conference Room B,โ you flick your wrist down the hall, pointing to the glassed out space, cringing for a millisecond at your assumption that he didnโt know. Leonโs been working here for four years. Your hand retreats, painted fingers tucked under your thumb. โTen minutes."
Leon nods with a pleased grunt. You let the silence settle between you for a while. Leon looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to say something that may or may not be a joke, but you also see his eyes darting around your face. It starts with your eyes, dropping down to your lipsโthe ones heโs joked about plenty, but not enough for it to be real interest, just flirtyโthen to your cheek.
Finally breaking the thick and fuzzy absence of sound, you unfasten the lid of your candy jar with a loud clink. Someone has been stealing more candy than usual in the office whilst you were busy at the console helping Leon. "You know, for someone who isn't jealousโ"
"Leaving,โ he says, heel already turning, opening his palm to hastily grab the candy youโve offered him. โSee you in ten.โ
Seven minutes pass over a quick, shameful run to get coffee from the shop down the street that your coworkers have been complaining about becoming overpriced. You eat like youโre twelve. Your go-to order is almost always vanilla or caramel or both, today is no exceptionโvanilla sweet cream cold brew. WIth an extra shot, uh, two extra shots to be exact. Or else youโll die. Itโs a little bit pathetic in fact, how you keep trying to preserve sweetness yet the caffeine keeps winning. You take moments of your day to ponder if youโve not only become addicted to sugar, but addicted to caffeine too.
Your heels click against the marble flooring, holding five cups of coffee in hand. Presley gave you twenty for a mocha, Beckham asked for a latte and some abysmal concoction for his other friend, Frankie wanted anything that was strong enough to kill a medieval child. With a smile, you slide each order to their respective personsโyou donโt miss how all three of these men lingered slightly longer than necessary. Not uncomfortably, thankfully.
The projector is already humming when you enter the conference room, coffee in one hand, binder and notebook tucked under your other arm. You take a sip from the cup and frown at the bitter aftertaste coating your tongue. You sit, you wait, you observe the briefing office setting up the projector, then to your coworkers handling the caseโLeon Kennedy includedโfilling the chairs one by one.
Government officers are so uptight about timing. Everyone must be here before 8:40, but somehow the actual slideshow starts at 8:47. It doesnโt really take long for localized chatter to erupt in the room, and it takes even shorter for the officer to clear his throat. On screen, Hohenzollern's estate fades into a photograph of an upscale charity gala and the briefing officer clicks to the next slide.
"We've confirmed Hohenzollern only conducts private negotiations during social functions,โ another click. "The problem is guest selection."
Beside you, Leon leans back in his chair. Your eyebrows shoot up at the mannerism, leaning onto the table with your head perched precariously on your hand. "Invitation only?"
The officer nods. โInvitation only,โ he clicks several times on the sleek presenter remote and you see the many photographs arrayed. You see a few distinct silhouettes, simple men with women draped over them and adorning lush fabrics while they talk to other guests. Youโre technically, very used to this scenery. Your father was a man of high ranking and your mother, god forbid, was a socialite through the mud. "Every attendee arrives with a spouse, fiancรฉe, or long-term partner."
Someone whistles across from you. You take a sip out of your drink, throat dry. The drink doesnโt do much for hydrationโcoffee does the oppositeโbut you didnโt exactly have water with you and you forgot to take a cup. The motion gets Leon to notice you and he gives you a look, gesturing to your plastic cup questioningly. You slide it to him easily and he takes an experimental sip.
"So we need a couple,โ another agent states.
A few agents glance around the room but you pay no attention to the inherent curiosity the assignment has sparked. Instead, you scribble something in your notebook with the gel pen you put in your breast pocket, then poke on Leonโs arm with the same pen. You look at your drink then him, and he mouths too sweet at you, face contorting into an unpleasant scrunch.
You finally comment, though dismissively, looking at one of the agents. There are a couple of options within the office. Field agents arenโt rare, just Leon types are rare, so youโre positive theyโd find someone eventually. "They'll probably pull Stacy and Morales.โ
"Or the Kalogeras,โ someone else suggests, earning a couple of nods and a discussion youโre not entirely too occupied on. Your head rests on your hand yet again and your gaze drifts down to Leon and the sleeve of his dress shirt that has ridden just enough up his forearm for the muscle there to pull taut beneath pale skin. "They've done undercover domestic before."
You watch from your peripheral as Leon rests his chin on his fist, elbow rested on top of his knee. One of his legs is put neatly on top of the other. His arms are pretty thick from years of shooting and climbing over things no sane person should climb over. It hardly matters to you. His rolled cuff catches just below the widest part, and you find yourself following the line of it all the way toward his wrist before remembering, rather belatedly, that you were supposed to be listening. "Whoever they send is gonna have to sell it."
"They'll figure it out," you murmur, Leon finally looking at you against inquisitively, mouthing out โwhat?โ which you simply smile at. Shameless, you are.
The briefing officer changes slides with a final click and the screen shows white. Immediately, your coworkers all stand up from their chairs, dusting invisible dirt off their laps, immediately running away through the door, or trying to seem civil by waiting for the officer to finally speakโmeeting adjourned. "We'll announce assignments this afternoon.โ
You tidy up and youโre back at your desk immediately. Half of office work is not doing anything when all your paperwork has been filed, the other half is being rushed and hurried during hectic hours and important field assignments, and a tiny but significant portion was dedicated to more paperwork after field assignments. Itโs bearable though. Youโre fairly social and you donโt know one person in the office who doesnโt know you nor you donโt know them. You emit enough warmth that people naturally orbit you, enough that not everything bores you.
You are halfway through reorganizing Hohenzollern's financial records when someone knocks twice against your cubicle wall. Youโre on your third Hi-Chew youโve rummaged from your purse and put in your pocket, the fruity candy spread out at the roof of your mouth.
"Agent.โ You look up, fixing a stray strand of hair that causes your supervisorโs eye to twitchโand if you were delusional, a smile threatening to twitch. Still, your supervisor doesn't smile. "Conference Room C."
The room is much smaller than Conference Room B. Itโs painfully government, obviously. Fluorescent lighting that makes your head ache, neutral gray carpet, white acoustic ceiling tiles, and no windows this time because itโs deeper inside the building. Cautiously, you take a seat in one of many black ergonomic office chairs, hands settling down in your lap instead of the long table.
Itโs just you, Leon, the briefing officer, and your supervisor.
Leon sits beside you yet again. The briefing officer slides a folder over the dark laminate conference table with a smooth swipe. You look at it as it moves, then your eyes come back to look at the officer. "We've selected our undercover pair."
At this, you glance at Leon but he only shrugs once.You almost hiss as you watch his shoulders roll. The folder stops in front of you and you briefly wonder if youโre going to be reassigned to a new agent. Which wouldnโt be life-ending, but would be troublesome for your already attached little heart. You open the folder. Two passport photos stare back: yours and Leonโs.
"We need you in the field,โ your supervisor states, tone clinical. Beside him, the briefing officer crosses his arms and he looks you and Leon both up and down, assessing you for God knows what. You somehow think this is a fate worse than being sent to a blacksite, or being tortured into information.
"No,โ you repeat one more time, lips curving down into a small frown.
"You meet every operational requirement,โ your supervisor says matter-a-factly, settling down into the chair across from you, wheels and back slightly creaking at the weight. Thereโs no malice in his voice, youโve always maintained a good relationship with him, just the flat administrative finality youโd figure youโd get from your own senior.
"I'm a handler,โ you point out mildly and truthfully. Youโve never really wanted to work in the field, never really had any curiosities because even before youโve seen how agents looked after assignments, you were mostly interested in whatever the nitty gritty had to offer. This lack of curiosity followed through even after you became a handler. Now especially that youโve got the job, you refuse to get out of behind the chair where itโs safe and relatively predictable.ย
"You also maintain active field certification,โ the mention makes you frown deeper. Next to you, Leon looks mildly amused at your expression, but ultimately confused and maybe slightly offended at the choice of operatives. Leon rests his leg on top of the other yet again, watching your conversation keenly.
"I maintain it because you people make me,โ you lean back into your chair, your black skirt riding up just enough for you to reveal the fat of your thighs clad in high-denier pantyhose. You donโt even notice Leonโs gaze dropping with all the subtlety of a brick for a small moment, then ripping right back to the two men in front of you.
He doesnโt miss a beat. "You passed with distinction."
"Five years ago,โ you carefully maintain the flat edge of your voice but itโs proving slightly difficult with the absurdity of their request. Certainly, you did pass with distinction. But passing like that doesnโt mean youโd have real experience on the field.
"It doesn't expire,โ instantly responding, your supervisor softens. โYou have high social adaptability,โ he reasons, then, while tapping his forearm, some tick heโs had youโve noticed since you first got assigned to him, he adds, โโexcellent interpersonal rapport. Conversational German. Behavioral analysis liked your communication. Youโre also physically very presentable.โ
Your face twitches at the last point but you donโt comment. You let out a soft sigh, turning your attention to the most obvious logistical flaw in this entire plan. "He has an actual partner pool," you argue, gesturing with a slight nod toward Leon. You take the chance, despite your already worsening mood, to jokeโyour foot kicking at the side of Leonโs calf, enough for him to grunt and send you a glare. Pleased, you smile at him, then you realize how bad that looked.
"We evaluated alternatives,โ the briefing officer chimes in, voice level. He has a small smile of his own, the first one of today that didnโt seem forced, nor seemed particularly threatening. You figure theyโre both trying to ease you into accepting your reality which you appreciatedโeven if just a little bitโbecause at the very least, even if you had no real say in this, you could make something out of it.
"And?" Leon finally inquires. In truth, heโs been trying to stay very quiet, especially since your supervisor essentially called you gorgeous in the most bureaucratic way possible. Because yes, heโs right. He also cannot say that heโs right or else heโll kill himself.
"You two scored highest,โ the briefing officer says plainly, then before you can ask for what, he adds, not even a single ounce of hesitation in his voice, "'for believable long-term couple.'"
For nine entire seconds, granted by the DolceVita wrapped elegantly around your wrist and telling you the time, a very agonizing nine seconds, there is absolutely nobody who speaks. The only sound that fills the room is the airconditioning humming and the clock that sits on the wall to your left. You look at Leon. Leon looks at you.
"...Who filled out that assessment?" Leon slowly croaks out, almost not even wanting an answer. You frankly think itโs bizarre that people think you and Leon Kennedy would work well as a couple when you spend most of your time talking to him through an earpiece while miles upon miles away. And there are tons of handlers and agents here that have way more chemistry than you and him if they wanted handlers and agents.
Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering a curse under his breath in an accent that feels weirdly Ohioan. Right, heโs Midwestern. Sometimes you forget. "Oh, that's humiliating."
The briefing officer and your supervisor look at each other and a small smirk settles upon their faces. With that, your supervisor claps once. โCongratulations Kennedy,โ heโs already starting to leave the conference room, giving you one last look. Youโre going to burn yourself alive today, you know it. โYouโre getting married to Cancelloti. Iโm jealous.โ
When you get back to your cubicle, the color on your face has drained significantly, not as much as a typical reaction to a pet dying, but enough that it visibly pales your skin. The bags underneath your eyes glowed under the harsh office lights the entire time you were at the office from eight to five. You nagged at Leon to finish his paperwork before Friday right after leaving the conference roomโjust because youโre trying to process youโre getting deployed with him of all peopleโ and if he couldnโt do that, at least before you two get sent to Germany in two weeks.
With a concentrated look, you take out your fourth wrap of Hi-Chew. Your eyebrows are furrowed into a defined map of scrunches and you donโt realize the scowl that has set on your face. You love your job. Always have, maybe because you were practically born into it. Mostly because your father, that never-home man, also somehow used to walk you through government buildings on quiet Saturdays, pointing out operations rooms as though they were museums instead of windowless boxes where people quietly lost sleep. To be frank, you couldnโt really blame anyone but yourself for pursuing a political science degree then immediately losing sleep because you wanted to work for the country. But still, you were insulted at the ease upper management had in sending a handler that had never gone into operations on the field.
Restlessly, you tap your singular long fingernail on the desk. Eventually your nails, brittle from you subconsciously biting on them at times, had chipped off, but your middle fingerโs nail had miraculously survived from your onslaught of nibbling. You should do your nails soon.
Your mind flashes with a list of names youโd even need to call for an operation like this. Weeks in Germany are still weeks in Germany. Well, less than weeks. You sigh, tutting your tongue on the roof of your mouth, then biting the inside of your cheek. Your mother wouldnโt mind, your father wouldnโt mind either, why the hell would that man mind? You had a relatively small circle of friends and the only friend group outside of work you have frequented suddenly going to other goddamn countries without telling you too. That only left your boyfriend.
โCancelloti,โ snapping you out of your already depressing thoughts, a male voice cuts through the self-perceived silence around you. Standing casually, yet again one of your coworkers is at your cubicle, or nearing your cubicle, holding several manila files at his side.
โOh, hi,โ you greet warmly, twisting your chair to look at him properly.
โCoffee run?โ he asks, almost expectantly. At that, your smile deepens, which he surely takes to heart. Some people look at your smile like itโs oxygen in a slowly deprived deep sea. You recognize himโhe frequently asks you if you want to go for a coffee run and youโve said yes a couple of times. You appreciate the gesture. But recently you started stopping asking people if they could pick up a drink for you because they always get it wrong. Either they put too little shots or too little sugar.
โOh, no,โ giving him an apologetic frown, one that quickly turns back to your smile, you shake your head. You arenโt sheepish, not one bit, but youโre a bit too tight over your recent assignment and nowโhow the hell youโre going to tell your boyfriend about all of thisโso your voice turns just a tad airy. โI already went.โ
โAw. You always beat me to it,โ he sighs playfully. You can see the exact moment he thinks he should step forward again, itโs just something youโve noticed a lot in people when they talk to you, but before he could, your phone rings an annoying, slightly frantic tone. The familiar three-note Motorola trill buzzed from the bottom of your leather purse. Youโve been meaning to change the cheerful MIDI melody for the past year. โIโll go.โ
For the final time, you smile at him, give him a wave, then joke. Now youโre just confused why your boyfriend called on a Tuesdayโand why he called you when you were thinking of himโwhich he normally never did for reasons you donโt know. Years of profiling makes you pick up on small habits. โYouโre just slow.โ
You rummage through your purse to grab your phone and quickly slip out into the hallway after the small silver device vibrates for the third time, away from the chatter of the bullpen. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. You donโt really like this particular hallway and nobody else does either. Mainly because it smells like rotten eggs from the darkroom at the end of the hallwayโand there was really no use for it besides the darkroom. It has its perks if you want to call family members without having coworkers eavesdropping on you though.ย
A blue file rests against your hip as you answer, pressing the phone between your shoulder and ear. You clear your throat, saliva gathering at the end of your throat. "...Hey."
"Hey." Jacob sounds relieved and you could picture the smile on his face, right as heโs cooped up in his own office. Or maybe getting lunch. Itโs lunch time. His voice is soft as he speaks into the phone, almost whispering. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"
You glance at the main office. Your peers have all but either gone out to get food, coffee, or some other digestible thing, at least you figured, or are still typing away in the office as you hear the soft but overlapping sounds of keyboards clicking. "I'm on a break."
"I figured you were buried in paperwork,โ he mumbles, smiling so palpable on the other side of the phone you can hear it in his voice. Banter came easy for both of you. A small laugh escapes you, one that you cover up with a hand.
"When am I not?" you ask rhetorically.
"Fair point,โ letting silence fill the space for mere moments, your boyfriend continues, "soโฆ how's your day?"
You hesitate for a fraction of a second. You ponder if you should tell your real boyfriend that youโre going to be sent to Germany forโwhat you are definitely sure of, with this big of a breakthrough, a week or moreโan undercover operation that needs you to pretend youโre married to another man. "We had a briefing,โ you say, hearing the curious โoh?โ from Jacobโs side before you continued. "I'm getting sent to Germany."
"...Seriously?" he finally questions, in disbelief.ย "When? Arenโt you a desk person?โ
"I am,โ you say, nodding to yourself. You fidget with your fingers, picking at invisible dirt from underneath your nails. Nothing has accumulated beneath your fingernails. โIn about two weeks,โ you finally go for it, part of it at least, โIโm going undercover.โ
"Damn,โ is the only thing he utters before another pause settles in the air. Thereโs a low whistle on his end of the line, then the sound of him adjusting in his office chair. "That's... actually kind of cool."
โI don't think 'cool' is the word I'd use,โ you smile despite yourself, leaning further back into the wall. You shift your weight onto your other leg and you straighten your skirt, patting it down with one hand. The faint, sulfuric tang of the darkroom down the hall bites at the back of your throat.
โSo thatโs why you sound so exhausted,โ Jacob notes. You contemplate asking him why he hadnโt come over for dinner the last couple of days, but you remember your own hypocrisy, benign caught up in your own work. You stay quiet and you enjoy the first phone call, that funnily, came earlier than you intended at the start of your day.ย โHow long have you been up?โ
โIโve been awake forโฆโ you glance down at the sleek face of your silver watch wrapped around your wrist perfectly, tracking the steady tick of the second hand. You grimace as it hits one p.m. and a hiss involuntarily escapes your throat. โLong enough.โ You run a hand over your face, feeling the sheer weight of the 240 milligrams of caffeine finally beginning to sour in your stomach. You decide to just drop the other shoe, laughing awkwardly. โIโm getting married.โ
โ...What?โ the spike of confusion in his voice crackles through the small silver phone.
โFake married,โ you clarify quickly, heat rushing to the apples of your cheek. You morbidly think this is funny, at least enough for your cheeks to burn with a slight smile at the thought of Jacob being a teensy weensy bit jealous. Your thumb traces the crisp edge of the blue folder resting against your hip and you continue. โTo uh, Leon. Itโs an operational requirement. The target wonโt negotiate with anyone who isn't partnered up.โ
A beat of silence stretches over the line. It lingers just long enough for you to count it out in your head. One, two, three.
โHuh,โ Jacob finally says.
โDoes that bother you?โ you hold your breath for a fraction of a second, searching for somethingโa hint of protective friction, a spark of the typical jealousy Leon had feigned earlierโanything that might offset the lingering sting of him missing your birthday. To be honest, you didnโt mind. He worked long hours a day too and why should you blame him? Though, it still curdled in your heart when you remembered that Operations hosted a cheap birthday surprise for you. Still more than what your boyfriend did.
โI meanโone second,โ right in the middle of his sentence, you hear the gentle creak of an ergonomics chair, his ergonomics chair, then the sound of typing. โSorryโemail. I meanโฆ itโs work,โ Jacob reasons, his voice leveling out into a casual, near floaty cadence. You resist commenting on his habitsโJacob is a busy guy, and multitasking has always been a thing heโs done. โItโs not like youโre actually marrying the guy. So, I guess I donโt really care.โ
The utter lack of weight behind his words leaves a strange sensation right at the base of your throat, but you brush it aside with the practiced ease of someone who profiles disappointment for a living. You sigh dramatically, easy to regain your footing in the conversation. You didnโt really wanna seem clingy.
โYou still surviving on coffee and candy?โ he asks, navigating away from the subject entirely. You nearly chuckle. A lot of men these few days have almost smoothly changed the topic with you several times.
โโฆMaybe,โ you murmur, the corner of your mouth twitching.
โโMaybeโ means yes,โ he chuckles faintly. Then, his voice drops an octave, softening into something more familiar. He inhales deeply. โHey. I miss you.โ
โI miss you too,โ you say. The words come easily, slipping past your lips like an automated response to a script youโve both run a thousand times. Three days you havenโt seen him, youโre pretty sure. Caught up in the office, youโve not really had time to chat, even when you got home right after finishing with Leonโs last Germany run. Your easy smile fades just a little, your gaze drifting toward the bright glass windows of the bullpen. You look at your empty desk, then at the sheer volume of paperwork waiting to be processed before Germany. You let out a whine, โ...I think I should head back.โ
Through the distant glass of the bullpen, you catch a sudden movement. A flash of a brown leather jacket from a man whoโs gotten increasingly worse posture from constantly hauling stuff. Leon walks past your cubicle carrying a heavy stack of case files, his eyes fixed forward, entirely oblivious to the fact that youโve slipped away into the shadows of the hallway. You watch the broad slope of his shoulders until he disappears around the corner. Secretly, youโre betting with yourself that heโs mumbling curses about the amount of work heโs about to be given and do.
You hum, not knowing what to say, but stillโyou catch him right before he disconnects or pulls the phone out of his ear. โOkay, bye. I love you,โ the words come easily across the line, floating through the static without much effort, but still heavy.
โI love you too,โ he replies, voice even, and a hint of a smile in his voice yet again, matching your cadence perfectly. โTalk tonight?โ he says gently, adding, โI still owe you dinner.โ
โCanโt believe your coworker got to marry you first,โ he jokes dryly.ย
You scoff at him playfully, not even realizing your cheeks had gone up in flames by now. Itโs stupid; how utterly affected you are by silly banter only by the people you love. You respond one last time, โif you were a government agent, youโd be forced to marry me.โ
The line goes dead. You stare at the dark screen for another second, watching your own tired reflection fade back into the black glass. You look entirely like shit. Your hair is a bit out of place and youโre gonna excuse yourself to the bathroom later. The taffy-like candy in your mouth has dissolved mostly. You slip the phone back into your purse, straightening the lapels of your blouse, and tucking the blue file securely under your arm, walking back into the office wearing the same easy smile everyoneโs been accustomed to.
Your heels click against the floor again, and you pat your hair softly, as if itโd make the disheveled parts any better. When you return, Leonโs already at your desk, finally realizing youโve been away for a little too long than usual. You eye him up and down. You really donโt know how the hell his salary pays for all his leather jacketsโyouโre pretty sure this is the sixth one youโve seen him wear inโฆ seven months. One got lost during an operation, you think. Maybe thatโs why heโs gotten a new one.
"Everything alright?" Leon asks the moment you return. Youโve already completely forgotten about your conversation with your boyfriend and your entire attention has fixed itself on the leather draped upon Leonโs shoulders. Yes, definitelyโLeon does not suit biker jackets. He suits the slightly oversized ones more.
You blink at the question, actually confused. "...Yeah. Why?"
"You were gone longer than a coffee run,โ he explains simply, leaning against your desk. You donโt really catch the slight haze in his eyes, nor the softer tone he used on you. Because Leon Kennedy also accidentally overheard you talking to your boyfriend while rounding up the corner and his first reaction was โwhy did you sound like that?โ instead of โ[Name] Cancelloti has a boyfriend?โ.
Your smile returns automatically and you squeeze his arm, hair falling over your eyes just a little as you jerk your head up. Naturally, you tease, your hand lingering just a little over what's necessary. Not on purpose. "Aw. Worried about me, husband?"
Leon hesitates. "Don't flatter yourself."
taglist ๊ฉ @spectranix | typical taglist form
notes ๊ฉ hi i got into resident evil again so u get idiot leon fic. yay. this was originally supposed to be a oneshot but i caught it at the tip of spiraling out of control and i didn't wanna make it too long so it's gonna be a three parter! had this in my sperm bank for a while. its just something to get me back into the resident evil headspace. so yeah thank you for reading. i love comments. i love insight. i also have an ao3. byebye.
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คยฉ kayuekou, 2026 ๐ฅป do not copy, reconstruct, or upload on other platform nor feed my works into AI.
