Love that now I've finally been able to post the new fic, I have time to go back and read some of my old shit. Made some much-needed changes to Just Clinical for my own sanity.
Warnings: blood and gore, smut, mentions of alcohol use
Summary:
Leon Kennedy's newest trainee is a pain in the ass.
She's sarcastic, stubborn, impossible to read, and somehow survives situations that should leave her dead.
Naturally, Leon decides this is a problem he needs to investigate.
First chapter posted here. Will be regularly updated on ao3
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
“I'm not doing it.”
As Leon stands in front of the desk, arms folded across his chest, the operations supervisor maintains his unimpressed and unwavering gaze.
“This isn't up for debate, Kennedy. Consider it a part of your workload. This should be easy for you, compared to what you went through with Graham's kid.”
Leon's hands find themselves on the edge of the desk — his body leaning over the supervisor's frame. “It’s not about easy. It’s about how I spend my time, and the last thing I wanna do is spend it on some rookie with a runny nose and a trigger finger. I've already done enough babysitting.”
The supervisor sighs and rummages through the contents of his desk, pulling out a thinly packed dossier and handing it to Leon. “Then you're in luck. No babysitting involved. From what I hear, this one's a self-cleaning oven. All you gotta do is sharpen the edges a bit.”
Leon makes no move towards the binder, instead allowing it a brief glance before redirecting his eyes back to the supervisor's face.
“Isn't there someone more… personable, you can assign? I ain't really the nurturing type.”
“I picked you because of that fact. You don't tolerate bullshit. That's the kind of attitude that turns babies into agents. You of all people should know that.”
Leon's eyes narrow.
“If you're talking about Krauser, you and I both know what happened to him.”
“And yet, here you are.” The supervisor gestures to him. “Alive, capable, and parasite-free. Perfect qualities for a mentor. Maybe that experience will give you enough hindsight to do a better job. Anyways, she's already assigned, so you're stuck.”
The corner of Leon's eye twitches before snatching the binder off the desk. He flips through it absentmindedly, scanning the contents with minimal interest.
“Solid recs from FLETC. Got her fast-tracked into STRATCOM and flagged for special work. Should ideally be a no-brainer.” The supervisor adds, nodding to the file.
Leon pulls out the recommendation letter, reading it aloud with audibly feigned sincerity:
Candidate demonstrates strong adaptability under variable conditions and maintains composure in high-pressure environments. Performance metrics during evaluation consistently exceeded baseline expectations.
Displays a high degree of situational awareness and rapid response capability. Minimal correction required during advanced training modules.
Candidate is recommended for specialized placement. Further development is best suited within a controlled operational environment.
— Approved for transfer
He looks up at the supervisor with mild incredulity, tapping the page once. “This is a whole lot of nothing. I've read shit more profound from the eulogies of the indigent.”
This earns him an indifferent shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you. All her transcripts check out and her background's clean.”
A couple more passes through the file, then he lets out a resigned exhale.
“When does she start?”
The supervisor checks his watch. “Should be arriving anytime now. You can hang out here in the meantime.” He states, gesturing to the seat across the desk.
Leon slumps into the chair like he's already over it (‘cause he is), continuing to comb over the paperwork in a poor attempt to keep himself occupied.
Nothing about this situation really surprises him, save for the fact they picked him specifically. Since being forced recruited into the business, most, if not all, of his opinion has been placed on the backburner. The Anti-Umbrella Pursuit and Investigation Team (humbly known as AUPIT, ‘cause who wants to say that out loud?) being responsible for said ‘recruitment’ — a hastily slapped together special ops unit with the sole purpose of mopping up the ghosts Umbrella left behind after Raccoon city.
Naturally, they're always one step behind the problem, leaving him with half the intel and an entire fucking cult to deal with (yeah, he's still pissed about that).
Still, he delivers. No questions asked. But results are short-lived. Victories are quickly replaced with more problems. Umbrella’s tendrils are everywhere, and AUPIT scrambles to contain the aftermath, like the ‘well-oiled’ machine it pretends to be.
He can tackle any assignment they throw his way. Hell, it gives him something to do. A large part of him still blames himself for what happened six years ago. Even if his position wasn't voluntary, he's not gonna throw away the chance to make things right.
What he isn't prepared for, however, is whatever he just got roped into… again.
His grumbling is interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open, followed by…
The fuck?
“Ah. Here she is!” The supervisor stands and walks around the desk, gesturing to Leon. “I want you to meet your new field mentor, Agent Kennedy.”
Leon hesitates for a beat, then stands up and warily offers you a hand. “Leon… is fine.”
He wasn't really sure what he was expecting. You look like you're barely fresh out of high school, though your file says you're in your mid-twenties. There really should be a minimum height requirement for this shit. Might accidentally step on you if he's not looking.
Despite this, you look put-together enough. Hair's tied neatly in a ponytail, a black compression shirt with matching cargos, fingerless tactical gloves, and combat boots that look like they've already seen a fight or two. Your posture is steely, and your eyes show the same hesitation he's giving back as you take his hand.
You give him your name with a clipped tone. “Nice to meet you.”
As he shakes your hand, the room falls into something palpable. He's not one for banter, so he's not gonna bother with the usual pleasantries. You're also giving him a look like you chewed on lead paint as a kid, which isn't helping.
The ops supervisor clears his throat. “Kennedy. Why uh… why don't you show her around?”
Leon rubs the back of his neck, mentally pulling some resolve forward. Like everything else he's been saddled with, he's not gonna half-ass this either.
“Yeah. Sure. C'mon.”
He traipses out the door — the faint cracking of your boots against the tile signalling that you're close behind.
Good.
At least you know how to listen.
That’s a start.
Your steps get quicker, just enough to allow you to walk alongside him. He gives a sideways glance as you fidget with your gloves, tugging at the palms and picking at the fabric.
Nervous. Predictable though. He'd be more put off if you weren't, but the way you carry yourself is interesting. The nerves are there, but they're not unravelling you. He can work with that.
“Alright. Quick version. Listen up ‘cause I'm not repeating it.”
“I move, you move. You fall behind, that’s on you.”
“You follow my lead. No improvising unless I say so.”
“Got a question? You ask it. Got a problem? Say it early.”
“Otherwise? Stay sharp and don’t get in my way. You screw up, I'm the one cleanin’ it.”
Another side glance.
“We clear?”
Your eyes are trained on him, and he half expects some sort of rebuttal or a string of anxious questions, so he's mildly put off when all you say is,
“Understood.”
That's it? Damn. It's like you arrived in a cardboard box with the metaphorical tag still on.
He fixes his gaze up ahead, already looking forward to the day he can stop wearing you like a keychain.
“Briefing room.” He clips, pointing to a wide room with tinted glass windows. “First place we'll be once an assignment comes our way. Pray that’s not soon. You’re comin’ either way.”
That should scare you, at least to some degree.
“I can keep up.”
He scoffs quietly. “We'll see about that.”
A few more strides and some heavy double doors come into view.
“Med bay. Be a liability, this is where you land.”
A subtle twitch at the corner of your lip forms. You don't follow up with any retort, but you nod and continue picking at your gloves.
Passing by more doors and through hallways, you trail along as he designates each one with a name. The orientation he gives is below that of a brochure tour, but enough that it'll hopefully ensure you won't get lost.
As the armoury comes into view, he cuts off your path. Wordlessly, he swipes his badge and ducks inside.
The fluorescent lights cast a sharp glow, illuminating the metal racks and ballistic targets around the facility. He steps up to one of the tac lockers and pulls out a sidearm, twirling it once before handing it to you grip-first.
“Show me how you handle it.” He nods towards the targets. “Try not to shoot yourself in the foot.”
Taking the pistol, he watches as you weigh it in both hands, angling it with quiet appreciation. You walk up towards the line as you pop out the mag, check the chamber, and undo the safety. Your grip is controlled… but not yet natural, though he notes your finger being off trigger the entire time.
Okay…
There isn’t even a second between the cock and the shot.
It cracks through the room-
And his eyes drag over to the target.
Center mass.
He's still staring when you lower your arm and look over your shoulder. For the first time since you showed up, a breath of emotion appears on your face — your lip curling into a subtle grin.
“Missed my foot.”
Well… shit.
A few blinks,
Then he lets out a short huff of amusement.
“Close, rookie. Close.”
He walks over to where you're standing and takes the pistol from your hand, cocking it once before firing off a tight ring of shots that outline your initial one.
You don't flinch, but the grin softens into something wry as you watch him with a quiet intensity.
He doesn’t like the way it makes his skin prickle.
He turns to you and clears his throat while engaging the safety. “I’ll give you that one, but still got things to fix. You're too stiff, for one. Second, use both hands. You're a federal agent, not Tom Cruise.”
You shrug. “Tom Cruise played a federal agent.”
A small, pointed click of his tongue leaves him, though he can't hold back the twitch of his lip that follows. “No room for smartasses here. Take the critique and move on. Got it?”
Your shoulders settle, and your face relaxes a bit, though there's still a small glint in your eye.
“Got it.”
⋆｡°✩
Leon finds that he doesn't need to hound your ass as much as he thought.
To be fair, your file did play up your skills (vaguely), but you wouldn't have ended up here if you had shit references. FLETC leaves much to be desired, in his opinion. Trading experience for theory. Churning out wide-eyed rookies who either eat dirt or get built up properly.
You, though? Neither.
The more he works with you, the weirder you seem. If anything, he should be relieved that you're not tripping over yourself.
Should be.
You're not perfect, by any means, but you're moldable. Quick on your feet. Hesitant, at times, but you can pivot on a dime if need be. He's occasionally caught off guard when you give him lip, but that's mainly ‘cause it contrasts with your usual straight-faced demeanour.
Fidgety as hell, though. Only when you're not moving.
He also can't help but notice the way you're already tracking exits… cameras… blind spots.
Yeah. Weird.
But again, you're ticking off all the boxes, so he'll take the win.
The analysis room is far from his favourite place. Instead of coming home after assignments and searching for his sanity in a bottle, he gets to make pit stops here: submitting case reports and stamping his name on experiences he'd much rather forget.
Your sanity is right where it belongs (as far as he's aware), so he'll get you orientated then get the fuck out.
“This is where they try to explain the mess I deal with.”
The cold, sterile environment provides little greeting as you look around. It's decorated with sealed vials containing cloudy fluid, bulky terminals displaying mission summaries, and microscopes pre-set to view indefinable slides. All contributing to a dismal atmosphere, paired with sharp notes of formaldehyde.
You lean down and peer into a jar filled with fragments of bio-organic material. “I'm guessing this is where all the staff parties are held?”
His own body betrays him by letting out a cheap snort, which he quickly stifles. “Hardly good company.”
As you wander around, you stop by one of the computers and skim the report on the screen — your face shifting into a pensive expression. You mutter something under your breath, barely audible.
But he hears it anyway.
“That’s not how that works…”
He pulls up next to you, peering over your shoulder to take a look at the report you’re so transfixed on. Something about failed containment cases and unstable host behaviours.
“Somethin’ wrong with it?” He queries, glancing over at you.
Your finger stills on the mouse, just for a second.
“No.”
A pause.
“Just browsing.”
Hmm.
You don't sit right with him already, and you’re way too comfortable here. He doesn't have a weak stomach by any means, but no one stays in this room willingly unless you're paid to be.
A short, unnerved hum leaves his throat. “C'mon. We got more shit to cover.”
He quickly pivots and makes his exit, hearing your boots connecting with the floor as you tail behind.
⋆｡°✩
Throughout the day, Leon slowly builds a mental file, though it's not extensive enough to get a good read on you. He has been wrong a time or two, and it could be you're just as advanced as your recs made you out to be. Even so, he can't seem to shake the uneasy feeling. He'll keep an eye on you in the meantime.
Not like he has a choice anyways.
He's covered enough that the lull of the mid-afternoon warrants a cup of coffee. You don't look the least bit tired, but he'll be nice and throw a break your way. You probably wouldn't even tell him if you needed one.
The cafeteria is densely packed — tables being filled with chattering agents and the occasional admin clerk who decided they couldn't leave their paperwork in their cubicle.
Making his way to the air pot, he fills a cup with liquid that tastes akin to filtered dirt, and finds a table off in the far corner of the room. At some point, you managed to slip away somewhere, which is fine with him. He didn’t explicitly tell you to fuck off, but if you're not gonna trail him like a lost puppy during downtime, he's not complaining.
He's only taken a small sip of his dirt coffee when a presence peeks out of the corner of his vision.
Worming around shyly, you're standing nearby with a carton of chocolate milk in your hand, barely able to look him in the eye… for some reason.
“Uh… can I sit here?” You ask, pointing to an empty chair.
So much for fucking off.
He blinks a few times, taking another slow sip before speaking.
“Go for it.”
You quickly slide into the seat. The table’s smaller than he clocked at first, but you wedge yourself in anyway — wall to your back, him across from you, not much room in between. As you tear open the carton, he can't help but notice the uncomfortable wince on your face, paired with an almost imperceptible blush dusting your cheeks.
Huh.
He nods towards the carton. “What are you, five?”
“Don't like coffee.” You mutter, taking a sip.
“So you pick chocolate milk. At three in the afternoon.”
You shrug, still refusing to look at him. “I like chocolate milk.”
He tilts his head, opting to just observe whatever's sitting across the table from him. You eventually notice him staring.
…and he doesn’t look away.
“You got a problem?” You mumble — mouth of the carton pushed up against your lips.
The comment manages to wring a smirk out of him.
“You always act like you got a rod up your ass, or what?” He asks, nudging your leg with his foot.
You jump at the action, gawking as you process the words that came out of his mouth.
“S'cuse me?”
He leans over, crossing his forearms and resting them on the table as he continues to quietly regard you. The decreased proximity causes you to set your carton down and press your lips into a fine line.
Whatever flinty bravado you held on to earlier is long gone — the glove picking now in full force. He knows he can be intimidating, but that didn't seem to bother you earlier. Acting like this over a cafeteria table? Yeah. Not dealing with that.
An idea pops into his head.
And he sits up a bit straighter.
“How many people passed by this table in the last five minutes?”
Your eyes lag to the side, and he can almost hear the metaphorical gears turning.
“Seven.”
He nods, pointing to the exit leading into the hallway. “And how many have walked out those doors in the past ten minutes?”
You chew on the inside of your cheek, glancing at the door.
“Thirteen.”
He'd call you a psychopath if he didn't know the answer himself. That doesn't change the fact that none of this is normal for anyone's first day. Still, he can't help but be oddly fascinated.
“You always this observant?” He asks, tipping his chin upward.
You take another small sip.
“…or just when I’m around?”
Picked the perfect moment. He managed to make chocolate milk fly out of your nose. Not sure what he was going for exactly, but the payoff’s entertaining regardless.
“Th-That's not-” You sputter, wiping your face with your sleeve.
Got this panicked look in your eyes, the deer in headlights kind.
A quiet, breathy laugh escapes him.
“Get a fuckin’ grip, rookie. I'm messing with you.”
Audibly sniffling from the residual milk, you just continue to gape — the blush no longer isolated to your cheeks.
Alright, that's enough of that.
“See? This is why I said you have a rod up your ass.” He reaches over and pokes you in the shoulder — firm, quick.
Stiffening for only a moment, something in your face shifts and your head tips forward.
“Then what's up yours? A flagpole?”
Leon raises his eyebrow, then peers into his cup, swirling the last dregs of coffee and unfiltered grounds around the bottom. He can't help the curl of his lip that follows.
“Nice one. You're doing my paperwork for that.”
Your face drops, eyes narrowing. “There's no way you're serious.”
Another shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. You're gonna find out.” He pushes back from the table and stands up, willing you to follow as he walks away.
Which, of course, you do.
⋆｡°✩
The mentorship guidelines and protocol expectations were most likely written at 2 AM by some underfunded sucker with a deskjob.
That has to be it. Anyone who writes shit like ‘nurture and support their learning journey’ must already have the gun loaded. If he truly cared enough, he could rewrite it and summarize it all into one clean sentence:
Keep up, or don't.
See? It's simple. Effective. Covers all the bases. He doesn't need a fucking checklist to ensure you don't screw up. Even gave it to you — couldn’t be bothered to repeat himself.
Any commentary from his mouth, you pull that crumpled sheet from your pocket and scribble another note. Why you treat it like it's gospel is beyond him. Makes his job easier, though.
There is one guideline, however, that’s been on his mind lately:
Report any irregularities immediately
What is he supposed to say? My mentee has too much situational awareness? She's too compliant with gun safety? Yeah, like the department would give half a fuck. Sure, some things about you aren't normal, but nothing's crossed into irregular yet. He’s well-versed in irregular. He'd know.
With all that being said, he wouldn't say that the past few weeks were riveting, but you're sure not keeping him bored. The training simulations he started with were just to get a sense of your baseline, but you cleared corners and sliced angles like you were born for it. So correction isn’t about skillset. You’ve got enough of that already. You're disciplined. Precise. Too much so at times. The gap between calculation and action — always a second too long.
But squashing these bugs doesn't come with any fuss. He's able to poke at them and consistently nudge you in the right direction, swallowing each critique without missing a beat. It’s almost funny — you'll clear thirty targets, then look back at him immediately. Sometimes he'll just nod. Other times he'll fix your stance or tell you to run it again.
He's not about handing out praise like it's candy, but he's not blind either. Every so often, you'll clear a sim and it's just… clean. Every comment of his — internalized, applied. It's in those moments where he'll give a ‘you did fine’, or something along those lines. He tries not to though. Makes it real fucking awkward. You get all squirmy and glove-picky again, and that look you give him does something weird to his chest.
Uncomfortably warm.
Kinda like the cramped bullpen he's in now.
He doesn't like using it, as evidenced by the layers of dust on top of the monitor, but it was the only spot available on a Tuesday morning where he could watch you draft up a mock report. All of the conference rooms were booked up for the day, and the cafeteria's too sticky to get anything done, so his cubicle it is.
Leaning over your shoulder, he peers at the almost page-long paragraph you've scrawled across the paper. Reading it forces him to swallow an exasperated groan.
“‘One civilian sustained a penetrating wound to the left thoracic region, resulting in immediate functional impairment.’ You writin’ a report or an autopsy?”
Your eyes flit towards him in a sideways glance. “Don't copy my homework.”
Shaking his head, he asks, “Think anyone's gonna wanna read this? Nearly fell asleep after the first sentence.” He takes the paper from your hands and continues to skim. “Fuck… yeah, no. Just get straight to the point. Details are fine, but this is borderline neurotic.”
You pluck the paper out of his grasp and give him a pointed look. “I'm guessing you're not a fan of paperwork?”
He lets out a dry, humourless laugh. “With the kind of shit I've survived, you think I wanna relive it on paper?”
Whatever you were going to say is cut off by the absurdly metallic ring of the landline. He places the receiver to his ear. “Kennedy here.”
“Briefing room — 1100 — Assignment overview”
Then the line cuts.
Lowering the receiver, his eyes pan to you as your head tilts curiously.
“Briefing. You're coming.”
Your face lights up, which you immediately try to school into something nonchalant. He's not particularly thrilled for whatever this assignment is, but your poorly muted excitement pulls a smirk from him before he can stop it.
Levering himself up from the office chair, he motions for you to follow and worms his way through the crowded bullpen, breathing a sigh of relief as you both step out into the hallway and head towards the elevator.
He's never seen you this animated. Maybe weeks of training and being cooped up on base has made you antsy, which he can understand, but you make it to the elevator before he does — the doors sliding open by the time he gets there.
You shift on your feet as he presses the fourth floor to the admin level — lips curving into a faint frown as the doors groan shut. Despite AUPIT being a semi-new addition to the world, the property they adopted definitely isn't. Used to belong to some old directorate that kicked the bucket, but now houses a country-wide federal task force. It was convenient for the time, and out of the way enough that they could add new additions like the quarters and a range field.
But the main building is long overdue for renovations. The elevator shudders before making its steady crawl upwards. You fold your arms across your chest and press yourself into the corner, eyes narrowing at the crack between the elevator doors, like you're willing it to open through sheer mental force alone.
Looks like you need to work on your psychic abilities, though. Right as the elevator is about to hit floor three, it lets out another agitated rumble before stopping completely — the doors staying resolutely shut tight.
“Gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Leon grumbles, repeatedly pressing the number four on the wall… which does a whole lot of nothing.
“W-What the hell's going on?” You leave your corner and press your hands against the steel. “No way we're stuck…”
Leon curses under his breath and presses the emergency button, which, of course, also does jack shit.
He runs a hand through his hair, letting his breath rush out in a long, defeated sound. “Guess we are.” Slumping against the back wall, he slides down and meets the floor — forearms resting on his bent knees.
You, however, don't seem to wanna get comfortable, pacing so hard you'll leave a dent in the tile. A faint scratching sound fills the enclosed space, and he realizes it’s your nails digging into the fabric of your gloved palms.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he barks, “Can you just sit your ass down? Stressin’ me out.”
Your feet stop in their tracks and you glance at the door, probably determining whether to try prying it open yourself. Gaze travelling back to his, you must've realized that's not within your scope, ‘cause you sigh and slide down next to him.
He glances over to your hands, which are still ripping at the seams of your gloves. “Gonna tear a hole in those…”
“Don't care.” You mutter curtly.
Clearly not in the mood, but he can never understand the reasoning behind claustrophobia. There are worse things in life to be scared of.
“What's with the gloves anyways?” He questions, nodding to your busy hands.
Your motions stop for a fraction, but your eyes stay trained on the task at hand (pun intended). “I'll mess with anything that's in my hands. The gloves are just convenient.”
Something real immature crosses his mind, but is quickly squashed before he can dwell on it. A part of him is worried you're gonna start digging through skin once you get through, so he makes the call before he can think better of it.
“Here.”
He crosses the small space beside you and reaches for your hands, stilling them.
“Work mine instead.”
Your shoulders immediately tense and your head whips to the side to meet his eyes. “Huh?”
“Distract yourself.” He instructs, placing your restless fingers on his palms. “Do whatever you need to do. Just… stop thinking about the walls.”
Not exactly sure what he expects you to do here. Hell, he's not even sure what he was going for when he offered. The scratching was like a rat in the wall, so it's a relief to not have to hear that anymore.
But now? Now he's dealing with an entirely new problem.
For someone who shoots like you do, it’s surprising — no callouses. Nothing like his. As you turn his hand over, your thumbs press into his palm and outline a faint scar near the base of his fingers. His hand flexes instinctively, almost closing around yours — stopping short when his brain catches up and asks him what the fuck he’s doing.
A soft breath brushes past your lips and he glances over at the sound.
You've got a strange look behind your eyes, almost… mesmerized? Like you've never seen hands before, which is stupid since you're staring at your own half the time.
His musings are put on pause as the elevator shudders once more.
And dings.
He rips his hand from your grasp and pulls himself to his feet while you follow suit, stuffing your hands into your pockets and burning a hole into the floor with your eyes.
As the doors open, you fling yourself out and breathe a sigh of relief before warily looking around — eyes stopping in his direction. “Um… what's wrong with the elevator?”
His throat's way too dry to answer that question, so he just croaks out a, “Who gives a fuck?” and trudges off towards the briefing room.
⋆｡°✩
“You're late, Kennedy.” The ops coordinator clicks as the door to the briefing room swings open, followed by a disgruntled Leon with you in tow.
He falls into one of the office chairs. “Not our fault. Got sardined in the elevator for fifteen minutes.”
You hesitate before settling into one of the seats, shoulders squared, eyes tracking everything in the room but him.
“Yeah something's wrong with that thing.” The coordinator mutters mostly to himself. “No matter, let's just get started. We're already behind schedule.”
An analyst is off at the corner of the table, scribbling notes on a clipboard beside a stack of files. He takes one from the pile and slides it towards Leon.
“Outskirts of Dalton County. Small private clinic off the highway that used to be privately funded — records are spotty. Reports came through about some shady activity. Details are thin, but possible minor violence involved.”
The coordinator pauses as Leon flips through the folder.
“It's been a lot of false alarms so far, but at this point, leaving any stone unturned is an outbreak waiting to happen.” He glances over at you. “If anything, it's a good opportunity for your trainee.”
Leon's gaze shifts to your direction, and realizes you've already been watching him. Your eyes quickly snap away and target a rogue pencil on the table, while the faint sound of scratching can be heard from underneath.
He clears his throat before speaking. “These reports coming from locals or someone who actually knows what they’re looking at?”
“Mainly locals. The PD didn’t find anything on first pass, and the county didn't escalate it, so that's as formal an investigation we've got so far.”
Leon passively slides the folder to the side, allowing you to peek at its contents. You skim the report for a moment, then your tentative voice cuts through the air.
“Any reports of delayed onset?”
…Why the hell would that be your first concern?
As Leon side-eyes you, the coordinator just shakes his head.
“No confirmed pattern yet, but our timeline is marginal.”
“You plannin’ on diagnosing it already?” Leon mutters under his breath.
All you do is purse your lips, not saying anything.
The coordinator clasps his hands together. “Welp, that's about as much as I can give you right now. Any more questions?”
He has a few, but with the limited intel they just received, it’s likely he won't get the answers he's looking for, so he just drums his fingers on the table. “None from me.”
With a shake of your head, the coordinator nods. “You both can get started on deployment prep and dispatch tonight. Dismissed.”
Leon rises from his seat and heads for the door, stilling for a moment when he realizes you're still engrossed in the file. Walking back over, he snaps his fingers in front of your eyes, immediately drawing your attention back to the present. With that, you scramble to your feet and follow him out the door.
⋆｡°✩
Deployment prep is quick and quiet.
He runs you through a gear check — efficient, no room for error. Fixes what needs fixing, but you adjust without question.
The plan is simple. In, sweep, out. He keeps it that way. Expectations don’t change. Follow his lead. Don’t improvise. Don't show off. Don’t get ahead of him.
Every now and then, he throws a question your way — angles, exits, lines of sight. You answer before he finishes asking.
Comms are next.
He hands you an earpiece and runs a quick check. You respond immediately — clear, steady, no static.
“Keep it short.” He tells you. “I don’t need a play-by-play.”
He lays out the basics. He talks, you listen. You report when asked. No chatter, no noise.
All of this should make things easy.
⋆｡°✩
As soon as Leon's boots hit the tarmac, he takes one breath and looks around.
It’s the kind of place you pass by on a drive and wonder who the hell would ever willingly step inside. The building sits in a weird in-between state. Peeling paint, broken signage, but the occasional flickering of an open sign. No movement though, like the whole area is holding its breath.
If he squints, he can just make out the faded lettering on the sign.
St. Elara Medical Clinic
Making his approach, he brushes his hand along the splintered walls and peers through the grimy window. While he can't make out much, some overturned chairs are visible, along with a cluttered check-in desk.
You're already sweeping the area, sidearm in hand — positioned with vigilance in mind. The sparse amount of cars perpetually stationed in the lot are included in your survey. Empty. No surprise.
He motions for you to come over. When you do, his voice is low and clipped.
“Tell me again. What are the rules?”
Your sidearm lowers — tone laced with mild discontent.
“Don't improvise. Don't show off. Don't get ahead.”
He nods once. “Like glue, rookie.”
Half expecting the door to be locked, he twists the handle of the entrance, which gives way easily. For a place with violence reports? Way too accessible.
But in the meantime, convenient enough. He'll deal with what may or may not be coming.
The stagnant atmosphere shifts as you both enter, disturbing the eerie quietude and floating particulates in the air. Factory art hangs precariously off the walls, while pens and paper are scattered on the floor.
You approach the check-in desk, dragging your fingers across the counter and collecting dust as you go. A clipboard sits off to the side of a keyboard, which you take and read out loud:
“Frazer Randall — In: 09:38 — Out: 10:27”
“Leanne Donnelly — In: 09:42 — Out: 10:33”
“Claudia Horne — In: 10:12 — Out: 10:57”
“Luke O'Moore — In: 10:35 — Out: __”
“Mitchel Patterson — In: 11:03 — Out:__”
“Rosalind Newton — In: 11:28 — Out:__”
You hand the clipboard to him. “Forgot to check out?” Though your face doesn't look convinced.
“If only it were that easy.” He sighs, scanning the clipboard himself.
He starts down the hallway, passing examination rooms with doors ajar and supplies strewn about. Aside from the obvious disarray, there's not much else that's out of the ordinary. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that an earthquake happened or a tornado ripped through.
But he does know better. So it's only a matter of time before-
“Hey Leon?” You call out.
He peeks out of one of the exam rooms and sees you at the end of the hallway in the backroom, gesturing him over. Rolling his eyes, he trudges towards you.
“What part of ‘like glue’ are you struggling with?” He chides, tapping you on the forehead.
“Okay, ow?” You rub the spot, eyes crinkling. “I didn't even go that far. I just wanted to check out the filing room.”
“And tell me. Was it really worth it? Going in blind? Do I need to kick your ass just so you learn why that's a bad idea?”
You're about to answer when your breath catches, and you tilt your head — attention snapping elsewhere.
He squints. “... What?”
A loud thud.
Glass shattering-
Pistol raised, he begins sweeping the room, wrapping around the file wall shelves. You're right at his shoulder, keeping in time with him and covering his six.
A full sweep results in… nothing. Every corner accounted for, with nothing to show for it, but the sounds came from somewhere, so he's not lowering his guard anytime soon. It's only after a second pass around that something catches his eye.
Faded scuff marks are tracked along the hardwood, right next to a large cabinet. Pressing his ear up against the wall, he can make out the faint whisperings of airflow through the plaster.
He braces his shoulder against the cabinet and shoves it aside — the metal groaning with the movement. It gives way easily, revealing,
A titanium door.
You're about to approach it when he grabs your shoulder and yanks you back abruptly. His other hand goes to his comm and taps on the transmit button. “Control, Kennedy here. Either this place is empty… or it’s hiding something. We’ve got a sealed door in the back. Need the go-ahead.”
The comm crackles to life.
“Copy. You’re clear to proceed. Report any contact.”
Then cuts.
He glances over, giving you a pointed look.
Shoulders slumping, you repeat, “Like glue…”
“Tattoo it on your forehead, rookie,” he grunts, nudging you aside as he approaches the door.
Whatever's behind must be pretty important, given how he's gotta put a bit of effort into opening it. Eventually, it gives way, scraping along the floor and hinges grinding in protest.
As stale, ammonia-like wind flows past, you switch on your flashlight and illuminate a cement staircase crawling downwards. Leon holds his arm out, keeping you behind him as he advances first.
Each step echoes across the walls, accompanied by the faint splashing of groundwater that's soaking the concrete. Lower and lower, the sickly scent grows stronger, invading his lungs and making his eyes sting. He reaches the bottom and clicks his own flashlight, casting it around the room and—
Oh fuck.
Throughout the area, cadaver pouches hang ominously from the ceiling, strung up by frayed rope and cinched at the ankles — each one bearing a tag. He rips off one and reads:
Subject 234 — Rosalind Newton — FAIL — DO NOT DISPOSE
“Well now we know why they didn't check out.” He remarks, stuffing the tag in his pocket.
You swing your flashlight, shining it towards the left wall. “Hey Leon, look.”
Your light reveals a shattered glass jar on the ground next to a wooden table, its sticky contents seeping out onto the floor.
“Must've been what broke.”
“Didn't fall down on its own though.” He notes, approaching the jar.
It's only when he crouches down, that he registers faint groaning and the scuffling of feet.
His pistol's raised by the time one of the bags is suddenly shoved to the side.
Teeth bared and skin weeping, a zombie flies out from the forest of body bags and scrambles forward.
The trigger clicks-
He has the shot. Clean
But your arm crosses his line of sight.
“What the HELL are y-”
He's cut off when your hand clamps over his mouth. The threat to kick your ass is about to turn into a promise when he clocks the knife already buried in the zombie’s skull. As you drag it out, it collapses to the floor in a heap.
You peel your hand off and press your finger to your lips. “Not the only one…” You whisper.
Pulling himself off the floor, he sweeps his flashlight around once more. On a second pass, he notices it.
Each bag. The occasional twitch. Muffled moans.
“The fuck are they doing with all these?” He murmurs.
You sidestep the bags, being careful not to disturb the ‘not so dead’, and come across one that's empty and torn at the bottom.
“Guess he was done napping.”
Why are you so casual after nearly getting your arm blown off at point-blank range? Not to mention how you stopped him from waking up the whole cemetery…
His brain’s already running ahead of him,
then his comm cuts in.
“Kennedy, status?”
He presses the receiver. “Sealed door leads to an underground unit filled with bagged bodies. All infected. What's our approach?”
After a brief pause, the analyst's voice comes through once more.
“Command says to sweep for any human presence, but don't engage with any contaminated. We'll send backup for disposal and specimen collection.”
“Copy that.”
You emerge from a row of body bags. “I checked the far wall already. No other rooms.”
Leon's deadpan stare has you cocking your head to the side.
“What? I was in the same room the whole time.”
He drags his hand down his face, releasing an exasperated sigh. “Next time, you're going on a leash. C'mon.”
It's like Ashley all over again, though more competent and less of a flight risk, but still. He supposes he should be grateful for stopping the night of the living dead, but he's not about to reward you for risking a limb for his sake.
He doesn't appreciate that. From anyone.
You both make quick work of the clinic, rechecking rooms and moving furniture aside. Just in case there are any more hidden surprises. There are none, thankfully. By the time you're done, a few armoured trucks are pulling into the lot.
The squad wastes no time breaching the building. Within the next hour, techs are bagging samples and disposal teams are torching what's left of the basement. Leon's able to connect with the lead operative and report off, conveniently leaving out that he nearly shot you. Wouldn't exactly look good on the transcript.
At the operative's dismissal, the two of you begin walking towards your designated truck. His thoughts are still swimming, trying to piece together what just went down, but the sound of your boots dragging along the ground keeps him from delving too far.
Stopping just short of the truck, he turns to you and asks, “Is there a problem, rookie?”
Again with the glove-picking. Seriously. He's throwing those away the next chance he gets. He's about to protest when you speak up.
“Sorry. For earlier.”
Whatever he was gonna say stops right on his tongue, swallowed back and forgotten. Should really chew you out. You acted like a fucking idiot, at least when it came to following instructions. That part, he needs to work on with you.
As for everything else? Not… terrible. You were deliberate enough. Knife skills are decent too.
He also can't ignore the way his chest reflexively tightens when you look up at him through your eyelashes. Somehow, that bothers him more than anything that happened down there.
Pressing his tongue to his cheek, he looks away and mutters, “It's… fine. Just don't want you getting hurt on my watch.”
“Oh. Um… Well-.”
He's not too keen on looking at you again, so he just claims shotgun and slams the door shut before you can say anything else.
⋆｡°✩
The time that should’ve been spent on an after-action report — or getting wasted — becomes dedicated to reviewing your dossier.
Sitting in his dusty cubicle once again, Leon combs over your transcripts, recs, and certifications with more attention than he’s ever given any paperwork. Normally, late-night deskwork, especially after a mission, would be enough to drive him to suicide.
Yes. Morbid. He hates paperwork that much.
But after everything that happened earlier? He can't help being invested.
His fingers skim along each line of the recommendation letter he received on your first day. Sure. It reads well. It's concise. It's not excessively padded… but it's written like a summary, rather than an evaluation.
Who recommended you?
And based on what?
It may have been good enough for his supervisor, and whoever approved your transfer. But Leon? He's not buying it.
Also,
‘Further development is best suited within a controlled operational environment?’
That's a weird way to say ‘field placement’. It reads like you're being managed… not trained.
He shuffles through more of the file, most of it unremarkable. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for this time.
Just… something.
He flips a page.
And his hand stalls.
Your residential history. He doesn’t mean to focus on it.
Just another section in the file — addresses, dates, nothing special.
But why did you move around so much? Never lingering in one place for more than six months to a year?
D.C.
D.C.
D.C.
…Baltimore.
Virginia.
Virginia.
“You don’t move this much just to stay in one area.” He mutters, but he can barely hear himself over the hum of the HVAC.
He could hand it off to an analyst. Have them dig deeper.
𝚁𝙴𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚂𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚜 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝 (NSFW - sequel to 'Just Clinical')
Leon Kennedy x Reader (afab)
Word Count: 35k
Warnings: age-gap, smut, mentions of blood and drug/alcohol use
Summary: How do you build stability with someone whose life is inherently unstable?
Couldn't let go of this plotline so I just HAD to make a continuation hehe...
Also on AO3 for those of you who dread long-scrolling (dw I get it): REturn if Symptoms Persist
“Morning! What can I get for you?”
The barista has a corporate smile on her face that's too premature for the time of day it is. He pulls out his phone and zooms in on a screenshot, squinting as he reads, “Yeah. I'll get a… large iced chai latte with four shots of espresso, oat milk, light ice, and vanilla cold foam…” His face twists in mild disgust. “And one medium black coffee. Thanks.”
The barista nods and taps on the POS system. “Large iced chai with four shots, light ice, oat base, vanilla cold foam and a medium black coffee. That'll be $17.27.” She says this as she pushes the card terminal towards him. “Can I have a name for the order?”
Well, she could just call out the order, but sure, whatever. “It's Leon.”
He taps his card and steps aside, idling by the counter as he waits.
$13 for something that tastes like melted birthday cake. He can’t wrap his head around it. What's the point if you can't taste the actual coffee anyway? Even so, he's not gonna argue about it with you. It's your drink, and apparently, you like running on caffeine, sugar, and fumes, so all the power to you. Also not the healthiest choice, but he's not gonna argue about that either. Your recurrent post-caffeine migraines always speak louder than his lecturing.
Two cups find their place on the counter in front of him. “Order for Leon?”
You've also been threatening to sign him up for AA meetings, which he assumes is a joke. But that alone probably takes away his right to tell you what's healthy or not.
He takes the cups and nods his thanks, stepping out of the coffee shop and into the crisp morning air.
The drive to the D.S.O. is uneventful. That's the only part of his day that is. He's lucky if he even gets a minute of peace in his office before someone's rapping on his door to brief him on another mass hysteria incident. None of which were even happening in the US, so he doesn't know why it's now his problem and not something foreign affairs can deal with.
A heavy sigh escapes him. Another stack of anomaly reports is probably waiting for him on his desk.
He parks in his designated lot and traipses through the security gates, scanning his badge as he passes by. Cups in hand, he makes a pit stop by the medical unit before heading to his office.
The automatic doors creak open as he steps through — catching the attention of the unit clerk as she's typing away at the computer.
After walking up to the counter, he sets the cup of liquid sugar in front of her. He clears his throat, which draws another glance from a nearby nurse towards his direction.
“Mornin’. Can you give this to her?”
The unit clerk raises an eyebrow and nods but doesn't say anything. He catches the shift on the other nurse's face as the corner of her lip twitches. She doesn't say anything either. Just continues to untangle some cardiac leads.
Before he leaves, he spots you walking out of a patient's room, dolled up in a mask, eye shield, and a puffy yellow isolation gown that makes you the spitting image of Big Bird. You meet his eyes as he gives you a short wave before walking off to get some work done.
He's not far enough away yet, so he doesn't miss the hushed whispers from the peanut gallery behind him.
“How many times has it been now?”
“At least once a week.”
“It's been months…”
He doesn't wait to hear the end of the conversation. The automatic doors give a resolute clunk as they shut behind him.
I have officially posted on AO3 and I would love if you would check it out. More to come ♡
just clinical | leon s. kennedy x reader
rating: explicit
tags: nurse reader, age difference, sexual tension
summary:
Working the D.S.O. medical unit means treating people who outrank you, patching up injuries that shouldn’t exist, and pretending the latest B.O.W. incident is just another Tuesday.
Then Agent Kennedy walks in with blood on his shoulder and eyes that seem to see too much.
And unfortunately for you, he’s your patient.
♡ ♡ ♡
Leon Kennedy needs stitches.
You need a stronger headache medication.
For a first fic that was a smash hit!!! I love the way you focus on details!! If you ever upload it to AO3, I will happily bookmark it. Loved that it wasn't all smooth sailing, and excited to see what else you write. <3
Omg THANK YOU! And yes... i'm not done with these guys yet. More on the way :D. I've been thinking about posting on A03 so i might just do that <3
Warnings: age gap, smut, mentions of blood and drug/alcohol use
Summary: post-mission, requiem era Leon and a nurse who should know better...
Leon has me in a chokehold rn, so I made this. First fic in a while. Please be gentle <3
Full work on AO3: Just Clinical
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
"Can someone please turn that shit off."
Your face is buried in your hand, elbow planted like an anchor on the desk. It drags your voice down into a half-mumble. You listen to the persistent beeps of the IV equipment in some distant room, the sound only continuing to aggravate the drilling sensation in the middle of your eyebrows. Apparently, the sound doesn't seem to bother anyone else. Nurses continue to shuffle around, tending to call bells and discussing results with doctors who look like they're ready to bite your head off.
You were finally able to sit down after being on your feet all morning, now even being too exhausted to get up and pee like you had hoped to do hours ago.
Greet, treat, rinse, repeat.
It never takes long for you to fall into step with the routine. The start of the day would always be rough and usually demanded some sort of caffeinated substance (or a pop of adderall) to get you moving at a reasonable pace, but eventually you hit the point where everything was still busy, just no longer personal.
A sigh leaves your lips, and you force yourself up once again, searching around the ward for the source of your headache.
Working on the medical unit at the D.S.O. was never the end goal or the beginning. If you were being honest with yourself, there never really was one.
Getting accepted into nursing school?
Probably where you peaked.
After that, the journey was about as pleasant as frolicking through a sunny field of razor blades. Each year, testing your intelligence, patience, and will to live all at the same time. Yet somehow you managed to drag yourself through it all. Landing yourself with a bachelor's degree, a prescription for SSRIs, and an uncertain future.
You eventually decided to follow what you were most passionate about, which just so happened to be a cushy income. Somehow, all that nonsense landed you here: scrubbing in at the D.S.O. 's medical unit, treating people who probably outrank you, and occasionally wondering if all your life choices were really just a long con.
You'd never admit it out loud. Not to anyone. Maybe not even to yourself while brushing your teeth. Always going on about how blessed you are to be making a difference in people's lives and all that bullshit. Good thing the nursing skills were interesting enough. Otherwise, you might have pivoted to arson or tax fraud.
The occasional limb loss, GSW, or the latest B.O.W. outbreak — just another day keeping yourself entertained enough to stay alive. Maybe you're a thrill seeker, should have probably become a stunt specialist.
Stepping into the hallway after finally silencing the god-forsaken beeping, you spot a figure down the hallway talking to the charge nurse. From where you're standing, he seems to be a head taller than you. Broad too, not in a bulky way, just solid. You eye the faint grey at the edges of his hair, hands that look like they’ve done too much, and deep blue eyes that seem to measure everything way too carefully. The charge nurse is laughing like he’s harmless, but the way he stands — controlled, untouchable — makes your stomach do a weird flip.
She spots you down the hallway and motions for you to come over. As you get closer, you eye his collared shirt, the shoulder crusted over with blood and sticking to him like a second skin.
"Would you mind taking Agent Kennedy to an exam room? He has a shoulder laceration and needs sutures." She's looking at you like you should have started moving fifteen minutes ago. Whatever. She's always been a cunt.
When you glance over to him, he’s already watching you. Not staring, not rude. Just… assessing. You suddenly understand the feeling behind the phrase, "like a bug under a microscope". Though the name "Agent Kennedy" itches somewhere in the back of your brain, you're too distracted by the independent figure in front of you to even look for it.
Nodding slowly, you choke out, "Sure... right this way." The words sticking like the phlegm in your throat that always builds up overnight.
Gross.
Anyways.
You feel him keeping in step behind you, his presence palpable enough to eat with a spoon. The sound of his combat boots hitting the vinyl flooring and cracking through your skull are leaving you painfully aware that you're gonna have to turn around eventually.
Your legs finally maneuver the rest of your body to an empty treatment room, your arm holding the door open for him as he strolls through. Your eyes don't seem to be cooperating, though, keeping themselves glued to your feet. You can hear your mouth say, "You can take a seat on the exam table".
Seems like nobody's really working together here.
Various assholes in your life would tell you that you shouldn't have become a nurse. That it requires someone capable of interacting with the rest of society. That thought did occasionally bother you in the beginning — mainly because they were right, and you actually were the closed system they labelled you as.
However, as you became more capable with the overt clinical skills, you were able to pull some façade out of your ass that allowed you to connect with your patients and make them feel well cared for. Ironic, considering you nearly failed Nursing Therapeutics 102.
In this case, however, that façade you came to rely on stays perpetually wedged somewhere else in your digestive system. Unreachable in the moment where you need it most.
He slides himself onto the table, seeming to take up more space than he means to just by existing, as if the air itself is adjusting around him.
Your eyes, no longer interested in your shoes, keep themselves trained on his face, which now appears older up close. There’s nothing remarkable about any single feature. It’s the way everything fits together that makes looking away feel premature. His frame looks built for function more than display, though you find his physique displaying itself very well, despite whatever the original intent was.
You clear your throat and introduce yourself, voice slightly uncertain, as if you're not even sure you gave him the right name. He raises his eyebrows slightly and nods, the corner of his mouth twitching briefly.
"So tell me what's going on." You don't outright address the blood, despite it being painfully obvious (pun intended).
He adjusts his shoulder, wincing somewhat. "Got a little souvenir from my last assignment. Building nearly collapsed while I was still inside". His voice sounds like he's smoked one too many, though he doesn't look like the type.
Your stomach does another flip.
Nodding in a way that hopefully makes you look seasoned enough, you start to pull on a pair of gloves. Despite this, he's probably thinking that you could use another dash or two. “Let's have a look then.”
You glance at the crusted shirt that was most likely bought one or two sizes too small (you wouldn't believe him if he denied it).
"Shirt off please?"
You really hope he doesn't notice the small wheeze that leaves your throat as you speak.
He follows through, thankfully, swiftly running his hands down the front of his shirt with buttons snapping apart like they hate each other. Shrugging his shirt off, you fight to suppress the building pressure in your chest.
Shoulders steady (despite the laceration) and ribs cascading under his skin — not a sculpted six pack on display, more like muscles that flex with the slightest movement. His forearms are lined with veins that look like they're just begging to be stuck with an IV. Scars along his biceps and torso, leaving reminders of history wherever you can see them.
God. Stop staring.
Mentally punching yourself in the face, you step forward and bring your gloved hands up towards him.
"May I?"
He can probably hear your heart jackhammering from where he's sitting.
He grunts in a way that you assume means permission, so you close the gap between the two of you. Your fingers palpate the wound edges gently. They're jagged, the way a broken zipper would fit together. Most of the bleeding has stopped, though small trickles leak through the clotted tissue, coaxed out by your touch. The bruising bordering the gaps create a mosaic of purples and yellows, making it almost too brutal to look away from.
"Definitely gonna need sutures." You look up at him, meeting his gaze. His eyes make your vision tilt sideways…or maybe he's making the earth do that on its own.
You rip your eyes away and turn towards the supply cabinet, mentally taking note of what you're going to need. Stockpiling the necessary items on a tray, you turn back to him, determined to at least finish the job before your head eventually greets the floor. Approaching him for the second time, you feel his breath tickle your ear. You need to get close enough to get the stitches straight, and he's doing you a favour by manspreading enough that you're basically in between his thighs. You're not complaining, obviously.
"Actually, let me get you some numbing before we start." You begin to turn around again, but he shakes his head.
"Just get it over with."
You blink a couple times and slowly pick up the contents of the suture kit. "Ooo-kay then..."
You wish you had his pain tolerance. He probably would have just sneezed away the migraine you had earlier.
You try to focus on the task at hand and ignore the way his torso moves when he lifts an arm, the little twitch of shoulder and chest muscle brushing against your awareness, but your eyes are traitors.
Gripping the torn flesh with your non-dominant hand, you guide the curved needle through his skin, rejoining the edges in holy matrimony.
Thread, tie, snip. Thread, tie, snip.
The rhythm helps to distract you, if only a little. Your hard work comes to fruition as his skin starts to look less like a slasher movie and more like the stuffed dinosaur your mom stitched up for you when you were nine years old.
He tilts his head as you're working, and an expression you can't quite identify forms on his face. "How old are you anyway?"
Your eyes dart back to his, and the migraine you were trying to ignore begins to nestle between your eyebrows again. A heavy sigh leaves your lips.
"I'm twenty-five."
You aren't necessarily young for your career path, but being surrounded by other nurses with three to five more years under their belt, you find yourself often being scrutinized by the influx of long-serving agents that grace your path.
He raises his eyebrow again, that twitch from earlier now forming into a mellow smirk. "Huh. They really are speedin' up the training these days."
You look up at him directly now. Honestly, you can't quite decide whether to snap at him, or tell him that ‘he's absolutely right’ and ‘who are you kidding!' His words are like a parasite digging in your brain.
A soft chuckle escapes his lips before he speaks again. "You always this calm when workin' around liability hazards?"
"Uhh... I try to be?" You're not entirely sure what he's referring to, but judging from what he's here for, you're glad you're not a field medic.
“Good. 'Cause I’ve been informed I’m not allowed to apologize for bleeding anymore. Union rules. Or somethin'.”
Despite his earlier comment, you can't help but laugh, even just a little. It doesn't do too much to suppress the boiling mess in your ribcage, but at the very least, he sounds mortal enough.
A shaky exhale leaves your lips as you finally get to the top of his shoulder, tying the last knot. Only then do you notice that he barely flinched throughout the entire process, just continuing to keep his eyes on you, watching. Not helpful.
"Well... I'm done here. All patched up and good as new!" You peel off your gloves, and the cool air from the vents hits your very moist hands.
He lets out a quiet huff and shakes his head. The smirk still playing softly on his lips. "Maybe not good as new. Good enough for now." As he stands up and pulls his extra-small shirt back on, he hesitates for a moment.
"Thanks... by the way. Good bedside manner."
You just stand there, your knuckles turning white as you clasp your hands behind your back. Lady Luck must have her eye on you right now as you feel very fortunate that you're wearing a mask, considering it's hiding your mouth, hanging open like a gawking dumbass. "Agent Kennedy?" His name comes out tighter than intended.
He turns back as he's about to open the door, and your vision gets all swimmy again.
"The sutures. Seven days... please." Holy shit. Put your foot in your MOUTH. "I need to take them out then."
He nods at you, understanding your backwards sentence well enough, and walks out of the treatment room.
You lean back into the exam table, the disposable paper lining crinkling in your grip. You aren't looking forward to sticking your head into that emotional meat grinder again, but you're at least grateful that your migraine's gone.
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