A short and smutty oneshot based on an anonymous request. Can imagine just about any Leon in here RE4 or later. Fem!Reader. Sexual frustration. Strangers to hookup to lovers. Doggy style. Prone bone. Just some good old-fashioned smut.
Hope you enjoy, anon!
Leon Kennedy Masterlist
“Girl, you look like you’re barely holding on,” your friend said as the two of you sat down to meet for coffee on a Thursday after work.
You gave her a withering look, “Gee, good to see you, too.”
She ignored your sour disposition and kept talking, “We are going out together this weekend,” she declared, “And you can’t say no. You’ve already canceled plans with me three times in the past month.”
“Yeah, cuz I had that big project at work. Ya know, the thing that had me working overtime almost every week for over a year?”
She rolled her eyes, “Uh huh, and now the project is done. What would you do this weekend without me, anyway? Watch TV on your own? Jack off a million times?”
You kicked her under the table with a scowl, “Shut up! Fine!”
You hated how right she was. Your weekend plans really were going to be lounging around and making yourself cum as much as possible.
Well. Trying to make yourself cum.
And that was one of the big reasons you were so tense. You hadn’t cum in months and hadn’t had sex in over a year. This dry spell had you desperate. Work had eaten up so much of your time that finding dates or hookups was simply impossible. And you were so stressed and so exhausted that you couldn’t make yourself cum. You’d either end up crying in frustration or passing out from fatigue.
Fuck, maybe going out was a good idea.
The anticipation built in you during the evening and into the next day, and by the time work ended on Friday, you were practically buzzing with excitement. Even if you couldn’t get fucked, you could at least dance and drink your woes away. It was always fun to unwind with your friend, anyway.
You met her at your favorite bar Friday night, both of you dressed in outfits that showed more than they covered, cash ready to tip any live performers. The bar was a great place to pregame—good food, cheap shots, and a fifty-fifty chance at live music. It was perfect to get into the mood for the club later. It was busy with the rush of DC white-collar workers and government employees that always came after work, still dressed in their work clothes. You and your friend were the only ones dressed to turn heads.
You sat together at the bartop and the familiar feeling of the barstool under you made you relax already. You ordered a round of shots and some nachos to get the night started.
“Cheers!” you and your friend cried out as you clinked your shot glasses together.
You threw the shot back and savored the burn of the vodka going down your throat. Fuck, it had been too damn long since you had any fun.
“Ooh there’s an actual smile on your face,” your friend teased good-naturedly, “Hold on, lemme take a photo!”
You swatted playfully at her, “Fuck off.”
You couldn’t even find it in yourself to be annoyed with her, especially not when the platter of cheap nachos was placed in front of you. Fake queso and everything.
When the second plate was brought out, your friend excused herself and scampered off to the bathrooms, leaving you to munch the food on your own. You had a feeling you wouldn’t make it to the club later, but you didn’t mind. The live music was good, the food was good, the drinks were good. Yeah, you were feeling pretty fantastic.
However, when your friend was gone for a solid ten minutes, you began to worry. You turned to get off your barstool, only to see her sitting at a booth and getting cozy with some guy. You caught her gaze and quirked a brow at her and she mouthed sorry at you before laughing at something the guy said.
Ugh.
At least one of you was getting lucky tonight.
“Is this seat free?” a deep voice asked.
You spun so fast you nearly snapped your neck. Beside you stood one of the most attractive men you’d ever seen in your life. Dirty blond hair that covered his face with fringe. A tight blue shirt that showed off his well-built torso. A leather jacket that screamed expensive. A jawline you’d very much like to kiss along. Blue eyes you could get lost in. And… wait, he’d asked you something, hadn’t he?
“Oh, er, go ahead,” you said awkwardly, “My friend ditched me,” you said, gesturing toward where she and that guy were now making out.
Ah, she’d always been a free spirit.
The man beside you chuckled and took a seat where your friend once sat. As he got closer, you took a subtle sniff. Damn, he even smelled nice.
“Whiskey, neat,” he said to the bartender, “And something for the lady.”
“Water,” you said with a smirk, “I don’t let strange men buy me drinks.”
It was a test, of course, and the man gave a smirk and nodded, “Mhm, smart.”
Ok. First test passed.
The bartender poured the man his whiskey and gave you a glass of water. You held your glass toward the man and smiled when he clinked his against it.
“Name’s Leon,” he said before taking a sip of his drink.
You introduced yourself and took a gulp of your water before grabbing some more nachos.
“So, what brings you here?” Leon asked, eyeing you up and down, “You’re not exactly dressed for a joint like this.”
“Well, we were just pregaming,” you drawled, “We were supposed to go to the club, next, but…”
His blue eyes cut over to your friend and mirth spread across his features, “Yeah, looks like your friend already found her entertainment for the night.”
You turned to look, only to turn straight into her. She had the decency to look sheepish as she approached.
“Er, I’m gonna head out with Marcus, here,” she said, nodding toward the man behind her. Her eyes darted between you and Leon before narrowing slightly, “You good?”
You nodded, “I’m good. You owe me a night out, though. You’re paying for everything next time.”
She gave you a grin and a salute, “Aye, ma’am!” she declared before glancing at Leon again, “And be safe, ok?”
“You, too,” you said with barely concealed amusement.
Once your friend and her boytoy were gone, you turned back to Leon before both of you began to snicker at your friend’s antics.
“She seems… spirited,” the man said into his drink.
You rolled your eyes fondly, “Yeah. She’s a wild one.”
“What about you? Got any of that wild side?”
You smirked at him, “Mm, why don’t you get to know me and find out?”
----------
Two hours later and you were screaming like a banshee into the expensive bedding in his fancy-ass apartment. You’d already cum twice—once on his fingers and once on his mouth—and you were now rapidly hurtling toward your third orgasm as Leon gave you the best fuck of your life. Dry spell? Officially ended.
Leon fucked you with a single-minded focus to make you cum. His hips slapped against your ass with lewd, wet sounds as his dick hit your sweet spot on every thrust. You’d literally never been with a man who managed to be so precise as he took you apart. Well, it helped that Leon was also fucking hung. You wailed as his thick girth stretched you so much it burned a little.
“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” Leon groaned as he leaned over you, pressing his weight on you, chest pinning you to the bed, “You’re so wet for me, gorgeous. So sensitive, too. It’s so hot.”
“M-more, please!”
Leon chuckled in your ear and maneuvered you until you were flat on the bed and your eyes rolled back at just how delicious he felt in this position. You’d never done prone bone before, and now you needed it every day. Specifically with Leon. He felt even bigger like this, and you came with a pathetic cry of his name, feeling your cum soaking his navel and your thighs. It splashed around with each wet thrust, and you felt yourself get even more turned on at just how messy you were being.
“Look at that,” Leon rasped, “Squirtin’ all over me, beautiful.”
You grunted in response, beyond words at this point. And, shit, Leon was still going. Cock hard and hot and throbbing and you almost wished he wasn’t wearing a condom just so you could really feel him.
“Mmf, gonna cum, baby,” Leon moaned as his hips stuttered, “Oh, fuck!”
He groaned your name as he came, his hips twitching against yours as you felt extra warmth fill the condom inside you. You whimpered as he collapsed atop you, happy to be pinned wholly under his weight. Both of you were gasping for air, bodies a sticky mess of sweat and cum, and Leon was gentle as he eventually pulled out of you.
You expected him to begin cleaning himself up, maybe nudge you toward the door, but you were delightfully surprised when he helped you to the bathroom. He let you do your business and shower first before taking his turn. You felt a little guilty using his super expensive body soap, but you figured he could afford it. When you were clean—though still a touch shaky—you exited the bathroom to find Leon holding a bundle of clothes toward you.
“Should be comfortable enough to sleep in,” he murmured, “Get comfortable, yeah?”
You nodded mutely. This was… not just a hookup, was it?
He smiled at you as you took the clothes and he pressed a kiss to your forehead before heading into the bathroom himself.
You grinned like a giddy schoolgirl as you got dressed and crawled into his freshly-changed bed and under the covers.
A girl could get used to this, you thought.
And, several years later, you had. And Leon was always there to make sure you never went through a dry spell again.
how re9!leon would handle your pregnancyㅤㅤㅤangsty at the start. fluff mostly. a little suggestive at places. wc: 1.7k.
when leon first learns of your pregnancy, it hits him in a way nothing has ever before. he was ecstatic, yes. but more than that, he was scared. now, he didn’t just have one reason to come home to, but two. two reasons to stay alive.
when leon learns of your pregnancy, he fills out the request for early retirement. he was done with that life because he didn’t know if he would return home in one piece if he left you one more time. he couldn’t—and he simply wouldn’t—take the chance. he needed the stability. he needed you. and now, you needed him too. more than ever.
it wasn’t just the fear of not being able to see you ever again; it was the fear of finally becoming a father. because let’s be honest, he was forty-nine, not exactly in his prime. did he even have it in him to be a good father? could he give his child what he never had?
but you comfort him throughout and shut down all the doubts, like you always had. through every nightmare, through every breakdown, through every problem. “you’re going to be the best dad, leon,” you say, caressing his jaw. “you know the difference between you and bad fathers? bad fathers don’t spend nights worrying they’re bad fathers.”
leon, who buys a big house in the suburbs right before retirement, because he wants his baby to grow up comfortably, and because he wants nothing more than to live the rest of his days right by your side. and after moving in, he spends most of his time baby-proofing the entire house, and it takes him a considerable amount of time because of the sheer size of the house.
when he first sees the ultrasound, he freezes. not because he didn’t love the baby. but because the baby was so tiny, and your pregnancy finally started to feel real. it finally felt like there was a baby on the way. he was overwhelmed, not because he was scared of being a father, not since you comforted him anyway, but because he was going to be responsible for a baby. a tiny baby.
leon, now retired, spends his time building cool shit for the baby. a fancy crib from scratch and the changing table, and a book shelf. yes, he’d bought the wooden planks, and he already had the supplies in the garage. he had also researched furiously about cribs, so much so that he could recite the entire history of cribs at this point. when you had walked in on him writing something over a large paper on the dining table, you were confused. turns out, he’d drawn a blueprint of the crib.
for him, creating something so meaningful after watching destruction everywhere he went time and again, it was healing, to say the least.
leon was learning one baby-related skill every single day—how to install car seats, how to baby-proof the lower cabinets, infant cpr, how to swaddle, how to burp the baby, how to check if the temperature of the milk is right, and on and on. you were happy to see that he’d crossed the line from scared future father to hopelessly excited dad.
as your pregnancy progressed, he would accompany you to the routine checkups and would make sure all your files were meticulously arranged in order. people sitting in the waiting area would sometimes stare at leon, because he did not look young exactly, but he didn’t care. well, it did bother him at first, because, he said and you quote, “i’ll be seventy when our kid’s twenty. that’s sooo old...” and you comfort him again, saying that it’s alright because the kid won’t remember his age, they would only remember the man who taught them to ride a bike or embarrassed them at school events (which he’d taken an offence at, because he’d never embarrass the kid, he would be the epitome of cool dad!!), that they would only remember their dad. not his age.
leon ends up creating an emergency binder with all the emergency numbers and pediatrician contacts, allergy information, vaccination schedules, and hospital routes (and backup hospital routes) and it was giant. the tabs were colour coded too, your husband wasn’t playing around. “jesus, is that laminated too?” you ask. and leon looks up at you. “yep. laminated.”
and because leon was scared of his joints fucking up as he grew older, once the baby was here, and not being able to give the child an active father who would join them in adventure, he began working out every morning religiously. you’d watch him work out in your backyard through the kitchen window while making breakfast, and he would look so handsome like that, all hot and sweaty. once, you accidentally burned the pancakes a little, but leon was content eating those because it was proof you still found him attractive.
leon refused to let you do any physically taxing work at all, and decorated the nursery all by himself. he painted the nursery and put in the crib, changing table, and the bookshelf he’d made all by himself. you had to admit, those looked better than the ones you would’ve gotten in the market. to show your appreciation, you kiss leon on the cheek, and somehow that turns into an hour-long makeout session and showing your appreciation in other ways as well.
the nursery still was incomplete, so leon takes you shopping for rugs and curtains, soft toys and children’s books you would need for the nursery. you return home well past into the evening with a lot more stuff than you had anticipated. you had to hire a mover with how much stuff there was, because in no world would everything fit in the car.
now that the nursery and baby-proofing the house was done, leon mostly read books about pregnancy and tried different tasty and healthy recipes to feed you. you were well into your second trimester and the bump was more evident now.
when you decided that you wanted to grow a garden, he was more than happy about it. he helped you do everything, and would also help you water it every day in the morning. it didn’t take long for the garden to finally take shape and blossom. the flower beds looked professionally done, and leon was very proud of you.
weirdly enough, leon had also learned how to make sourdough bread. you couldn’t do that even after multiple tries! and this guy somehow made the perfect one on first try! long story short, no more sourdough from the market, your husband always made the fresh ones for you.
sometimes, when you were asleep during the night, he’d talk to your belly. and it wasn’t anything specific, too. like he’d be gently caressing your baby bump and talk about cars, the engines, the braking system, and whatnot. once, you had caught him talking to the baby when you weren’t fully asleep yet, and he was talking about naval history. it had made you snort so hard you almost choked on your own spit.
leon’s frequency of telling you a dad joke had increased too. it was so stupid yet it made you laugh till you were crying. he told you he was practicing those for the baby. he was already excited about pissing off your kid by telling them dad jokes.
you both discuss names. “lily if it’s a girl, and benjamin if it’s a boy,” he suggests. and you nod because lily was a beautiful name. benjamin though... definitely not. “benjamin? that’s such a founding father ass name. maybe james...?” and he nods at that, “james is good for a boy.” lily if it was a girl, and james if it was a boy.
baby’s first kick was a huge turning point for both of you. you were well into your third trimester when it happened, having a movie date night with your husband, where you two were watching some cheesy rom-com. his hand was up your shirt, resting on your bump, caressing it absentmindedly. and when the baby kicked, both of you looked at it each other to see if the other noticed it. it was the most amazing thing in the world, leon decided. “hey there, little one,” he said, talking to the baby again, a big smile on his face.
you also had extremely specific cravings sometimes. because you wanted those potato wedges from that place. and he was left wondering what place was that place. you said the place had a red sign, because that is all you remembered from the last time you went there. so leon would drive around the whole city for forty-five minutes before it clicked into his brain and he remembered what place he’d taken you to.
when you got emotional and tried to apologise for your food cravings and making him run around for snacks, he’d immediately shush you. “you’re literally growing an entire human. i’m pretty sure i can survive a trip to the grocery store twice a day.”
when the day of delivery came, leon kept repeating the breathing exercises and urged you to do the same. he’d stood beside you the entire time you were in labour, which was nine hours. and he also did as you asked. held your hand, brought you ice chips, or fruit juice, whatever you wanted.
when the baby was born, leon checked up on you first, tuning out the wails of the newborn. the baby already had doctors and nurses cleaning them up and doing the necessary medical checkups. you were more important. you had just pushed out another human.
before leon takes the healthy newborn in his arms, he presses a kiss on your forehead, thanking you for being so strong. and the baby was so tiny and delicate he was afraid he might crush her if he held her too hard.
it took leon exactly one second of holding lily to fall in love with the precious bundle and know with certainty that he would do anything to protect her. you watched it unfolding in real time through teary and tired eyes, a big and beautiful smile on your face. he looked so at peace, it made something in your chest tighten.
Ok. So I’m rereading the quiet DSO reader fic, cause I wanted to read it in its full glory, and I just got to the part where we see Chris.
Curiosity killed the cat (the cat be me), I wonder if we could get his perspective saving the young reader. Or just that mission in general.
I’m just very curious about that whole thing, and want me details.
Assuming you’re up for it
Lol had to break out the ol' Quiet Reader taglist for this! Hope you like it! (Yes, this is also me soft launching trying to write for Chris cuz I'm less familiar with him and I'm not sure if I'm writing this right lol)
Summary: Set the evening after Chapter 27, Chris recounts on the past.
Masterlist | Playlist | AO3 Link
Rays of Sunlight - Quiet Reader Extra Content #1
Chris tries not to think about past missions too often.
It’s generally not a good idea to dwell on them for more than he has to. There’s been too many people he’s lost. Too many horrors he’s seen. The only times he can truly think back to it all clearly is when he’s lost in a bottle or too tired to stop himself.
But, still, even then, the mission he’s currently thinking about is one that he borderline forgot.
Not that it was forgettable, not at all. None of them were. But this one was part of a string of deployments that tended to all blur together into a mix of trauma and regrets.
This particular mission came back to haunt him today.
He thinks back to the hospital quarantine room, following Leon inside and expecting to see a broken husk of a woman. Someone barely functioning, held together only by scar tissue and spite. But reality often differed from expectations. Today was no exception.
He remembers that girl from 20 years ago. He remembers typing up the report and sending it in. He can recall the clinical language he used to explain to his superiors what he had seen.
Recovered juvenile female. Non-verbal at time of extraction. Severe malnutrition. Extensive scarring. Multiple viral exposures.
The words didn’t do justice to what he had really seen.
A child. A little girl. Thin, barely holding herself together in a blanket too small to mean anything. Eyes hollow, in a way that didn’t even come from fear anymore. Just hollow like someone who didn’t expect anything else. No tears. No screaming. Just existing like any alternative to her current situation was impossible.
He can feel something cold settle into his ribs at the memory.
.
.
.
“Captain.” One of his men is beside him, gesturing towards the room they had just searched. “We found something.”
Chris isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
The smell hits first.
Antiseptic, blood, something chemical and burned into the tile like it’s been there too long to ever come out again. The lighting is too bright. Surgical. Intentional. Designed to make everything visible and still somehow hide what it’s doing.
Then he sees the table. Metal. Bolted down. Clean in the way that only means it wasn’t clean for long. Then, the corner. Something small. Still. A figure, half shrouded under a scrap of fabric. Chris doesn’t lower his weapon at first. He moves in slowly, boots careful against tile.
The figure doesn’t react.
Fuck. It’s a child.
She’s small enough that the room feels too large around her. Curled slightly into herself like she’s trying to take up less space than her body allows. A thin blanket is draped over her shoulders, clenched in both hands. It’s not for warmth, not really. For something closer to certainty, probably. Her arms are wrapped in bandages, but they're sloppy. Some are too tight. Some are practically falling off of her.
He feels his jaw tighten before he even fully processes what he’s seeing.
She doesn’t look up. That’s the second wrong detail. Most people look up when a door opens. Even trained subjects. Even hostile ones. But she doesn’t. Like she already decided a long time ago that whatever comes through that door is not worth acknowledging.
Chris lowers himself slowly. Not fully kneeling. Not yet. Just enough to bring himself closer to her level.
“Hey.”
No response. Her eyes stay down. Fixed somewhere near the floor. Not focused. Not unfocused. Just… absent in a way that feels practiced.
His hand shifts slightly. A small movement. Just barely inching towards her.
Her head finally lifts, though her eyes don’t meet his. As if on cue, her arm raises, wrist pointing towards him, inner arm exposed.
His breath catches.
What exposed skin there is is littered in pinpricks. Dozens, if he had to guess. Each one is swollen and bruised, droplets of blood dried onto the surface. Still, she holds out her arm like she’s fully prepared to receive another one.
He glances past her for half a second, then back to her arms. The room tells him the rest of the story in fragments.
Restraint marks. Old. Repeated. Injection sites layered over injection sites. Medical equipment arranged too neatly to be anything but routine. Paperwork scattered like someone stopped mid-thought and never came back to finish it.
He’s seen this before. Too many times. Test subjects that have been reduced to scraps of who they used to be. People who are more experiments than living beings. But not like this. Not this… quiet.
One of his men speaks behind him, low. “Captain…?”
Chris doesn’t answer. He’s watching her breathing instead. Too controlled. Too shallow. Like she’s learned exactly how much air she’s allowed to take without attracting attention.
He shifts his stance slightly, angling himself so the doorway behind her is visible. Giving her a clear exit path, so she knows she’s not trapped. Not cornered. It’s the smallest adjustment he can offer without words.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” he murmurs.
Her fingers tighten around the blanket, arm finally dropping back to her side. That’s all. She makes no other movements, just still staring blankly towards the floor.
He gestures towards one of his men. “Go request medical support.”
A nod. “What do I tell them?”
He thinks for a moment. “Juvenile female. Malnourished. Dehydrated. Possible infected wounds.”
The man nods again, and disappears.
Chris returns his attention to the girl.
“What’s your name?”
Her head tilts inquisitively, like she’s not used to being asked things directly. Instead of answering, she just gives a small hum.
Chris waits. Not because he expects an answer. More because he doesn't know what else to do.
The hum hangs in the air between them. It isn't really a response. Just noise. The kind people make when words don't come naturally anymore. His stomach twists.
"Your name," he repeats, softer this time. "What do people call you?"
Her brow furrows. Like it's a difficult question. Like she's sorting through possible answers and none of them feel correct. For a second, he wonders if she even remembers.
He speaks again. “... That’s okay. We can figure that out later. Can you stand?”
Again, her brow furrows. One of her legs moves, uncurling from her chest, but the movement is sloppy and uncoordinated. He can see the way her muscles tremble at the use.
“... I’ll take that as a no.”
From behind him, there’s footsteps.
“Captain,” The soldier is back, “I got that medic.”
Chris nods, stepping aside. He doesn’t miss the way the girl stiffens again, legs drawing a little closer to her chest. The medic slows as soon as he enters the room.
He has worked with enough field medics to recognize the look. The quick assessment. The mental checklist. The immediate calculation of how bad things are. This one takes a single glance at the girl and goes still.
"...Jesus."
The curse slips out before he can stop it. The girl's shoulders immediately draw tighter. The medic notices too.
"Sorry." His voice softens considerably as he crouches a few feet away. "Sorry. Didn't mean that."
No response. He reaches for his bag instead, moving deliberately. Slow enough that every motion is visible.
The girl watches his hands. Her eyes briefly look over the tools he pulls out, the medications, the bandages, but she almost exclusively watches the way his fingers move over items.
He hates what that might imply.
"Can you tell me what happened here?" the medic asks gently.
Nothing. The girl continues staring.
The medic tries again. "Do you know where you're hurt?"
Silence.
"Do you know your name?"
Another hum.
Chris sees the medic glance toward him. A silent exchange. This is worse than they thought.
The medic inches closer. "I'm going to look at your arm, alright?"
No acknowledgement. No resistance either. The girl's arm lifts automatically. As if she doesn’t have a choice but to comply. Her arm flips to where her wrist is presented upwards, just like earlier.
The medic freezes, hands stuck hovering over her skin. Even through his black facial coverings, Chris can see the man’s eyes widening.
The arm is covered in bruising. Fresh puncture marks layered over older ones. Some yellowing with age, others angry and red.
The medic carefully turns her wrist, observing the patterns of scars. The girl doesn't react. Not even when he presses against skin that should hurt.
"How long has she been here?" he asks quietly.
Chris looks around the room. The table. The restraints. The stacks of paperwork. The discarded syringes. He gives the only answer he has.
"I don't know."
The answer feels inadequate. The medic exhales slowly through his nose.
"She needs a hospital."
"No argument there."
"No, Captain." The medic's expression hardens. "A real hospital."
Chris understands immediately. Not a field tent. Not a temporary treatment station. Not somewhere they stabilize her and move on. No, she needs full medical custody. Somewhere with specialists. Psychologists. Long-term care. Somewhere that has people that can handle all of this.
The girl shifts.
The movement is so small Chris almost misses it.
Her eyes have drifted from the floor, toward the open doorway. Toward the sunlight filtering in from the hall. Her eyes widen ever so slightly, staring at the light. Like she's trying to remember what it is. He follows her gaze.
The light looks ordinary enough. A patch of afternoon sun across cracked concrete. Nothing special. Yet she watches it with quiet concentration. After several seconds, the girl slowly extends a hand toward the brightness.
Chris exhales a heavy breath. “... Do you want to go out there?”
Finally, finally, the girl meets his eyes. The motion looks unsure, like she’s not convinced that looking at him is safe yet.
Slowly, her head bows into a nod.
He offers a small smile. “We can do that.” He turns his head towards the medic, “Do you think she’s stable to be transported?”
The man thinks for a moment, before nodding.
“Okay,” Chris starts reaching out his hands, “Let’s go.”
The girl stays still. For a moment, he studies her posture the way he would a battlefield; weight distribution, tension points, where she might flinch if he moved wrong. She doesn’t move at all.
“Alright,” he says quietly. “I’m going to pick you up.”
A pause. No reaction.
He tries again, softer. “Is that okay?”
The girl tilts her head slightly. It’s not confusion exactly. More like she’s trying to locate the meaning of the words in a place she hasn’t used in a long time.For a moment, it reminds him of Claire, when they were little. The way she would tilt her head when she was working on something, tongue peeking out from between her lips in frustration.
The realization makes his body feel heavy.
The girl gives a small, uncertain nod. Chris exhales once through his nose.
“Okay.”
One arm slides behind her shoulders first, the other under her knees, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. She doesn’t. But the moment his hands make contact, she goes rigid. Like she’s waiting for something to follow. Pain. Punishment. A correction that never comes.
He notices the way her breath catches and then holds. It makes him adjust his grip immediately, looser than instinct tells him to.
“Hey,” he murmurs, barely audible. “You’re fine.”
Then, he lifts her. She’s lighter than he expects. That thought hits him harder than it should.
For a second, the room tilts; not physically, just in his perception of it. Too small. Too sterile. Too many things in it that explain too much without saying anything at all. Behind him, the medic shifts but doesn’t speak.
He turns toward the doorway. The sunlight is still there. Waiting.
He carries her toward it slowly, deliberately, letting her see it approach instead of suddenly placing her in it. Her head turns slightly in his arms, towards the golden light.
The closer they get, the more her grip tightens on the edge of the thin blanket still clutched against her chest.
He tries to keep his voice low and steady as he speaks again, ignoring the way her body starts to shake in his arms.
“It’s over now, okay? We’re taking you somewhere safe.”
She looks up towards his face. His eyes meet hers. For a second, he can almost see one corner of her lips twitch upwards into a relieved smile.
The light finally hits her face. For a moment, it makes his heart sink. The light is highlighting her sunken cheeks, hollow face looking pale in the glow. But, even then, her eyes close, basking in the warmth of it.
His mind flashes to Claire again. When she was about 12, and he had carried her home after she had snuck out to go to the arcade with her friends. It was in the early hours of the morning, the sun just barely peeking up from the horizon. She had been just starting to close her eyes, drifting off as the sun shined down onto them both.
He smiles faintly, releasing a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“...It’s over now.”
.
.
.
You are not the woman he’d been expecting, no. Not at all.
But, when he thinks back to today, in that cold quarantine room, he knows you’re the same person as that little girl he saved all those years ago. You have the same eyes, even if there’s more light in them than he remembers. You have the same hair, even if it’s fuller and more maintained. It’s still you, even if you’re bigger and better and happier than that test subject that he only ever met once before.
His brain flashes to Leon. The genuine smile on his face, unlike anything Chris has ever seen before. The way you held his hand like you were more than happy to bring that smile to his face. How you had looked at him like he had hung the stars in your sky, and you his.
Leon Kennedy is determined to help the new clerk settle in at the RPD. Unfortunately, he has no concept of personal space.
A/N: This is a bit short, but do not worry! I plan on making this 3-5 chapters long. I would have posted sooner, but I almost got wiped out by food poisoning. Also, I accidentally set this during modern day and not the late 90’s, oops. Have fun reading!
Your first week as a front desk clerk at the Raccoon City Police Department had been a rather rainy one. However, the gloomy weather didn't deter you from having a great first week. The job wasn't particularly challenging; your main concern was only to be accurate, concise, and timely, especially when handling reports. Even your co-workers were friendly and patient with you as you settled into your role.
The beautiful building of the RPD was a major plus.
Yet with every job, there was always at least one downside. Yours? Officer Leon S. Kennedy.
When you first arrived after getting the job, Leon was one of the first officers you met. He eagerly gave you a tour of the building and took you to lunch so you could explore all the spots the RPD officers and staff frequented. The two of you bonded over being "rookies" as Leon had been hired a little under three months before you arrived.
Leon was a sweet man, adorable even. You saw how passionate he was about helping others, especially those who were vulnerable in the community. The rookie cop answered every call with enthusiasm, whether it was a noise complaint or a child going missing.
He wanted to help everyone: the community, his coworkers, and most of all, you.
His help was greatly appreciated during the first three days you worked, but now it was getting ridiculous.
"Hey, do you need me to take that?" Leon's voice dragged you out of your thoughts. You had been carrying a box of old reports back to a storage room.
You shook your head, "No, thank you, though. It isn't heavy."
He pouts. "Yeah, but…girls shouldn't have to carry stuff if a guy is around…"
"Don't let Officers Valentine and Chambers hear that," you snort out a small laugh. You can almost feel his eyes roll.
Leon held the door open to the storage room for you. You could feel his gaze on you as you set the box down on a bottom shelf.
"I don't mean it in a sexist way," he said. "I just think you shouldn't have to struggle if I'm around."
You grunt as you stand back up—damn, you feel out of shape—and turn back.
"Oh please, it is just a box. You help me enough by keeping our community safe." Leon blushed when you patted his arm as you walked out of the room.
The sound of his heavy shoes and your kitten heels echoes across the busy hallway. You glanced back at him and did a double-take at how close he was walking behind you. "You know you can walk around me, right?"
"I'm walking you back to your desk," he said nonchalantly.
"I know my way around now. Don't worry about me."
That didn't change his mind, as he continued to walk with you to your desk.
Once settled back in your seat, Leon stood in front of your desk, his chin resting on his hand as he peeked over your station.
"You finally decorated." He noticed your little trinkets and photos of your pet cat and your loved ones.
You hum. "Yes. I did." Your focus was on updating your to-do list.
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Leon's hand reach for the Polaroid photo of your cat. It irked you that he didn't ask to do that, but whatever. "What is its name?"
"His name is Izuku. From an anime." You spoke quietly, looking at your computer screen to check up on emails sent to the RPD.
Leon set the photo back down, "Ah… I don't watch that stuff. He's cute. I've never had a cat. Is he a tabby?"
You nod, watching as he reaches over the desk for another picture.
The chuckles of officers passing by and watching Leon act like a nosy toddler made you want to crawl under your seat.
He spent the next ten minutes asking about your friends and family in the pictures. You wondered if he was this thorough when gathering details for his police reports.
"Leon, don't you need to go on patrol soon or something?" You cut him off before he could reach over for your chibi Levi Ackerman figurine that stood watch over your pens.
He freezes and looks down at you. "Maybe."
You give a tired chuckle, "You should probably get to it then. Wouldn't want to make the lieutenant mad."
"I know, I know," he says, retreating his hand. "Will you be working this weekend? What is your schedule like? Are you always going to work forty-hour weeks? Or are you going to bounce around different hours?"
Meeting his gaze, you answer with annoyance, "You're pushing it with the questions today, Leon. I will always work 9 AM to 5 PM from Monday through Friday. That's my set schedule."
You could have sworn you heard him whine.
"Okay… I will see you on Monday then. Stay safe." Leon hesitantly walks away from the front desk and towards the exit.
With a loud sigh, you sit back in your chair. Glancing over your desk, you lean over to fix the pictures Leon had been messing with. Finally at peace, you allow yourself one minute to close your eyes.
Your alone time was interrupted when the phone rang, reminding you to get back to work. You take a quick sip of water and clear your throat before answering, "This is the Raccoon City Police Department. How may I assist you today?"
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader, featuring Alpine
Authors note: here goes the next entry for the June Jukebox Scribbles event. June 5th - Hey! Baby - Bruce Channel / “I'm gonna make her mine, all mine”
Warnings: none, the fluffiest fluff in all senses
Word Count: 455 (I tried, I really tried. To my defense, originally it had 800 words, so it's already a huge progress 😅)
Summary: what do you think, who's better at getting girls attention: Bucky Barnes or Alpine?
Falling in love at the age of 102 had never been on Bucky's bingo card, but here he was, blushing like an idiot every time you so much as smiled his way. He wanted to tell you. He really did and last night had finally seemed perfect.
A movie night and just the two of you on a couch.
His arm settled across your shoulders. You didn't move away. Perfect.
"There's something I..."
He never got any further.
"Hey, pretty!" you cooed as Alpine suddenly jumped into your lap. "Are you hungry, sweetie?"
The cat meowed, and next moment you were gone, carrying the fluffy menace to the kitchen.
Next morning, Bucky decided he was done waiting. No speeches. No rehearsing.
Just a kiss. Simple. Speaks for itself.
You were alone in the tower kitchen when he walked in.
"Morning," you smiled.
Bucky stepped closer. Your eyes met his. He glanced at your lips and leaned in.
A white blur shot across the counter.
"Alpine!"
Before Bucky could react, you scooped the cat into your arms.
"Morning, sweet girl!" you laughed, covering her face with kisses.
Bucky sighed and reached for a coffee cup.
Later during the day Bucky spotted you alone in the hallway.
"Can we talk?"
"Sure," you smiled.
Bucky drew breath and… Alpine casually trotted into view, dropping a toy mouse at your feet.
Ten minutes later, Bucky was still standing there, watching you enthusiastically play with the cat.
“You really think you can steal my girl?”
Perched on the kitchen counter, Alpine flicked an ear and continued licking her paw.
"Okay, I admit it," Bucky continued. "You've got game."
Alpine paused her grooming to blink at him.
"But that’s not enough. I just need one perfect moment."
The cat resumed washing her paw.
"Yeah, laugh it up, furball. You'll see. I'm gonna make her mine, all mine."
"Who exactly are you planning to make yours?" Came from the doorway.
Bucky’s soul briefly left his body.
"Nobody… I was just having a strategic discussion."
“With a cat?”
Alpine elegantly jumped from the counter and trotted over to rub against your legs.
"Oh, hello, sweetheart," you bent down to scratch behind her ears.
Bucky moved with a speed of a lightning, all supersoldier training concentrated in one desperate lunge.
In one stride he was next to you, scooped up Alpine, caught your wrist with his free hand and pulled you closer.
"I love you," the words burst out before he could overthink them, and then he kissed you.
Summary: You're a hockey reporter who is diabetic. You're in the middle of interviewing the assistant captain, James 'Bucky' Barnes, and end up passing out where you are taken to the hospital from your low blood sugar. When you're released, the assistant captain obsesses over your health and breaks their self-imposed 'no dating colleagues in the league' rule because he can't seem to get you out of his head.
Content warning: Reader is diabetic (I am not diabetic myself but a lot of people I know are so this is my observation of the disease), star assistant hockey captain Bucky with a left arm tattoo sleeve who is obsessed over you, little hockey talk/terms, bff Scott, and FLUFF.
"Ready for the interview?" Your cameraman and sound engineer Scott asked.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
You adjusted the microphone and the lapels of the blazer you wore while steadying yourself. The head coach of the team, Tony Stark came out of the dressing room to speak with the media.
He coached your city's hockey team, The Shield and had just won their second game of the playoffs.
"Mr. Stark." You put your hand up to ask your question.
Tony glanced at the crowd of reporters and rolled his eyes. It was a well-known fact that he hated doing any kind of interview but was always forced to because of his position. Usually, the assistant coach covered for him, but Phil Coulson was still in the locker room, and everyone in the media room was getting restless.
"Ms. Y/ln." Tony pointed to you.
"Yes, thank you coach. Congratulations on your win tonight. How do you prepare the team going into tomorrow night's game knowing you're up two games to none and heading into an environment that is hard to play in?"
"Hydra isn't a team to be taken lightly. They attack the neutral zone strong, their defense is solid, and their fanbase are rabid. We're ready and looking forward to playing there." Tony smirked at you.
You nodded and let the press conference finish.
Once he left the podium, you waited to see what two players the team was going to send out. You adjusted your microphone and looked at Scott who gave you the thumbs up when you saw two players come out and sit at the table.
Steve Rogers, Captain, and James Barnes, assistant captain.
Of course it was them.
The only player in the entire league that made you more nervous than Steve Rogers was James 'Bucky' Barnes. James was always a relentless flirt whenever you interviewed him, having to keep yourself composed and neutral was the hardest part of your job. None of the other guys on the team and in the league for that matter made you stutter, fumble with your microphone, or blush more than him and it annoyed you.
You were a professional and having a star athlete make you nervous was a rookie move.
Seeing them both freshly showered with dripping hair and flushed faces only made your insides contract and face heat while they settled themselves in the chairs. You looked over your questions you wanted to ask and sighed before you raised your hand up.
"Yes?" James winked at you while Steve chuckled.
"How do you prepare for the next two games knowing you're going to be playing in a hostile environment?"
Steve shrugged and said, "We're prepared just fine. Their arena and fans don't bother us one bit."
Steve looked over at James who agreed making the people in the room chuckle.
Cocky bastards.
A few more questions were asked by other reporters when you raised your hand up again.
"Yes?" Steve asked.
"Question for James. You took a puck to the ankle in the 2nd with that nasty slapshot you blocked. Do you have any concerns with it for the next game?"
James glared at you for a brief second before he scoffed and said, "It's all good. Nothing to worry about."
You glanced at one of their trainers who was in the room and he rolled his eyes. You made a note to probe further once the press conference was done.
🏒🍫🍁
"Did you see Y/n sniffing around Parker, asking him about your ankle?" Steve asked Bucky who was putting some things away in his locker.
"No, I didn't."
Bucky side-eyed his friend and captain wondering why he was watching you. Of course you were asking about the puck he blocked, or rather his ankle accidentally getting in front of a slap shot from the point.
His ankle was currently swollen like a balloon and was showing off the colours of the rainbow in which he would need to ice the shit out of it when he got home. Peter and the training staff cautioned him not to mention the injury to anyone.
James smiled to himself.
You had been in the back of his thoughts all god damn season with your shiny hair, expressive eyes, and pretty smile, but you're off limits. He doesn't date reporters or anyone close to the hockey world as he likes to keep that separate from his private life, but you were proving to be a challenge for his self-imposed rule.
"Probably looking at digging up information to expose your weakness to Hydra. Be careful with that one." Steve cautioned making Bucky chuckle.
"It's not fucking espionage Steve, it's hockey. They know I got dinged in the ankle so they may go after me next game. It's payoff hockey." Bucky shrugged, putting a few things in a bag then locking his cubbie in his locker stall.
The team was flying out the following afternoon to Jersey, so he had made sure to give the equipment guys what they needed to pack before he left the arena.
🏒🍫🍁
"You're all packed then?" Scott asked while you lingered in the hallway of the arena.
"Looks like it."
You were looking over your itinerary for the away games you were going to be covering. You stood with a few other reporters and radio announcers while waiting for your bus to the airport. Reporters, media, and team employees usually travelled with the team and for the playoffs, there seemed to be a few more who were along for the trip. You looked at the time and saw you had about 10 minutes before the bus was scheduled to pull up.
"I'm just going to check my blood sugar."
You stepped aside and used your scanner on your arm. The beep of the app sounded, and you looked at the screen and saw it read 5.6.
"Thank god." You mumbled. You had been having a hard time with your sugar levels lately so seeing a normal readout for the first time in a while was a relief.
"Bus is here." Scott announced down the hall.
🏒🍫🍁
You boarded the plane and sat in the front where media had their assigned seats. You watched as the players boarded in their suits; some acknowledged you and some walked by. Even though the league has relaxed their dress code rules, the team still travels wearing suits, something they decided to do as a group.
You had to admit, seeing the players in their suits was the highlight whenever you travelled with them. An even better perk to the job that no one knows about was, once the players boarded the plane, most, if not all, stripped out of their suits and changed into comfy clothes in the middle of the aisle for the flight.
When you first started with the team, you had sat down in your seat, but you forgot your notebook in your carryon, so you got up to get your bag in the overhead bin. You stood and looked to the back of the plane where a few of the guys stood shirtless in the aisle and were changing.
You almost dropped your bag on Scott seeing their toned bare chests and underwear clad bottoms in the aisle. You immediately sat in your seat clutching your bag to your chest with a red face making Scott chuckle at your reaction. He thought it would be funny not to tell you they did that for your first away game.
Yeah, really hilarious Scott, but you're used to it now.
Now, you try not to sneak a peek when the assistant captain shucks off his white dress shirt exposing his tattooed left arm sleeve, then slowly folds it and places it in his bag while making eye contact you the entire time; something he does on every flight.
Like you told yourself countless times before, cocky bastard.
🏒🍫🍁
You watched the practise at the Hydra arena in Jersey with Tony Stark barking plays and line combinations out to the players while they skated. From your observation the team looks dialed in and ready as they skated their drills.
"Y/n?" Wanda Maximoff tapped you on the shoulder.
"Hi Wanda."
She stood next to you with her tablet and cell phone in hand. For being the teams head of PR and social media, she was remarkably always put together.
"I've secured you a one-on-one interview tomorrow after the game. We want it to be fun and playful for our socials"
"Oh? With whom?"
Inside, you were wishing it was ANYONE but James Barnes.
"Barnes."
Crap.
"Sounds good."
You usually liked doing one-non-one interviews with the players but anytime you interview James Barnes one-on-one, it was always challenging for you since he flirted relentlessly with you.
"I'll email you the list of questions later." She tapped on her iPad and then headed down the hall to the dressing room.
🏒🍫🍁
You sat in your hotel room and went over the questions for the one-on-one Wanda had sent. The questions were straight forward, mostly cute personal ones which should be an easy breeze for you to ask. You had a bunch of food in front of you, mainly some juice boxes and chocolate bars seeing as how your blood sugar levels were lower lately.
You had made reminders in your phone to check your blood sugar levels more often for the following day since it was a game day which usually means lots of on-camera reporting and filing reports before, during, and after the game.
Add in the new interview Wanda asked you to do, and it was going to be a long day.
🏒🍫🍁
"You got all your snacks in there?" Scott pointed to your tote bag.
"Think so. I feel good today, so I'm sure I'll be ok. I just want to get my readings back to normal."
Scott knew you were diabetic and was always looking out for you. You had set yourself up for your pre-game coach's interview.
You saw James Barnes saunter down the hall in his workout shorts, flip flops, and long-sleeved black compression top looking mischievous.
"Y/n." He nodded at you.
"Hello." You squeaked out.
He stopped and leaned into you and said, "I'm looking forward to our one-on-one after the game." He flashed a wink at you before disappearing into the players locker room.
Scott chuckled at the face you made because it looked like shock mixed with a grimace and maybe a blush.
"Let's just get this over with." You shook that interaction off, following Scott to the interview room.
🏒🍫🍁
You had jammed a granola bar in your mouth while you went over notes, players, lines, and the pre-interview requests but it wasn't enough.
"Here."
Scott handed you half a turkey sandwich he found in the dressing room, so you managed to eat a little of it.
"Thanks."
You pushed on and did a few sound checks, reports, repositioned the camera, and did a small interview with the radio team on what to expect for the third game in the series, and by the time you had finished, the game was starting.
"You good?" Scott looked over at you, and you shrugged, saying, "I feel fine. Your sandwich helped from earlier. I'll get something after the game."
You hadn't checked your sugar levels, but you felt fine, just as you replied to a few texts from the network and started your game notes.
🏒🍫🍁
"Overtime?" You groaned watching the players from both teams exit the ice surface.
You had almost filed your game report, but Hydra scored with 2 minutes left in regulation, tying it up. Your phone was dinging with new requests for small updates to the sports shows, so you were busy filming a few of those followed by a live interview.
"You, ok?" Scott asked when he heard you groan.
"I think so."
"Let me get you something to eat..."
"There you are." Came a booming voice from behind you.
"Nick." You bravely smiled at the network executive standing in front of you even though you were starting to feel a little funny. Nick Fury owned the network you worked for, so he was technically your boss' boss and anytime he came to a game, he always wanted to meet with the reporters and media.
"Hello sir."
"Y/n. How are things going on the road for you?"
You inwardly cringed at having to stop and chat with him. He was always nice to you, but you never wanted to make him angry; he knew too many people. Scott watched you take a few steps to the side and chat with him while he ordered some food for you.
🏒🍫🍁
"Did I miss anything?" You asked, heading back to your spot after your conversation with Nick Fury.
"Nah, you're just in time." Scott replied, looking around for the food he ordered.
You settled in for the puck drop but Scott got called away by the radio crew needing him to fix something, so you were left alone. The more you watched the overtime, the more you're convinced James is injured since he didn't look like himself on the ice. Every stride and push-off he did on his skates seemed to make him wince more.
Overtime lasted only 9 minutes when Clint Barton ended up knocking in a rebound from Bruce Banner's slapshot, ending the game. The bench cleared while you watched the team celebrate on the ice with boos reigning down from the agitated Hydra crowd.
"Thank god." You said, stomach grumbling while you made you way to the hallway for the post game interviews.
🏒🍫🍁
The team sent out OT goal scorer Clint Barton and Bruce Banner, for their post game interview so you managed to ask them some questions and got your answers you were looking for.
You looked at your watch and that's when it hit you.
"Crap."
"What?" Scott looked over.
"I should eat..."
"Shit, I forgot I ordered food for you, but they must not have dropped it off since I wasn't there..."
"There you are!" Wanda smiled wide.
"Shall we?"
She escorted you to an empty room that had two chairs, a camera, and lighting set up. You had wobbled a little on your feet when you walked with her, telling yourself you were unsteady for it being late.
"I figured we may as well start now." She grasped her iPad tight.
"Right...I was about to go and get..."
"Where do you want me, ladies?" James strolled into the room, looking fresh as a daisy from the grueling game he just played.
Your eyes focused on his ankle, but you didn't see him limping or hobbling. The trainers must be magicians.
"Right here." Wanda pointed to the chair.
"And Y/n will be there." She gestured to the other chair, smiling wide.
"We'll be over there." She waved to the corner of the room where a few more social media people were.
"Right then." You cleared your voice and fumbled with your notes.
You were starting to get a little shaky.
"You, ok?"
James watched you sit but there was something off about you.
"I'm fine James." You plastered on a smile.
"Call me Bucky." He winked at you.
Your vision started blurring but you quickly blinked and the feeling had passed.
Everyone was watching you and waiting for the interview that would quickly be edited so it could get out the following day to the team's social media pages.
You cleared your throat and settled yourself in. From the questions, you figured it would only take you about 30 minutes at the most to get through all of them so you could run and grab something to eat from the restaurant at the hotel lobby before you settled in your room for the night.
🏒🍫🍁
You were listening to James reminisce about some of his playing days on his junior team when you felt your heartbeat start to race and your vision was starting to blur.
Fuck no, not now, please God.
Your shakes were getting worse and the anxious feeling mixed with dizziness had come on strong. You gripped the arm rests of the chair you were on intensely while trying to keep it together.
"So, James...telllll meeeeeeeee..."
You swayed slightly then slumped over, dropping your notes as you went down with the darkness that surrounded your vision.
"Holy shit!" Bucky blurted out.
When he walked into the room, he noticed your face was pale and you were quieter than normal. He figured you were tired from working and the slight time change, but he never thought this would happen. When he first discovered you would be the one to interview him, he was excited because it meant he got to spend more time with you.
Even though he has a self-imposed rule of no dating media or people in the business, he somehow can't seem to get you out of his head. He watched you grimace as you smiled to Wanda before starting the interview and he couldn't help but feel a little defensive thinking you were not excited about interviewing him, but he quickly realised that wasn't the case at all.
Something was off about you.
Bucky looked over at you when he was finished and he saw you sway slightly, but then your face paled then you slumped over mid-question, collapsing in the chair you sat in, notes crashing to the floor. He quickly sprang into action, helping you down to the ground, careful not to injure you.
"What's wrong with her?"
Scott came running into the room and he froze.
"Shit!" He yelled, running towards you.
"Do you know what's wrong?"
"She's diabetic. Probably low blood sugar, which can be dangerous."
He looked you over. The team doctor came running in and assessed you with the paramedics following.
"She's diabetic?" Bucky asked, looking you over.
He held your hand in his while the doctor checked on you. When the doctor lifted your arm, Bucky saw the small round disc attached to the back of your arm. He'd never noticed it before. He looked at your face and he was worried.
You were so pale and you weren't responding well to anything since you were so out of it. The paramedics strapped you to the stretcher, and you were whisked away to the hospital.
"Go with her." Wanda waved to Scott who nodded.
He followed the stretcher, leaving Bucky in the room.
"I'm sure she'll be fine." Wanda patted his arm before she left to answer some calls.
"What hospital is she going to be taken to?" Bucky asked, but no one seemed to know.
He groaned and ran a hand over his face before he ran back to the locker room, grabbing his wallet.
"Where are you off to?" Steve asked.
Bucky replied with, "I'll text you when I get there." Then he was off, typing frantically on his phone for an Uber.
🏒🍫🍁
You smelled the sterile cleaning products and instantly knew you were at the hospital. Your eyes were heavy as you struggled to open them.
"Mmfph..."
You moved slightly but it felt like your limbs weighed triple what they did.
"...Low blood sugar"
"...Dangerous..."
"...Take better care..."
Deep voices and words came in spotty patches while your mind tried to clear itself and wake up.
You moved a little more and wanted to sit up, but your right hand was blocked. You had a hard time moving it.
"...waking up..."
Your eyes fluttered open and the bright sterile room you were in came into view.
"There she is." You heard Scott's voice from your left side.
"Scott?" You mumbled.
Your eyes focused on him while you took in the view. He sat on your left side, his eyes seeming to have dark circles around them.
"You gave us quite the scare."
You blinked a few times, clearing your vision but was squinting.
"Oh, let me turn these lights down a little."
He got up and headed to the door to where a light switch was and flicked it down.
"Thanks."
You smiled at your friend and co-worker. You heard a throat clear on your right, so you looked over and froze, eyes wide.
"Bucky?" You blurted out.
"I'll go and get the doctor..." Scott tapped your side then he left the room.
"Wh-what are..." You tried sitting up but felt weak.
Why is he here?
You looked down at your right hand that he held in his, fingers laced together.
"Shh...here, let me help..."
He let go of your hand and managed to help you sit up a little in the uncomfortable hospital bed you were laying in.
"Better?" He asked, making sure your pillow was fluffed.
"Y-yeah..."
You were still confused on why the assistant captain for the Shield was next to your hospital bed, holding your hand and watching you.
"You scared me." He softly said, moving a strand of your hair from your face.
"H-how...why are you here?"
"We still have to finish our interview silly..." He smiled wide.
"Interview?"
You thought back and that's when it hit you. You passed out when you were in the middle of asking him questions.
"Our interview? Now?"
You were confused and Bucky felt bad for teasing you.
"Just teasing you sweetheart. I wanted to make sure you were ok."
You glanced out the window and found the daylight creeping through the blinds.
"What time is it?"
Bucky looked around and shrugged.
"Around 7:30 am?"
"How long..."
"Hey, hey, shh...the doctor's coming back, he can explain everything."
"You sat at my side?"
"Had nothing else going on."
"Really? You guys won in OT, no bars to visit, or parties to go to and celebrate?"
Bucky shook his head no.
"Playoffs doll. We only have one thing in mind and that's to win the cup. No parties for us until this is all over. Team pact and everything." He stated proudly.
You knew Steve Rogers and him commanded the locker room and whatever they said, the team followed which is why they've been so successful this year.
"Then why are you here? You must be so tired..."
"Surprisingly, this chair is comfortable." He adjusted his large body in it which groaned under his weight making you chuckle.
Scott walked into the room followed by a nurse and the doctor.
"Hello."
"Oh, I should head out. I've got a morning radio session to help with." Scott looked over at you and smiled.
"Glad you're back with us. I'll see you later."
He patted your foot through the blanket and left the room, leaving you there with Bucky and the hospital staff.
"You gave us all quite the scare with that low sugar level."
The doctor seemed to scold you while he was typing on his laptop.
"We managed to correct it and adjust some things, but overall, you're going to be fine. I've already sent your chart to your own doctor, and you have an appointment with them when you get back, but other than that, you should be good to leave here this afternoon."
"Ok." You lamely replied, still confused why Bucky was at your side.
"Good thing your boyfriend was here with you to keep you company."
You looked at the door where Scott was, then over at Bucky who gave you a sheepish smile. "Right, boyfriend."
Bucky reached out and held your hand in his. His very big, calloused hand that felt somehow soft in yours.
"Don't worry, we won't tell anyone. I'll be by in a few to check on you again."
The doctor flashed you a wink then tapped his nose before he left the room with the nurse following.
"I didn't know you were diabetic." Bucky quietly said.
"Yeah, well...surprise." You waved your left hand up and wiggled it like 'jazz hands' making him chuckle.
"So, boyfriend?" You raised your eyebrows up at him.
"It was the only way I could stay with you."
"You could have just left..."
"Pfft, nope. You passed out in front of me so I felt it wouldn't be right if I left you alone."
"Oh, well, thanks."
Your face flushed at his little confession.
"Everyone's going to he happy you're ok."
"Everyone?"
"You gave us all quite the scare back at the arena..."
"Sorry..." You mumbled.
"It's all good." He lifted a shoulder and sighed. "Well, I should head to the hotel to catch a little rest. Coach Stark gave me the morning practise off today."
"Sorry you had to miss that..."
You felt bad Bucky was with you all night.
Bucky squeezed your hand and made sure to get you some water on your side table before he left.
"I'll see you later." He nodded at you then headed towards the door.
An orderly had walked into the room carrying a food tray then left it on your table.
"Make sure you eat that." Bucky pointed to the tray before he left the room, leaving you alone.
🏒🍫🍁
"So, he was with me the whole night?" You asked Scott who had picked you up from the hospital.
"Yup."
"Huh."
"He had gone to two other hospitals before he found where you were. When he came into the room, he was frantic, asking the doctors about your condition and why you were still asleep. Seemed really concerned."
You were shocked.
"He told the staff he was your boyfriend so he could stay with you all night. I was there, but then I left for a few hours. When I returned shortly before you woke, he was sitting at your bed, watching you."
Scott pulled into the covered entranceway to the lobby of the hotel and stopped, helping you out.
"You don't have anything scheduled tonight. Game four is tomorrow and Fury said you don't have to cover it if you aren't feeling it. He can have someone else fill in for you..."
"I'll be there Scott. I feel fine right now. All I want to do is rest a little more, but I should be good to go for the game tomorrow."
Scott looked you over but agreed. Your colour was back and you seemed more alert and focused. Your latest sugar levels were fine from the reading you did at the hospital before you were discharged.
"Ok. Schedule is still the same. The bus will pick us up in the morning. Text me later so I know you're still ok and if you feel funky, let me know and I can get you back to the hospital, so this doesn't happen again."
"I know, and thanks Scott."
"We've upped the food and snacks for you tomorrow so you should be ok."
"I appreciate it." You waved then headed to the bank of elevators to take you to your room. You wanted a shower, to eat something, then you were ready to flop into bed for the rest of the day.
You got into your room and dropped your purse at the door, locking it. You turned and froze, seeing a giant bouquet of red roses sitting on the desk in the room. You walked to it and smiled, smelling one when you took the card and read who it was from.
"Hope you're feeling better. From Fury and associates."
You looked at the bouquet then turned and was startled. On the bedside table was a giant gift basket full of food, snacks, fruit, crackers, and drinks.
"Woah." There was a card taped to the cellophane.
"This should be enough to get you through for tomorrow. Remember to take care of yourself. Bucky. PS – We still have to finish our interview."
You smiled and chuckled, examining the basket of food. Well, between this and the food Scott has ordered, you should be ready to go.
🏒🍫🍁
You worked game four without issue seeing the Shield win and sweep their playoff series with Hydra. Scott had almost over ordered on food and snacks for you and made sure you updated him on your sugar levels which were back to normal thanks to the time you made yourself. You scolded yourself for not taking care of your condition since you have lived with it most of your life.
You did your post game interviews and filed your reports as normal when you saw Bucky walk up to you in the hallway.
"Are you doing, ok?" He asked, his blue eyes searching your face.
"I'm fine, thank you. And thanks for the basket of food. I hope I can get it all packed in my bag to take home with me." You teased making him chuckle.
"Good, I'm glad."
He leaned in close when an equipment manager wheeled a large crate behind you. You were able to smell his cologne from his shower.
"Congrats on the win again." You said before you turned to head to the bus to take you to the terminal.
"See you on the plane." He called after you making you wave over your shoulder.
🏒🍫🍁
"Why aren't you sitting with me?" You asked Scott who was in the row behind you.
"Figured you could lie down and relax for the flight back."
"Scott, I'm fine, really. Maybe a little tired, but I'm feeling good, honestly."
You threw your carryon in the overhead bin. Just as you sat at the window seat, you saw the players board, excited from their win and to get home to their families. You buckled yourself in and waited until everyone was seated, grateful to Scott for giving you some extra room.
You had dreams of stretching out and reading your book, but those thoughts ended when you saw a large body standing in the aisle in your row.
"Bucky?"
"Hey." He said, placing his carryon on the seat next to you.
"What are you doing?"
Players always sit at the back of the plane and only come to the front if they have a question for the medical staff or coaches.
"Sitting here." He shrugged off his black suit jacket.
"But...but why?" You watched as he started slowly unbuttoning his dress shirt.
"Figured, I'd keep you company."
He shook off his shirt exposing his toned chest you always admired and grabbed a black t-shirt from his bag and slipped it on. Once he was set, he placed his bag in the overhead bin and flopped down next to you.
You turned and looked over your shoulder at Scott who hid a chuckle.
"Ok..."
Bucky settled in the seat and did up the seatbelt, leaning over you to look out the window. His shoulder brushed your arm when he did, making you feel his warm body heat.
"Should be a smooth flight." He said, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"Right." You were still frozen in your seat gawking at Bucky, unsure what to say or do with this large hockey player in your space.
No one else seemed to care that he was sitting at the front of the plane, so you just went along with it. As the plane taxied down the runway, then got set for takeoff, Bucky reached for your left hand and held it, lacing your fingers together while the plane lifted off. You didn't dare say anything or move your hand seeing as how it was firmly in his for the entire flight. It felt like you were floating as he held your hand; like you were back in middle school with a crush.
Bucky made sure you were feeling fine, asking you every so often if you were ok, it was almost getting annoying, but you understood his concern. You would be worried if you witnessed someone pass out in front of you, then see them being whisked away to the hospital by an ambulance.
The plane landed and Bucky finally let go of your hand when it came to a stop. He got up and grabbed his carryon as everyone deplaned. You got your suitcase and had ordered an Uber when Bucky came up to you.
"So, you'll be ok then?"
"Yes, I will, thanks. I've got an Uber on the way, so I'll be fine."
You stuffed your phone in your pocket. He watched you carefully, almost like he was committing you to memory then he nodded, seeming to be ok with your answer.
🏒🍫🍁
You finally finished your interview with Bucky, the one where you passed out in the middle of it. Shield had made it into the finals playing against the Commandos and you had been busier than ever.
Your sugar levels were good, and you had no other issues apart from learning how to deal with an over-protective assistant captain who has been constantly checking in on you every chance he gets.
"Bucky, I'm fine, really." You insisted while going over your game notes.
The series was tied with game seven at the Shield arena, when you spied Bucky watching you from the doorway to the locker room like he didn't believe you.
"I'm fine." You assured him with a glare.
"Ok, sheesh, put the knife down doll." He teased, holding up his hands and slipped into the dressing room to prepare for their warm-ups.
"He's been obsessed with you lately." Scott teased.
"Ugh, I know. It's..."
"Cute? Romantic?"
"Crazy." You huffed making your hair flutter around your face.
🏒🍫🍁
"You ok over there?" Steve asked his assistant captain.
"All good."
"Hmm..."
"What?" Bucky glared at his friend.
"You've been obsessing over the reporter lately."
"Have not." Bucky snorted while Steve gave him a look.
"Since she was hospitalized."
"Just making sure she's ok."
Bucky put his shoulder pads on and did up his elbow ones.
"You know I have my rule..."
"Fuck your rule. You're head over heels for her, so why not ask her out?" Steve shook his head at his stubborn friend.
Bucky finished putting on his shin pads and pulled up his socks, all while thinking Steve may be right. He'd been low-key obsessing over you for a while and the hospital visit seemed to put everything in perspective for him.
He only had another year or two left to play out his contract and retire as a member of the Shield, so why not go for it? He's fairly certain you like him back, but would you accept a date with him if he asks you?
🏒🍫🍁
"Holy crap, they won the cup!"
Scott gave you a side hug while the team celebrated on the ice. The fans were going crazy in the stands with the win which only made it louder in the arena for you to concentrate. You watched the team celebrate, hug each other and laugh while the trophy was brought onto the ice.
You had your press pass out and showed it, allowing you on the ice with Scott following. You had gotten a lot of celebratory shots of everyone and a few on-ice interviews from the excited players, when you had Scott get into position while the trophy was going to be presented.
"There." You pointed to a spot next to another news crew who were setting up.
The players were handed their Championship hats while they skated around the ice. Some were holding onto each other, and others were waving to their friends and family in the stands when you felt a body stand behind you.
Scott had a small hand-held camera he had started, getting you candid shots the network's social media team could use.
You turned and smiled wide at Bucky who was sweaty and red from celebrating; his hat on slightly crooked.
You shoved the microphone at him and said, "How do you feel right now?" Which made him smile wide.
"I feel amazing doll." He winked at you.
You froze at his term of endearment he had been using on you lately, unsure how to respond.
"Right, well... We can't use that Scott..."
You looked over at Scott who gave you an eye roll.
"Why not?" Bucky asked.
"Well...I..." You couldn't think of anything to say while he watched you try to find words.
The team was getting into place as the commissioner was heading to the ice to present the team the trophy.
You stood with your microphone, unsure of what else to say when Bucky leaned down and planted a kiss on your lips.
A few catcalls and whoops were heard while his lips devoured yours. You dropped the microphone and grabbed his sweaty jersey, kissing him back.
You finally separated when you saw Steve Rogers whistle and smile wide at the two of you. He placed his arms around your shoulders and said, "Finally!" Before he let go to head to where the trophy was.
You snapped out of it and composed yourself, picking your microphone up from the ice.
"You can edit that out." You said to Scott who shook his head no.
"Actually, we're live." He mouthed making your face pale.
Frig.
"You ok?"
Bucky was suddenly focused on you, seeing you pale.
"Did you eat? How are your sugar levels?"
"I-I'm fine. We're live. That was live. Everyone saw." You mumbled, face turning red.
"Yeah they did." Bucky smiled wide, leaning over to kiss you again.
"Bucky!" You blushed.
"Anything you want to ask me?"
"Uh..."
Your mind was soup at what he did, but you quickly composed yourself.
"What are your plans with the offseason?"
That was the stupidest question to ask you chastised yourself. There would be no way any of the players would be thinking that at this moment in time.
He leaned back, a little caught off guard but he smiled.
"I plan on celebrating the whole night with my team and hopefully you at my side. Then, tomorrow, I plan on taking you out on a date, THEN I plan on volunteering my time with the Diabetes Association in the off-season."
He faced the camera as he spoke.
"Someone important to me has diabetes and I want to help in every way I can."
Your mouth was open in shock before he skated away with a wink and joined Steve where they accepted the trophy. The fans were cheering loud as they watched the team hoist the cup in the air with Scott giving you a thumbs up from behind the camera.
Leon never expected to come home to find you asleep on the kitchen counter.
Yet there you were.
Your head rested on folded arms, a half-finished cup of coffee beside you and a note scribbled on a napkin that simply read:
“Waited for you. Failed.”
A tired laugh escaped him.
After weeks away on a mission, he'd imagined a dramatic reunion. Maybe you'd run into his arms. Maybe he'd finally get one peaceful evening without some new disaster showing up.
Instead, you were drooling on his countertop.
Perfect.
Leon quietly set down his duffel bag and walked over. Even asleep, you looked exhausted. You'd probably stayed up far later than you should have waiting for him.
His chest tightened.
No matter how many monsters he fought or impossible situations he survived, coming home to you always felt unreal.
Carefully, he brushed a strand of hair from your face.
Your nose scrunched.
Then your eyes slowly opened.
For a second you stared at him blankly.
Then—
“Leon?”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You shot upright so fast the coffee nearly spilled.
“Oh my God, you're actually here!”
Before he could answer, you launched yourself at him.
Leon caught you automatically, laughing as your arms wrapped around his neck.
“Missed you too.”
“You were gone forever.”
“It was two weeks.”
“Forever.”
He couldn't argue with that.
You buried your face against his shoulder, and he felt the tension he'd carried for days finally begin to disappear.
Being here.
With you.
Safe.
That was all he wanted.
After a moment, you pulled back and narrowed your eyes.
“You look tired.”
“I am tired.”
“You need food.”
“I just got here.”
“And a shower.”
“You're very bossy for someone who fell asleep waiting.”
You gasped dramatically.
“I was resting my eyes.”
“On the counter?”
“It was strategic.”
Leon laughed again, the sound softer this time.
God, he'd missed this.
Missed you.
Without warning, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
The teasing immediately died on your lips.
Your expression softened.
“So...” you murmured. “You're staying for a while this time?”
Leon wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you closer.
“As long as they'll let me.”
“Good.”
You smiled.
And finally after weeks in hell, Leon Kennedy felt completely at peace.
Because no matter where the job took him, no matter how dangerous the world became—
Summary: Steve discovers that if he plays with your hair for long enough, you will fall asleep on him every single time.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, sleepy affection, domestic intimacy, kissing, touch-starved steve harrington, comfort fic (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 1.2k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
You’re both sprawled across his couch after a movie, the living room lit only by the television and the warm orange lamp beside the window. Rain taps softly against the glass while some terrible late-night advert mutters quietly in the background now that the film’s ended.
You’re tucked against his side beneath one of his old blankets, half talking about something Robin said earlier while Steve absentmindedly plays with your hair.
Not even consciously, really.
Just something his hands started doing at some point during the relationship and never stopped.
Twisting soft strands around his fingers. Scratching lightly against your scalp. Pushing hair back away from your face whenever it falls forward.
Steve likes touching you. This is not exactly new information.
What is new is the fact your voice suddenly cuts off halfway through a sentence.
Steve glances down.
You’re asleep.
Completely asleep.
Mouth slightly parted against his shoulder, breathing slow and even, one hand still loosely curled in the fabric of his t-shirt.
Steve blinks once.
“…seriously?”
You do not respond, mostly because you are unconscious.
Steve stares at you for another few seconds before looking down at his hand still buried in your hair.
Interesting.
The second time it happens, he starts suspecting a pattern.
You’re sitting between his legs on the floor of his bedroom while he half watches a movie over your shoulder and half messes with your hair mindlessly. You’d insisted you weren’t tired less than ten minutes earlier.
“You literally slept till eleven,” Steve reminds you while separating sections of your hair carefully.
“I know,” you mumble. “That’s why I’m not tired.”
“Hm.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“You like me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Steve grins slightly to himself before dragging his nails lightly across your scalp again.
Your shoulders loosen immediately.
Another few minutes pass.
Then, nothing.
No response to his last comment. No movement either.
Steve leans slightly sideways to look at your face properly.
Dead asleep.
Again.
Still sitting upright between his legs.
Steve laughs so suddenly he nearly wakes you back up.
“Oh my god,” he mutters quietly.
By the fourth or fifth occurrence, it becomes less of a coincidence and more of a genuinely ridiculous amount of power for one person to hold.
Especially because Steve starts testing it.
Not maliciously.
Scientifically.
“You’re doing it on purpose now,” you mumble one afternoon, already sounding half asleep despite having argued thirty seconds earlier that you were “definitely awake.”
Steve, stretched out beside you on his bed, continues scratching softly through your hair with an expression of complete innocence.
“Doing what?”
“The hair thing.”
“What hair thing?”
“The…” You frown weakly. “The sleepy thing.”
Steve bites the inside of his cheek hard trying not to laugh.
Because it really is absurd.
You could be fully awake, actively talking, even complaining about not being tired at all, and within ten minutes of Steve touching your hair for long enough you’re suddenly fighting for your life trying to keep your eyes open.
“You’re being dramatic,” he says.
You squint at him suspiciously through obvious exhaustion. “You’re evil.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re like…” Another yawn interrupts you completely. “Like a tranquiliser gun.”
Steve loses it completely at that.
You fall asleep less than five minutes later with your face squashed into his chest while he quietly laughs into your hair.
After that, it becomes sort of unavoidable.
Steve starts noticing all the tiny signs before you even realise you’re tired.
The slower blinking. The way your body gradually gets heavier against him. The increasingly delayed responses during conversations.
And every single time, without fail, the second his fingers slide into your hair properly, you melt.
On the couch.
In bed.
Once in the passenger seat of his car while he waited for Robin to come out of Family Video after locking up.
Another time at the Wheeler’s house with your head in his lap while everyone else argued loudly over a board game around you.
“You cannot be serious,” Dustin says, staring at your sleeping form in disbelief. “How does she keep doing that?”
Steve barely looks up from where he’s still lazily playing with your hair. “Doing what?”
“She was literally talking.”
“Yeah?”
“And now she’s unconscious.”
Steve shrugs like this is completely normal behaviour.
Robin narrows her eyes immediately from the opposite couch.
“Oh, this is definitely psychological.”
Steve scoffs. “What does that even mean?”
“She’s associated you with sleep now.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It absolutely is,” Robin says. “You Pavlov’d your girlfriend.”
“I did not Pavlov my girlfriend.”
“You basically turned yourself into a human melatonin gummy.”
Steve rolls his eyes, but his hand never stops moving gently through your hair.
Mostly because Robin’s not entirely wrong.
There’s something about the trust of it that affects him more than he expects. The fact you fall asleep so easily against him. The way your whole body relaxes the second he touches you softly enough.
Like some part of you recognises him as safe before you even consciously think about it.
That part gets to him a little if he thinks about it too long.
Which is why he tries not to.
Unfortunately for him, you make this extremely difficult one rainy afternoon a few weeks later.
You’re both curled together in his bed while thunder rumbles softly outside, Steve lazily tracing shapes against your scalp while you blink sleepily up at him.
“You know,” you mumble eventually, “I think my body’s accidentally been trained.”
Steve grins immediately. “Finally admitting it?”
“This is your fault.”
“My fault you’re always sleepy?”
“My fault for trusting you enough to fall asleep this much.”
The smile slips slightly from Steve’s face at that.
You notice immediately, even half asleep.
“What?”
Steve looks down at you quietly for a second before shrugging one shoulder.
“Nothing.”
“Steve.”
His fingers slow slightly in your hair.
“It’s just…” He huffs softly through his nose. “I dunno. Kinda nice, I guess.”
Your expression softens immediately.
Because there it is.
The actual thing sitting underneath all the teasing.
Steve likes being trusted.
Likes being needed in these tiny quiet ways that nobody else really notices.
The way you automatically reach for his hand crossing roads. The way you sleep better beside him. The way you unconsciously move closer every time you’re tired.
You shift upwards slightly against his chest until you can kiss him properly.
Steve kisses you back slowly, one hand still tangled gently in your hair.
“I genuinely think this is my favourite thing.”
Your lips twitch.
“Me falling asleep?”
“No.” Steve smiles faintly. “You trusting me enough to.”
Something warm twists painfully through your chest.
You kiss him again before you can think too hard about it.
Steve’s fingers slide slowly through your hair once more afterwards, scratching lightly against your scalp in that familiar absentminded rhythm.
Dangerous.
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You know exactly what.”
Steve looks deeply unconvincing. “I’m just touching your hair.”
“You’re literally weaponising affection.”
Steve starts laughing quietly while you attempt to glare at him through increasingly heavy eyelids.
“You’re already falling asleep,” he says.
“No I’m not.”
“You just blinked for like six seconds.”
“That means nothing.”
Steve grins down at you, still gently combing his fingers through your hair.
“You’re done for, sweetheart.”
You open your mouth to argue.
Then immediately yawn instead.
Steve looks so unbearably pleased with himself that you weakly shove at his chest in protest.
It does absolutely nothing.
Mostly because less than ten minutes later, you’re asleep against him again.
And Steve, unfortunately, looks far too happy about it.
Summary: Steve discovers that if he plays with your hair for long enough, you will fall asleep on him every single time.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, sleepy affection, domestic intimacy, kissing, touch-starved steve harrington, comfort fic (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 1.2k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
You’re both sprawled across his couch after a movie, the living room lit only by the television and the warm orange lamp beside the window. Rain taps softly against the glass while some terrible late-night advert mutters quietly in the background now that the film’s ended.
You’re tucked against his side beneath one of his old blankets, half talking about something Robin said earlier while Steve absentmindedly plays with your hair.
Not even consciously, really.
Just something his hands started doing at some point during the relationship and never stopped.
Twisting soft strands around his fingers. Scratching lightly against your scalp. Pushing hair back away from your face whenever it falls forward.
Steve likes touching you. This is not exactly new information.
What is new is the fact your voice suddenly cuts off halfway through a sentence.
Steve glances down.
You’re asleep.
Completely asleep.
Mouth slightly parted against his shoulder, breathing slow and even, one hand still loosely curled in the fabric of his t-shirt.
Steve blinks once.
“…seriously?”
You do not respond, mostly because you are unconscious.
Steve stares at you for another few seconds before looking down at his hand still buried in your hair.
Interesting.
The second time it happens, he starts suspecting a pattern.
You’re sitting between his legs on the floor of his bedroom while he half watches a movie over your shoulder and half messes with your hair mindlessly. You’d insisted you weren’t tired less than ten minutes earlier.
“You literally slept till eleven,” Steve reminds you while separating sections of your hair carefully.
“I know,” you mumble. “That’s why I’m not tired.”
“Hm.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“You like me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Steve grins slightly to himself before dragging his nails lightly across your scalp again.
Your shoulders loosen immediately.
Another few minutes pass.
Then, nothing.
No response to his last comment. No movement either.
Steve leans slightly sideways to look at your face properly.
Dead asleep.
Again.
Still sitting upright between his legs.
Steve laughs so suddenly he nearly wakes you back up.
“Oh my god,” he mutters quietly.
By the fourth or fifth occurrence, it becomes less of a coincidence and more of a genuinely ridiculous amount of power for one person to hold.
Especially because Steve starts testing it.
Not maliciously.
Scientifically.
“You’re doing it on purpose now,” you mumble one afternoon, already sounding half asleep despite having argued thirty seconds earlier that you were “definitely awake.”
Steve, stretched out beside you on his bed, continues scratching softly through your hair with an expression of complete innocence.
“Doing what?”
“The hair thing.”
“What hair thing?”
“The…” You frown weakly. “The sleepy thing.”
Steve bites the inside of his cheek hard trying not to laugh.
Because it really is absurd.
You could be fully awake, actively talking, even complaining about not being tired at all, and within ten minutes of Steve touching your hair for long enough you’re suddenly fighting for your life trying to keep your eyes open.
“You’re being dramatic,” he says.
You squint at him suspiciously through obvious exhaustion. “You’re evil.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re like…” Another yawn interrupts you completely. “Like a tranquiliser gun.”
Steve loses it completely at that.
You fall asleep less than five minutes later with your face squashed into his chest while he quietly laughs into your hair.
After that, it becomes sort of unavoidable.
Steve starts noticing all the tiny signs before you even realise you’re tired.
The slower blinking. The way your body gradually gets heavier against him. The increasingly delayed responses during conversations.
And every single time, without fail, the second his fingers slide into your hair properly, you melt.
On the couch.
In bed.
Once in the passenger seat of his car while he waited for Robin to come out of Family Video after locking up.
Another time at the Wheeler’s house with your head in his lap while everyone else argued loudly over a board game around you.
“You cannot be serious,” Dustin says, staring at your sleeping form in disbelief. “How does she keep doing that?”
Steve barely looks up from where he’s still lazily playing with your hair. “Doing what?”
“She was literally talking.”
“Yeah?”
“And now she’s unconscious.”
Steve shrugs like this is completely normal behaviour.
Robin narrows her eyes immediately from the opposite couch.
“Oh, this is definitely psychological.”
Steve scoffs. “What does that even mean?”
“She’s associated you with sleep now.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It absolutely is,” Robin says. “You Pavlov’d your girlfriend.”
“I did not Pavlov my girlfriend.”
“You basically turned yourself into a human melatonin gummy.”
Steve rolls his eyes, but his hand never stops moving gently through your hair.
Mostly because Robin’s not entirely wrong.
There’s something about the trust of it that affects him more than he expects. The fact you fall asleep so easily against him. The way your whole body relaxes the second he touches you softly enough.
Like some part of you recognises him as safe before you even consciously think about it.
That part gets to him a little if he thinks about it too long.
Which is why he tries not to.
Unfortunately for him, you make this extremely difficult one rainy afternoon a few weeks later.
You’re both curled together in his bed while thunder rumbles softly outside, Steve lazily tracing shapes against your scalp while you blink sleepily up at him.
“You know,” you mumble eventually, “I think my body’s accidentally been trained.”
Steve grins immediately. “Finally admitting it?”
“This is your fault.”
“My fault you’re always sleepy?”
“My fault for trusting you enough to fall asleep this much.”
The smile slips slightly from Steve’s face at that.
You notice immediately, even half asleep.
“What?”
Steve looks down at you quietly for a second before shrugging one shoulder.
“Nothing.”
“Steve.”
His fingers slow slightly in your hair.
“It’s just…” He huffs softly through his nose. “I dunno. Kinda nice, I guess.”
Your expression softens immediately.
Because there it is.
The actual thing sitting underneath all the teasing.
Steve likes being trusted.
Likes being needed in these tiny quiet ways that nobody else really notices.
The way you automatically reach for his hand crossing roads. The way you sleep better beside him. The way you unconsciously move closer every time you’re tired.
You shift upwards slightly against his chest until you can kiss him properly.
Steve kisses you back slowly, one hand still tangled gently in your hair.
“I genuinely think this is my favourite thing.”
Your lips twitch.
“Me falling asleep?”
“No.” Steve smiles faintly. “You trusting me enough to.”
Something warm twists painfully through your chest.
You kiss him again before you can think too hard about it.
Steve’s fingers slide slowly through your hair once more afterwards, scratching lightly against your scalp in that familiar absentminded rhythm.
Dangerous.
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You know exactly what.”
Steve looks deeply unconvincing. “I’m just touching your hair.”
“You’re literally weaponising affection.”
Steve starts laughing quietly while you attempt to glare at him through increasingly heavy eyelids.
“You’re already falling asleep,” he says.
“No I’m not.”
“You just blinked for like six seconds.”
“That means nothing.”
Steve grins down at you, still gently combing his fingers through your hair.
“You’re done for, sweetheart.”
You open your mouth to argue.
Then immediately yawn instead.
Steve looks so unbearably pleased with himself that you weakly shove at his chest in protest.
It does absolutely nothing.
Mostly because less than ten minutes later, you’re asleep against him again.
And Steve, unfortunately, looks far too happy about it.
desc - growing up, the one dream steve had in life was to have a wife and kids. then he got his heart broken by the only girl he'd ever loved. so fast forward to now, he was utterly hopeless. he no longer believed someone would come around and change his life. did he wish for it? absolutely. when he was out at bars drinking his life away did he sometimes picture being here with someone special? also yes. but, he realised life doesn't always work in his favour. until he met you, that is.
val speaks - AYYY new rm song yk what that means babies !!!!!! a fic loosely based on it! high hopes 3000 has been on absolute repeat and i have my cowboy boots on and everything. anyways i hope u enjoy this !!!!!
word count: 8.6k
steve harrington had spent so much of his life believing that wanting something badly enough would eventually make it real.
when he was younger, it had been easy to imagine the rest of his life as a neat little picture painted in soft colors and warm light.
a house with a porch and a little garden that never quite stayed tidy. a kitchen that always smelled like coffee in the morning and cookies in the afternoon. noisy children running through hallways with scraped knees and bright laughter. a wife who knew him so well she could tell what kind of day he’d had just by looking at him.
a life that felt full.
a life that felt loud in the best possible way.
a life that made the silence in his parents’ house seem like a distant, ugly dream instead of the thing he had grown up inside of.
his parents had always been there, technically. they had paid for the house, the clothes, the school, the kind of life that looked good from the outside if anyone ever bothered to glance their way. but steve had never really felt raised by them so much as maintained. like something expensive that had to be kept in decent condition.
he learned early how to be easy to love in theory and impossible to know in practice. he learned how to smile when people expected it, how to be charming when it suited him, how to become the version of himself that made other people comfortable before he even knew what made him comfortable at all.
so when nancy wheeler came into his life, it had felt like a door cracking open in a locked room.
he had been young, stupid, and desperately in love with the idea of being seen.
maybe that was what made it so dangerous.
maybe that was why he had let himself believe so completely in her, in them, in the future he started building in his head before he had any real proof that it could exist.
he loved her in the loud, awkward, aching way that only teenagers can.
with all the confidence of someone who had never actually been broken before and with all the hope of someone who thought love would fix the emptiness he'd carried around for years.
and for a little while, it had almost been enough.
he imagined her in every version of his future.
the woman beside him at the kitchen counter. the mother of his kids. the person who would finally make the house feel alive. he imagined growing old with her in a way that felt almost sacred, like love was something solid and permanent if you held it tightly enough.
but then the cracks came.
then the lies, the distance, the things unsaid and the things said too late, and suddenly the dream he had been holding in both hands split apart right in front of him.
nancy had broken his heart in a way he never really admitted to anyone, not even to himself, because naming the hurt would've made it real in a way he wasn’t sure he could survive.
so, he boxed it up instead.
shoved it in the back of his mind with all the other things he had never figured out how to say.
he finished high school. barely. he took a shitty job. he let his life narrow into a shape that was easier to manage than hope.
and when the years kept moving and nothing magical happened, steve started to wonder if the dream had died with nancy.
maybe that was what life had decided for him. maybe some people were built for grand love stories and some people were built to watch them from the outside. maybe he was the kind of man who got close to happiness only to be reminded that it was never really meant for him in the first place.
by twenty one, he had learned how to pretend he was fine with it.
he stopped sneaking drinks in sweaty basements and started buying them at bars where the lights were low and the music was loud enough to drown out thoughts if he let it. he bought clothes that fit properly, nice enough to make him look like a guy who had his life together even though he absolutely didn't. he moved out of his parents’ house and into a small apartment that was barely more than four walls and a handful of bad decisions, but it was his.
that mattered more than he liked to admit.
his own furniture, his own dishes, his own front door to close behind him at the end of the day. he should've felt proud of that, and sometimes he almost did.
mostly he felt lonely.
there were nights when he’d come home, keys in hand, shoulders sore from work, and stand in the doorway for a second too long just listening to the silence settle around him.
no television in the background. no soft laughter from another room. no smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom.
just the hum of the fridge, the faint traffic outside and the weight of a life that was technically his and yet still somehow felt unfinished.
-
he still told himself things at bars, of course.
tonight’s the night.
i’m gonna meet someone tonight.
i’m gonna talk to someone tonight.
he said it with enough confidence that he even almost believed it, at least until the moment came and went and he was still alone with his drink, pretending not to notice the couples at the corners of the room. pretending not to notice the girl by the jukebox smiling at some guy who clearly knew exactly what to say. pretending not to notice that he'd become very good at standing in places where something could happen and then leaving before it did.
the worst part was that he wasn’t even sure he was doing anything wrong.
he was trying, he really was.
he was just trying in the way a man tries when he's already started to assume the universe isn't on his side.
that was what made the night you came into his life feel like a mistake at first.
not because you did anything wrong, because you didn’t.
you were just there.
standing in the doorway of a bar he had almost left ten minutes earlier, the cold of the outside air still clinging to your coat, your cheeks faintly pink from the wind.
you looked around like you were deciding whether the place was worth staying in, and for one impossible second steve had the absurd thought that he knew exactly how that felt.
you were carrying a bag over one shoulder and had a look of quiet determination that made you seem like the kind of person who didn’t waste time on things that weren’t worth the trouble.
he noticed that first.
then he noticed the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you scanned the room, the small crease between your brows when the music got too loud, the way your eyes softened when the bartender pointed you toward an open seat.
it was nothing.
it was everything.
it was the sort of ordinary moment that should have passed by without making any kind of impression and yet somehow lodged itself deep under steve’s ribs before he had even told himself to look away.
he did anyway.
or tried to.
you took the stool near the bar instead of one of the crowded tables, set your bag on the empty seat beside you, and ordered something with the kind of calm confidence steve had always secretly admired in people.
he couldn’t hear what you said over the music, but the bartender smiled like you were a regular, or maybe just the sort of person that was easy to like. you took off your coat. you glanced around again. and then, for the briefest second, your eyes landed on him.
steve froze.
not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would have noticed, just enough for his fingers to tighten around his glass and for some old, painfully familiar instinct to flare up inside him.
don’t get caught staring. don’t be obvious. don’t make it weird.
he’d spent enough of his life being the pretty guy at the center of attention to know exactly how dangerous it was to be seen looking like he wanted something.
but you didn’t look away immediately.
you held his gaze for a beat, maybe two, with a kind of unreadable calm that made his stomach twist in a way he absolutely didn't appreciate.
there was no smile. no flirtation. no embarrassment. just a moment of shared awareness, as if you had both quietly registered the other one and decided, for reasons not yet explained, that the moment meant something.
then you looked back down at your drink.
steve should've left it there.
he should've gone on with his night, maybe ordered another beer, maybe pretended the strange little jolt in his chest was nothing more than boredom.
instead, he found himself watching you again and again without meaning to.
not in a creepy way, he told himself. not like that. just… noticing.
noticing the way you spoke to the bartender with your head tilted slightly to the side, the way your expression changed when the song on the jukebox shifted into something older and sadder, the way you seemed both perfectly at ease and a little far away at the same time.
there was something about you that made him think of winter mornings, of warm light, of doors being opened to places he had never quite let himself hope existed.
which was ridiculous.
steve was not the kind of man who believed in signs. not anymore. not after everything.
but there was something almost insulting about how quickly his attention kept returning to you, as if his own mind had decided to betray him on the first night of a random week in a random bar with a random stranger who had absolutely no business looking that interesting.
you stayed in your seat for a while. long enough for steve to tell himself about six different times that he wasn’t going to say anything. long enough for the bartender to slide your drink across the counter and for you to thank them with a small smile. long enough for him to take one more sip and still not decide what to do with the weird, restless feeling building under his skin.
and then the universe, apparently, got bored of watching him suffer in silence.
because someone bumped into the table behind you, and your bag slipped off the seat with a quiet thud that made your head snap down at the exact same time steve moved to catch it before it hit the floor.
his hand got there first.
yours met his over the strap.
for a second, both of you just stared.
then you looked up at him with a kind of startled politeness that made his heart do something embarrassingly stupid.
close up, you were even prettier than he'd already decided, which felt unfair.
he saw the shape of your mouth when it parted slightly in surprise, the faint shimmer of your eyes under the low lights, the little breath you took like you had just been caught off guard by a very small, very human moment.
“sorry” you said, and your voice was softer than he expected.
“no, uh, it’s fine” steve said at the same time. “you good?”
you blinked once, then looked down at the bag in his hand before looking back at him. there was the smallest ghost of a smile at the corner of your mouth, like you found his question slightly ridiculous in a way that was not unkind.
“yeah,” you said. “i think so.”
he nodded like he hadn’t just lost every coherent thought in his brain.
“cool. great. good.”
you laughed then, quietly, and it was the kind of laugh that hit him somewhere deep and unexpected.
it made him smile before he could stop himself, and suddenly the whole thing felt less like fate and more like one accidental step in the wrong direction that somehow landed on the right path anyway.
“thanks” you said, taking the bag from him.
“yeah, no problem.”
you hesitated, one hand still resting lightly on the strap, and something in your expression shifted as if you were deciding whether or not to keep talking.
steve, who had spent years convincing himself he wasn’t the kind of man to hope too quickly, found himself hoping anyway.
“are you here alone?” you asked.
the question was simple. harmless, probably.
it still made his pulse jump.
“yeah,” he said, “i mean, not like- not because i’m weird or anything. just, you know. alone.”
your smile widened a little. “i didn’t say weird.”
“right. yeah. sorry.”
you turned slightly on the stool so you could face him more fully. it was such a small movement, but it changed the air between you. made it feel less like two people near each other by accident and more like something had quietly begun.
“i’m not judging,” you said. “i just noticed.”
“good to know.”
“are you always this charming, or am i just lucky tonight?”
there it was, the opening.
the small, shimmering crack in the wall he had spent years building round himself.
steve should've taken the easy route. should have flirted back the way he had with dozens of people before, should have made some smooth comment and followed it with that lazy smile he knew worked on most people.
instead, what came out was a little more honest than that.
“i’m usually better at it” he admitted.
you gave him a look that was equal parts amused and curious. “better at what?”
he shrugged, suddenly aware of how much he wanted this conversation to keep going. “talking to people.”
“that sounded suspiciously like a lie.” your laugh came again, and this time it was easier, warmer.
he leaned his elbow on the bar and glanced at your drink. “so what are you drinking?”
you told him.
he ordered you another one before you could object.
and when you opened your mouth to protest he raised a hand and said, “please let me have this. i almost died saving your bag.”
“you did not almost die.”
“emotionally, i did.”
that got another laugh out of you, and steve had the completely unreasonable urge to keep making you do that forever.
it scared him a little, how quickly his mind was leaping ahead, how easily some part of him had started imagining a future that hadn't yet earned the right to exist.
but maybe that was the thing about loneliness.
maybe it made even a brief kind smile feel like a promise.
you introduced yourself then, and when he repeated your name under his breath, he felt something shift in him that he didn't have words for.
maybe the first real crack in all that hopelessness he had worn like armour for years.
the bartender set your drink down between you and steve found himself watching your fingers wrap around the glass.
he tried not to stare. tried not to look too eager. tried not to let the night become more than it was. but you kept talking, and he kept answering, and somehow the hours began to peel away around you both like old paint.
you were funny in a dry, unexpected way that made him catch himself smiling when you were speaking.
you asked questions and actually waited for the answers. you didn’t seem impressed by his name, his looks, his usual empty bravado, and that in itself was almost enough to fascinate him completely.
there was no performance in the way you listened. no fake interest. just steady attention, as if he were a person first and a pretty face second, and steve was so unused to that he almost didn’t know what to do with it.
he found out where you worked. he found out you were new to town, which explained why he hadn’t seen you around before. he found out you hated tequila, preferred colder weather to hot, and had a habit of collecting old books from secondhand stores if the covers looked interesting enough.
he told you about the video store. he told you about robin, making you laugh when he described her as “the most annoying genius i’ve ever met.” he told you about family christmases that felt too large and too empty at the same time, about his apartment, about the long, stupid loneliness of adult life that no one warned you about when you were younger.
you listened to all of it without making him feel pathetic for saying it.
that alone should have been enough to make him fall for you a little.
it almost was.
by the time the bar started thinning out and the music changed to something slower, steve had stopped pretending this night was just another night.
he didn’t know what you were looking for. he didn’t know if you were waiting for someone, if you had come here on a whim, if you were the kind of person who flirted with strangers just because you liked the conversation. he didn’t know if there was any chance at all that what he was feeling was mutual.
but when you looked at him, really looked at him, something in your expression told him he was not imagining the way the air seemed to pull tight between you.
and that was terrifying.
because steve had built his life around surviving disappointment.
he knew how to laugh things off. knew how to make the joke first so nobody else could hurt him with it. knew how to leave before he got attached, how to keep things light, how to turn longing into something manageable.
but you were standing there with your hand around a half finished drink, looking at him like he might actually be worth staying for, and all his old defences started to feel flimsy in the face of something he hadn't let himself want in years.
a person.
a real one.
someone kind, someone warm, someone who might sit beside him on the couch in that tiny apartment and make the silence feel less enormous. someone who might laugh at his terrible jokes and know when he was pretending to be okay. someone who might touch his shoulder in passing and make him feel, for the first time in a very long while, like he wasn't built only for being left behind.
the thought hit him so hard it almost made him angry.
not at you, at himself.
at the stupid, aching hope that had survived in him even after he had spent years trying to kill it.
you were saying something then, something about the record store downtown, and he realized he had missed the first half because he had been too busy staring at the shape of your mouth when you spoke.
he cleared his throat, cursed himself silently, and said, “sorry, what was that?”
you tilted your head. “nothing important. just wondering if you were actually listening.”
“i was listening” he said, too quickly.
you looked at him for one long second, then smiled in a way that made him think you didn't entirely believe him but were willing to let it go for now.
“good,” you said. “because i asked if you’d ever been there.”
“the record store?”
“yeah.”
“uh,” steve said, suddenly scrambling for a memory. “probably. maybe. once?”
“that is the least convincing answer possible.”
“i’m aware.”
you laughed again, and he wondered, not for the first time that night, whether you knew what you were doing to him.
whether you could see the way he kept leaning a little closer when you spoke. whether you noticed how careful he was becoming with every word, as if something in him had started to believe that this mattered.
the thing was, it did.
he didn’t know it yet. not fully. not in the way that would eventually settle deep into his bones and refuse to leave. but something about you had already begun to move through him like the first warm air after a long winter.
and maybe, just maybe, that was how it happened.
maybe love arrived like this instead. in a crowded bar on an ordinary night. with a dropped bag and a crooked smile. with a stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger for long. with a man who had spent years convinced that nothing good was ever going to stay and a person who looked at him like staying might be the most natural thing in the world.
steve didn’t know your name was going to become the first thing he thought about in the morning.
didn’t know your laugh would start living in his head like a song he couldn’t turn off.
didn’t know that one day, when he was standing in his empty apartment again, he would remember the warmth of your hand over his and feel something in his chest answer back like it had been waiting all along.
all he knew was that the night was not over.
and for the first time in a very long time, that didn't feel like a threat.
-
it happened so gradually that neither of you really noticed it at first.
one phone call became two.
two became every other night.
every other night became every night.
and suddenly steve couldn't remember what his evenings had looked like before you.
he'd get home from work exhausted, smelling faintly like dust and videotapes and whatever cheap cologne he'd sprayed on that morning, toss his keys onto the counter, kick off his shoes, and before he'd even fully settled onto the couch the phone would ring.
or he'd call you first.
sometimes neither of you had anything particularly important to say.
those ended up being his favorite conversations.
you'd spend hours talking about absolutely nothing.
books you'd found. movies you'd watched. customers that had annoyed you. customers that had made you laugh. memories from childhood. stupid theories about life. things neither of you had ever told anyone else because they seemed too insignificant to matter.
except somehow they mattered now.
steve had never realized how much loneliness could sneak up on a person until it started disappearing.
for years he'd gotten used to silence. he'd gotten used to empty apartments and eating dinner alone and nobody asking how his day was. he'd convinced himself that was adulthood, that everyone eventually stopped expecting more.
but then there was you.
calling him because you'd found a book with a ridiculous title and needed someone to laugh about it with. calling him because you'd gotten lost on the way somewhere and somehow thought steve harrington was the best person to ask for directions. calling him because your shelf was crooked. calling him because you couldn't decide what to make for dinner. calling him because apparently he was now your designated emergency contact for every minor inconvenience in your life.
and god.
he loved it.
he absolutely loved it.
it became the highlight of his day.
there was something embarrassingly satisfying about hearing your voice say his name followed by some variation of, "i need your help."
sometimes he worried it made him sound pathetic.
robin certainly would've said it did.
but steve couldn't help it.
he liked being needed. liked knowing that when something happened, good or bad or completely insignificant, he was one of the people you thought to call.
one evening he'd spent nearly forty minutes helping you assemble a bookshelf over the phone.
forty minutes.
he hadn't even been there.
you'd read the instructions out loud while he attempted to make sense of them.
"okay," you'd said. "so i've got three wooden pieces left."
"how many are there supposed to be?"
"i don't know."
"what do you mean you don't know?"
"i threw the box away."
steve had nearly choked laughing. "you threw the instructions away?"
"they were confusing."
"the instructions are literally the most important part."
"well that's your opinion."
"that's everyone's opinion."
he could still remember sitting alone in his apartment, grinning like an idiot at nothing while listening to you argue with him.
it had hit him then that he hadn't felt lonely once during that entire conversation.
and maybe that shouldn't have felt so monumental. maybe normal people experienced that kind of comfort all the time.
but steve didn't, he never had.
which was probably why he found himself asking increasingly dangerous questions, questions he wasn't sure he wanted answers to.
does love come around or does one come around to it?
he thought about that a lot, late at night mostly.
when the apartment was dark. when your voice wasn't filling the silence. when he was lying awake staring at the ceiling.
because maybe people talked about love all wrong.
maybe it wasn't lightning, maybe it wasn't destiny, maybe it wasn't some magical thing that appeared out of nowhere and knocked you off your feet.
maybe it was this.
slowly finding yourself looking forward to someone's calls. memorising the sound of their laugh without meaning to. learning their coffee order. knowing exactly what kind of mood they were in from a simple hello.
maybe love wasn't something that arrived, maybe it was something you arrived at.
and god.
if that was true.
he thought he was getting dangerously close.
there were still bad nights, of course. steve wasn't suddenly fixed. you weren't some magical cure for years of disappointment and loneliness.
there were nights when he'd sit in the dark and all those old thoughts would creep back in.
nights when he'd remember every failed date, every conversation that went nowhere, every person who'd eventually left.
there were nights when he'd think maybe he was being stupid again. maybe he was building castles out of nothing. maybe he was setting himself up for another heartbreak before anything had even started.
because really, what was this?
you weren't dating, you hadn't talked about feelings, you hadn't kissed.
hell, you hadn't even properly gone out together.
you were friends, just friends. very good friends. friends who talked every single day. friends who occasionally flirted. friends who somehow knew more about each other than people who'd been together for years.
friends.
right.
and then the next day he'd get home from work, the phone would ring, you'd tell him about some weird book you'd found or ask him for help choosing paint colors or call because you'd burned dinner and wanted sympathy.
and suddenly everything would feel okay again.
you had this strange ability to make life seem manageable.
like maybe it wasn't always working against him. like maybe happiness wasn't some exclusive club he'd never been invited into.
sometimes steve would catch himself smiling in public because he'd remembered something you'd said three days ago. sometimes he'd laugh to himself while stocking shelves because he'd thought of a joke you'd appreciate. sometimes robin would stare at him from across the store and look genuinely concerned.
"you're smiling again."
steve looked up.
"what?"
"that weird smile."
"i don't have a weird smile"
robin narrowed her eyes.
"did she call?"
steve immediately looked away which answered the question.
robin groaned.
"oh my god."
"what?"
"you are so gone."
"i am not."
"steve."
"i'm not."
"you literally just smiled at a copy of ghostbusters."
"it's a good movie."
she'd laughed so hard she'd nearly fallen over.
the problem wasn't that steve liked you, he'd accepted that part, the problem was what came next.
asking you out.
every time he considered it, he immediately talked himself out of it.
what if he made things weird? what if you'd only ever seen him as a friend? what if he ruined everything? what if he finally got lucky enough to have you in his life and then managed to lose you all by himself?
that possibility terrified him more than rejection ever could.
because right now?
he had you, maybe not exactly the way he wanted, but he had you.
he was the first person you called when something happened. the person you trusted. the person you reached for.
and selfishly, desperately, he wasn't sure he could risk that.
not yet.
so for now he settled for smaller victories.
baby steps.
movement.
he started calling first sometimes which had taken an embarrassing amount of courage.
the first time he'd done it he'd spent nearly five minutes staring at your number.
just staring.
before finally dialing.
you'd answered on the second ring.
"hello?"
and immediately every thought had vanished from his head.
"uh."
smooth, very smooth.
"steve?"
"yeah."
a pause.
then a smile in your voice.
"did you call me?"
he'd felt ridiculous. "yeah."
"everything okay?"
"yeah."
"then why are you calling?"
steve had opened and closed his mouth.
because honestly?
he hadn't had a reason, he'd just wanted to hear your voice. which sounded far too pathetic to say out loud so he'd settled on the truth adjacent version.
"i saw something funny and thought you'd laugh."
your silence lasted half a second.
then came the softest, warmest laugh.
"okay."
and somehow that had been enough.
because you hadn't questioned it, hadn't made fun of him, hadn't treated it like it was strange, you'd just stayed on the phone with him for three hours.
three whole hours.
and afterward steve had sat alone on his couch staring at the wall with the stupidest smile imaginable.
because for the first time in years, maybe ever, something in his life felt like it was moving forward.
and maybe he still didn't know how to ask you out. maybe his heart still jumped every time you laughed. maybe he still spent half his time wondering whether he was imagining the occasional flirtation between you. maybe he was still scared.
but for once the fear wasn't winning, for once hope was.
and steve had spent so many years without hope that even the smallest amount felt revolutionary.
especially when it sounded so much like your voice on the other end of the phone.
-
the first time you met steve in person outside of the bar, it was supposed to be simple. that was the lie you both told yourselves.
nothing about the two of you ever stayed simple for long.
at first it was little things, the kind that looked harmless from the outside.
he started showing up where you were with the kind of frequency that was easy to excuse. with coffee, a ride, a book he thought you’d like, a spare key he claimed he was only giving you in case of emergencies.
and then one day you went grocery shopping together, because steve had complained loudly and dramatically enough about needing to do it that you offered to come along just to keep him from whining the entire time. he accepted too quickly, which should.ve been a warning.
it was, in retrospect, one of the strangest and most perfect afternoons of his life.
the store should have been boring.
fluorescent lights, crowded aisles, a list tucked into his pocket, the usual dull tasks of adulthood that most people tolerated and nobody romanticized.
but with you beside him, it became something else entirely. you walked too close when the aisle got narrow, bumped your shoulder into his when you thought he was being too serious about brands of cereal, and laughed at him when he stared at the produce like he was personally offended by every lemon in the bin.
“why are you holding the avocado like that?” you asked.
steve glanced down. “like what?”
“like it might bite you.”
“i don’t trust it.”
you laughed so hard you had to stop walking, and he stared at you for a second too long before turning away with a grin he couldn’t hide if he tried. he hated how easy it was for you to turn a stupid errand into a memory. hated it because he loved it too much.
by the time you reached the cereal aisle, he’d already forgotten half the list. by the time you were arguing over which pasta sauce looked less depressing, he’d stopped caring about the list altogether and started caring about the way you leaned your hip against the cart like you belonged there. like you belonged beside him. like it was the most natural thing in the world.
and maybe that was the problem.
because the more time he spent with you, the more his brain betrayed him.
he stopped doing this years ago. stopped imagining girls in his future. stopped picturing dinners and holidays and apartment keys left in a bowl by the door and someone’s laugh spilling out of the bathroom while they got ready for work.
after nancy, he made a quiet little burial ground out of all those thoughts and called it moving on. he convinced himself it was easier not to hope, easier not to attach pictures to people, easier not to let his head wander into places that only ever hurt him.
but with you, the pictures came anyway.
one second you were holding a box of mismatched screws and telling him the instructions made no sense, and the next his mind had already placed you like that permanently. but instead, in his kitchen, years later, barefoot and annoyed and laughing as he tried to assemble something unnecessarily complicated.
it was so vivid it almost made him dizzy.
the first time you came over to his apartment, you took one look around and made a face.
“wow,” you said, setting your bag down. “this place needs help.”
steve blinked. “hello to you too.”
you looked around slowly, taking in the couch, the shelves, the sad little lamp in the corner, the blank walls.
“no, seriously. this place needs help.”
he crossed his arms. “i didn’t invite you here to insult my home.”
“good,” you said. “because i’m not insulting it. i’m saving it.”
“from what?”
“from looking like a single man with unresolved issues lives here.”
he stared at you. “i am a single man with unresolved issues.”
“right.”
he laughed despite himself, already shaking his head, and before he knew it you were opening cabinet doors, asking where the spare nails were, and telling him he needed better curtains.
he should have been offended. instead, he watched you pace around his apartment like you had an opinion about every corner of it and found himself impossibly, stupidly charmed.
and then you started helping.
really helping.
not the fake sort of help people offered when they wanted to feel useful. actual help. sleeves pushed up, hair tucked back, concentration pinching your brow as you tried to figure out what could go where.
you grunted when a piece of furniture refused to cooperate. you muttered under your breath when a screw dropped under the couch. you asked him for a hand without hesitation, like it was the easiest thing in the world to include him in what you were doing.
that part got him every time.
he would have carried boxes for you across town, fixed anything in your apartment, driven across state lines if you’d asked him with that same open trust in your voice. it felt good. better than good, it felt like purpose.
and the terrible thing was that you seemed to know that.
not in a manipulative way, never that, just in the way you noticed things.
in the way you handed him one end of a shelf and smiled like you were quietly offering him something he didn’t know he’d been missing.
the day stretched long and easy between the two of you.
music played low in the background. a chair got moved three times before you both agreed it looked best by the window. he found an old photograph tucked behind a drawer and made fun of himself for it. you laughed. he made you lunch in the middle of the chaos, and you told him his cooking was surprisingly good, which made his chest feel strange in the best way.
by evening, his apartment looked less empty, warmer somehow. not because of the rearrange, though that helped. because of you moving through the rooms like you belonged there.
that was the part that haunted him afterward.
the fact that you made his place feel lived in.
like a home could be made out of ordinary things if the right person was standing beside him.
and then there were the little surprises.
he’d complain offhandedly about something, barely thinking it mattered, and you would show up later with the exact thing he’d mentioned.
a rug, because he’d laughed once and said the one in his living room had a stain on it that probably counted as a permanent resident. you arrived at his door with a rolled-up rug tucked awkwardly under your arm, nearly toppled by the sheer inconvenience of carrying it, and he had to physically catch the thing before it knocked into both of you.
“are you trying to injure yourself on my behalf?” he’d asked, laughing as he helped you lower it to the ground.
you huffed. “it was on sale.”
“you bought me a rug because it was on sale?”
“because you needed a rug.”
“i didn't need a rug that badly.”
“steve, your old one looked like it had survived a war.”
he stared at you, then down at the rug, then back at you. “you spent money on this?”
you lifted your chin, unapologetic. “yes.”
“you didn’t have to do that.”
“i wanted to.”
that was worse. that was always worse.
because steve could handle kindness from strangers. he could even handle affection from people who liked giving it freely. what he didn’t know how to handle was the kind that felt thoughtful. the kind that remembered offhand comments and turned them into actions. the kind that said i listen to you, i notice you, i want your life to be a little better just because i’m in it.
it made his throat tight.
it made his heart feel too big for his ribs.
it made him think, more than once, that he was going to ruin this if he wasn’t careful.
so he kept trying to be careful.
he kept meeting you halfway, kept letting things unfold one small piece at a time, kept pretending he wasn’t completely undone by the way your smile changed when he opened the door.
he kept telling himself he wasn’t ready to ask you out, that the timing had to be right, that he couldn’t risk messing up something this good, that friendship was still better than nothing.
that he should be grateful for what he had.
and then one day, after a hard shift that left him sore and irritated and closer to snapping at a customer than he liked to admit, he came home and found your name on his answering machine.
he stood in the doorway for a second, key still in hand, just listening.
“hey, steve. it’s me. i figured i’d call and see if you were alive. if you are, call me back. if you’re not, haunt someone else. okay, bye.”
his chest ached.
he called you back before he could talk himself out of it.
you answered on the first ring this time.
“hey.”
and there it was again, that impossible steadiness in your voice. not pity. not obligation. just you.
“hey,” he said, sinking onto the couch. “you called just to check if i was dead?”
“mostly.”
he laughed, long and tired and real. “that’s kind of sweet.”
“don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to maintain.”
he smiled at the wall, at the ceiling, at the empty room around him that no longer felt quite so empty when you were on the other end of the line. “you busy?”
“not really.”
“good.”
“good?”
“yeah,” he said, then exhaled and let himself be honest. “i kind of wanted to hear your voice.”
there was a pause.
then your voice came back even gentler. “you can always call.”
it was such a simple thing to say which was probably why it wrecked him.
you had no idea what it did to him when you said things like that. how much hope could fit inside a single sentence. how easily you could make a hard day feel survivable. how every tiny kindness from you seemed to settle into his chest and stay there.
a few nights later, you showed up at his apartment in pajamas with a paper bag in one hand and a small smile on your face.
he opened the door, looked you up and down, and frowned. “are you okay?”
you shrugged one shoulder. “you sounded bad.”
he stared at you. “i sounded bad over the phone and you decided to come over in pajamas.”
“yes.”
“with food?”
“obviously.” you walked past him and into the apartment like it was the most normal thing in the world. “you were having a rough night, and i thought you could use company.”
steve shut the door slowly behind you, heart in his throat, and for a second he couldn’t move. couldn’t think. couldn’t do anything but watch you pull takeout containers from the bag and set them on his coffee table like you belonged there, too.
“you do this on purpose” he said quietly.
you glanced up. “do what?”
“show up and act like you know exactly what i need.”
your expression shifted, just slightly. softer now. “maybe i do.”
he looked at you, really looked at you, and something in him finally cracked clean through.
because this wasn’t luck.
this was you.
showing up. staying. making him feel chosen in ways he’d never been chosen before.
and after enough days and nights of that, enough accidental dates disguised as errands and drive thrus and shared meals, enough of you reaching for him without fear and enough of him falling a little harder every single time, steve finally thought fuck it.
if he waited any longer, he was going to explode.
so he asked you out in the front seat of his car with takeout balanced between you, the engine off, the night quiet around both of you.
he had rehearsed it three different ways and forgotten all of them the second he looked at your face.
you noticed him staring. “what?”
he swallowed.
“i need to ask you something.”
you went still.
he almost panicked.
“okay” you said slowly, but you were smiling a little now, like you already knew where this was going and were trying not to scare him.
steve dragged a hand over his mouth, then let it fall to his lap. “i know this is probably going to come out badly, but i, uh..” he laughed once under his breath, nervous and disbelieving that he was really doing this. “do you want to go on an actual date with me?”
your eyes widened.
for one horrifying second he thought he’d ruined everything.
then you smiled, really smiled. the kind that made the whole world narrow down to just your face in the dim car light.
“yes” you said.
steve blinked. “yes?”
“yes.”
he let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for years. then another. then he laughed, helpless and stunned, and had to lean back in his seat because he genuinely thought he might float out through the roof of the car if he didn’t stay put.
“oh my god.”
you laughed too, delighted now, and he covered his face with one hand like a man trying very hard not to lose his entire mind in front of you.
“that went better than i expected” he admitted.
“you expected me to say no?”
“i expected you to laugh in my face.”
you looked scandalised. “steve.”
“what?”
“i would never.”
he glanced at you through his fingers, smiling despite himself. “you definitely would if you thought i deserved it.”
you pointed at him. “okay, yes, maybe a little. but not about this.”
his heart felt absurdly full.
there were a thousand things he wanted to say after that. a thousand different ways he wanted to tell you how much this meant to him, how much you meant to him, how long he had spent wanting exactly this without daring to reach for it.
instead, because he was still steve and still at least a little terrified of sincerity, he said, “cool.”
you laughed again and nudged his shoulder with yours.
and that was that.
somehow, miraculously, that was that.
-
after that, everything got easier and harder at the same time.
easier because you were no longer pretending. harder because now he had a reason to be afraid of losing you. but mostly it was beautiful in the painfully ordinary way he had once thought only existed in daydreams.
date nights where you ordered two meals and shared because you were both annoyingly indecisive. afternoons spent browsing records, where you’d lean close enough to smell his cologne and he’d forget entire sentences. evenings where you sat on his couch in soft clothes and let the silence rest between you without it feeling empty. mornings where he woke up with your head against his shoulder and had to lie perfectly still because he didn't trust himself not to cry from happiness.
you asked for little.
just enough to let him love you in the ways that came naturally to him.
help carrying things. help with directions. help deciding what to eat. help fixing something small. help choosing between two nearly identical shirts. help with the kind of things that made him feel useful, needed, wanted.
and you asked him on purpose.
“you do that” he said, voice going strange and quiet.
you looked up from the counter. “do what?”
“ask me for things.”
your brow furrowed a little. “i mean, yeah. because i need help sometimes.”
he shook his head, smiling even though his chest hurt. “no, i know. i just.. i know you could do a lot of this stuff yourself.”
you went still, reading the look on his face with a kind of soft intelligence that always made him feel seen right through. “steve.”
he laughed once, shaky and disbelieving. “you do it because you know i like it.”
there was no point trying to hide it from you. not anymore.
you crossed the kitchen slowly and stopped in front of him. your expression had gone warm in that quiet, devastating way it always did when you were being tender. “yeah,” you said. “i do.”
his throat tightened.
“because you deserve to be needed too” you added softly.
that nearly finished him.
he stared at you for a long second, then reached out like he couldn’t help himself and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. you smiled up at him, and he thought, absurdly, that this was what a miracle must feel like.
the gentle, impossible fact of being loved by someone who understood you.
the first time you kissed him, he swears he forgot how to breathe.
it happened at the end of a date that was not technically a date anymore because by then the word didn’t even seem big enough for the way you were together.
the two of you had spent the evening sharing fries, making fun of a bad movie, and arguing over whether a joke in the restaurant had been funny or just deeply stupid.
when he walked you to your door, neither of you seemed in any hurry to say goodnight.
the air between you felt charged with something quiet and inevitable.
you smiled at him from the steps and said his name like you were already halfway to touching him.
“what?” he asked softly.
you looked at his mouth then you stepped closer, and suddenly all the fear, all the years, all the old loneliness that had once lived in him so deeply it felt permanent just fell away.
your hand touched his cheek.
he leaned into it without thinking.
and when you kissed him, it was so gentle it almost hurt. so certain it made every part of him go still.
he felt it down to the marrow of his bones, like the whole world had finally clicked into place and his body had been waiting his entire life for that exact moment.
when you pulled back, he was staring at you like you had performed actual magic.
you laughed softly. “hi.”
he let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and a sigh at the same time. “hi.”
“was that okay?”
he stared at you in horror. “okay?”
“i mean, i just-”
he kissed you again before you could keep apologising for something so perfect.
after that, he stopped pretending he was only dipping a toe into this.
he let himself fall.
freely and completely.
and the worst part, the most beautiful part, was how easy it was.
he realised you were his first real love, and somehow you made that fact feel less like a wound and more like a gift.
you knew him in ways he'd never been known before. not because you were trying to fix him, but because you were paying attention. because you loved the parts of him he'd once thought were too much and not enough all at once. because you looked at his softness and his awkwardness and his need to be useful and his habit of filling silence with jokes, and instead of making him ashamed, you made him feel cherished.
he stopped worrying, mostly, about whether you'd leave.
not because the fear vanished entirely. he was still human. still steve. still someone who had been taught by life to brace for loss.
but because you were there.
because you kept being there.
because one night turned into a week, and a week turned into a month, and before he knew it he was waking up beside you and listening to you talk about your dreams before the sun came up, and it didn’t feel temporary. it felt like home.
that was the thing he had always wanted most.
not a perfect life, not a flawless one, just a life that felt full.
with laughter in the kitchen. with your shoes by his door. with your voice in his ear. with your hand in his. with a future that no longer felt like a blank wall he had to stare at alone.
he still thought about marriage sometimes. still thought about kids. still thought about the little house with the porch and the bright, noisy rooms and the warmth that would come from somewhere deeper than furniture or decor or good luck.
but now those thoughts didn't hurt.
now they glowed.
because he knew. he knew, with the kind of certainty that settled quietly and stayed, that he hadn't been doomed to loneliness after all.
he'd just been waiting for you.
and now that you were his, the world felt different.
steve, who had spent years thinking he was unlovable, was loved instead.
and you loved him so naturally that it rewrote everything.
he wasn't lonely anymore.
not when you were beside him talking his ear off in bed. not when you reached for him in the dark. not when you smiled at him over dinner and asked him to pass the salt.
he once thought high hopes were something that happened to other people.
now he knew better.
now he knew they were something he could have, too.
something he could build. something you had built together, one small choice at a time.
and when he looked at you, really looked at you, he felt it with painful, beautiful clarity.
you were his girl. his whole world.
that was not a dream that hurt to hold, it was real.
Can u write one where steve always acts like he understands wht reader muffled something incoherently in her sleep he goes yh yh or like I know right he just finds her cute and one day reader get to know abt it
Talk Nonsense To Me
Steve Harrington x fem!reader 600 words
warnings: fluff, sleep talking,
You’re mortified at the revelation of you talking in your sleep, luckily Steve thinks it’s the most adorable thing ever
It doesn’t take Steve long to notice. The first time it happens, your head is tucked against his shoulder, resting on his couch during a movie marathon you should’ve been awake for.
“Mff…no, ice cream doesn’t go on pizza…”
Steve blinks, shifting slightly but cautiously in order not to wake you.
“…Yeah, absolutely,” he answers without missing a beat. “The saltiness doesn’t go well with the sweetness.”
You don’t even hear him, just continuing to snore softly and go back to whatever debate you were having. And somehow, it becomes a thing.
Whenever you mumble nonsense in your sleep, Steve always answers like it’s second nature now, like you are having a totally normal back and forth conversation.
“Mmm, blue strawberries…”
Steve nodded, though that food made complete zero sense. “Sounds yummy.”
At first it had just made him laugh, but now it became something he would look forward to. You mostly talked about things you liked, rambling about every topic that filled your dreams.
One night, you were fast asleep while Steve was just listening soundly to your even breaths, holding you close against his own warm body.
“Steve…” you grumble, and Steve reacts with thinking, responding with muscle memory as if you're still awake.
“Yeah, baby?”
“I miss you.” His breath catches, your words catching him off guard. Even in your conscious you still longed for him, and though your physical form remains present, he longed for you even more.
“I’m right here, honey.” Steve whispers into the night, tucking you closer as if to reassure you that he wasn’t going anywhere.
But the only problem is that you don’t remember any of it, and Steve likes to keep that to himself.
It came to an end when Robin crashed your place in the morning, eating the breakfast Steve had made for you as he chatted loudly.
“She told me yesterday that she climbed the Great Wall of China." Steve said, just as you rounded the corner.
You froze in your tracks, he surely couldn’t have been talking about you, could he? “I told you what?”
Steve turned around casually, “what, do you not remember it?” He knew you of course wouldn’t have, but there was no harm in playing around with you a bit as he watched your expression turn more confused by the minute.
After a couple of moments, a horrifying realization spread across your face. “Wait—I had a dream about it.” You said slowly.
Steve grinned wickedly. “Uh huh, and you told me all about it.”
“You’re lying.”
“And apparently you enjoy blue strawberries.”
You cover your face with your hands as Robin bellows over in laughter. “That doesn’t even exist.” You said mortified.
Steve shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself. “According to you, it does.”
“Why have you never told me this?” You sigh.
“Because it’s cute.” He says without hesitation, making you pause.
“Cute?” Robin repeats, still having not recovered from her laughing attack.
“You mumble weird stuff, I answer. It’s our thing.” Steve says like it’s obvious, your cheeks flushing with the thought of all the possible things you could’ve accidentally confessed to in your sleep.
“You guys are sickening.” Robin cuts in, but none of you turn to look at her.
“So every time I talk nonsense, you respond…and you don’t think it’s weird?” You point at him.
“At first—strange, but I’ve gotten used to it.” Steve shook his head, his words coming out fondly.
You suddenly felt a rush of affection towards him, you wouldn’t know how to react if someone started talking to you in their sleep, but Steve hadn’t even mentioned it to you about it until now.
“But I guess my favorite one was when you said you missed me.” He winked slyly.
You immediately groaned, hiding your blush from him. At least he wouldn’t know even your dreams were consumed by the thought of him.
Warnings: ummm pining bucky, friends to pining, frat!bucky
a/n: Hi! I haven't been able to write for some time, so I'm having a drabble spree over the next week or so, writing based on prompts from this list. If you send me a category, I'll pick a prompt!!
This fic was based on this prompt in the Forbidden Love category: "You're the one person I promised myself I would never cross that line with."
____________________________________________
It was sudden, like the split decision to take an exit off the freeway and change your dinner plans. Bucky felt his life shift—just a fraction. Enough to be noticeable, but not enough to throw him off his axis. Maybe it had always been there, maybe it hadn't. But, either way, things felt different. He felt different, sitting in the horridly lit Denny's at two in the morning, his university-branded crewneck dipping off your shoulder as you inhaled a plate of fries.
"God, these are terrible," you moaned, drenching another floppy stick in ranch. "Why did we come here?"
"You begged me to," Bucky threw back, shifting in the booth uncomfortably.
"Tell me no next time."
"That hasn't gone over well, historically."
You snorted and then turned back to your fries.
You had always been a constant in Bucky's life—first in middle school, then high school, and now entering your last year in college. Inseparable was a common term used to describe your relationship, but there was something that separated you, and it had been a more... recent development.
Bucky had joined a frat. A very popular frat. You had not liked the frat, but you put up with it. But then Bucky started sleeping with women, and you put up with that far less, because Bucky started sleeping with... a lot of women. So, it was fair. You kept your distance, made your own friends, and you made time to see each other when you could.
Bucky coveted those times, even if he wouldn't admit to it. Even if each quick dinner, each passing coffee in the dining hall, began to feel like he was falling off a cliff. A very sudden, very steep cliff.
The women were not a distraction at first. He was supposed to have sex with women. That's what guys like him did in college. But, recently, for the past few weeks, they were a distraction. A distraction from you. He couldn't stop thinking about you, and that wasn't the plan.
"Why are you staring off into space like a freak?" you laughed, tossing a fry at his face. It smacked between his eyes.
"I'm not," he argued. "What, a guy can't think anymore? That illegal?"
You puffed out a laugh. "What could you possibly be thinking about?" You shoved the plate away and rested your face in your hands. "The next girl you'll waste the time of? Maybe you're worried that you left one in your bed and now she's going through your underwear drawer."
"Ha. Ha," Bucky mocked. "No, smart ass. I was thinking about what to get you for your birthday, but now, since I'm not allowed to think, I think I'll just forget."
"Not my birthday!" you gasped, hands coming down on the table. "You said you were going to take me to Disneyland."
"I was kidding about that. You actually want to go to Disneyland?"
"Not anymore. Not after you've dangled it in front of my nose like this."
Bucky let out another sarcastic laugh, sliding out of the booth after tossing a few bills on the table. He shrugged his jacket on and held out an expectant hand that you stared at dubiously before taking with a roll of your eyes.
"Yeah, yeah," Bucky droned. "Let's get out of here before your hysterics get us kicked out."
He helped you into your own jacket, lingered with his nose by your temple and greedily took time he wasn't allowed, and then pushed a rough kiss to the side of your head because that was a normal thing to do. He was being normal. His feelings were normal.
You tugged him into the parking lot and blabbed on about Disneyland and terrible fries and looked at him like you always did, and he looked at you like you were holding his entire life in your hands. You didn't seem to notice the difference.
Bucky kept it to himself and pretended he wasn't crossing a line.
A line he swore to himself in that moment—as you flipped on the cabin light in his car and rifled through his glovebox looking for a pack of gum you were adamant you lost in there a month ago—he would never cross with you. He couldn't.
Magpie To Roost - Leon Kennedy x Reader (Fever Saint Part 5)
Summary: You all manage to fight your way out of the cabin, but as it turns out, no one made it out unscathed.
Masterlist | Playlist | AO3 Link
Leon barely manages to shoot the chain in time, sending the gate between you all and the villagers slamming shut with a heavy thunk.
For a moment, the world feels silent. The only noise left is harsh breathing echoing through the cramped passageway. Leon leans heavily against the wooden wall, chest rising hard beneath damp tactical gear, skin burning unpleasantly hot. Somewhere behind the gate, the villagers still scream and pound uselessly against logs.
Beside him, you look worse.
One hand is clamped tightly over your ruined shoulder, blood still slipping steadily between your fingers. Your eyes are squeezed shut now, jaw tight enough to crack teeth apart as you try to breathe through the pain.
Luis takes barely a moment to catch his breath before he’s in front of you, “Let me see-!”
Ashley coughs before he finishes his sentence. Small. Weak. Nobody reacts at first.
Then she coughs again. Wet. Violent.
Leon’s head snaps up immediately.
Ashley doubles over, one hand flying over her mouth as a dark red stain spills between her fingers. The liquid splatters against her honey-colored jacket, thickly dripping down onto the dusty ground. “O-Oh my god-!”
You’re beside her before anyone else can even move, grabbing her hand and tugging it towards yourself. Your face is deadly serious, eyes darkening as you look at the blood. Your voice is strained, “Ashley… How long- How long have you been…?”
Luis is quiet for a moment, observing the scene, before he speaks. “... Is this the first time you’ve coughed up blood like this?”
Ashley nods shakily, still suppressing coughs and wheezes. The man gives a low noise in response.
Leon glares at him, “Do you want to start explaining?”
Your good arm loops around Ashley’s shoulders, patting her bicep as you let her lean on you.
The Spaniard speaks again, “The cough. The blood… It’s caused by something called a ‘plaga’.”
You all spare glances at each other. For a moment, memories run through Leon’s mind. Him, choking on blood in the middle of the lake, his body falling unconscious as blood drained into the dirty water.
His eyes widen in realization, body going still. For a moment, all he can hear is the sound of his own heartbeat. The fever burning beneath his skin. The dizziness. The way his vision had blurred during the fight upstairs. It makes sense in the worst of ways.
“You saw those… People… Out there, right?” Luis chooses his words carefully. “Well, you have the same thing inside you. The same thing that made them like that.” He emphasises his point by gesturing towards the village.
Leon can see Ashley shaking under your arm.
“These symptoms,” The brunette keeps talking, “They’re only the beginning.”
The young girl’s voice trembles, “I- I don’t want to become like them.”
“How do we help her?” Your words are dripping with poison.
Luis gives a dry chuckle. It makes your arm tighten around Ashley.
“You are, well, lucky.” His hands go to the edges of his shirt and jacket, pulling it aside to reveal part of his chest. A jagged scar is visible between his hands, “At this early stage, the parasite - the plaga - it is possible to remove it with the right equipment.”
The blonde man narrows his eyes, “You too?”
Luis steps back, arms coming out wide casually, “No worries,” He moves to tap against his temple, “See, I have a plan. But you’re going to have to trust me.”
Your eyes dart between everyone suspiciously, but Leon puts his hand up, gesturing for you to stay silent. For a second, it looks almost like you want to hit him. But you listen anyway, eyes going back to Ashley.
With a grimace, Leon nods.
“Perfect!” Luis’ smile feels wrong in this environment, “That makes us partners!”
“Hey, why are you-?!” Your words seem to catch his attention. He looks back at you briefly, eyes landing on your wounded shoulder.
“No time for any questions!” He announces, turning away and beginning to walk, “The clock is ticking!”
“Why are you helping us?” Ashley sounds small, her eyes downturned towards the floor.
Luis pauses for a moment, hesitating. Then, “Because it makes me feel better, let’s leave it at that. I’ll contact you later.”
With that, the man walks away, leaving the three of you alone.
.
.
.
Leon doesn’t get a chance to go after the man. Hunnigan’s voice is already crackling into his ear, the static worse than before. Her voice is barely recognizable, marred by the noise.
“Roost to Condor One. Roost to Condor One. I’ve got some bad news.” Leon curses under his breath as she continues, “With the weather like this, the chopper can’t make its approach. Can you stand by until it clears?”
He shakes his head, “Negative. Too dangerous. We need to get out of here and find someplace safe.”
A sigh, “I’m sorry. I can’t do more to help.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll swim home if we have to.”
A small laugh. He can imagine her straightening her glasses. “Any findings on the other agent?”
He finally cracks a small smile. “Affirmative. Injured, but alive. She’s with me.”
He’s about to say more, but your hands stop him, tugging the comm from his ear and pressing it to yours.
“Hey-!”
“Magpie to Roost.” Your voice is tight but steady. “Magpie to Roost. Do you copy?”
You listen for a moment, head tilted. Leon can only imagine that Hunnigan is giving you a quick brief on any intel you had missed.
Then you speak again, faster now. “It’s a puncture laceration to the deltoid. Deep. Sutures failed. Got torn open in the fight.” A sharp inhale through your teeth. “Contaminated. Probably necrotic edges starting.”
Your fingers flex once, as if testing the abilities of your arm. “Local heat, swelling. Fever’s already set in.” A pause. Then, “Systemic infection,” you mutter, pausing to steady your breathing. “Heart rate’s too fast. I’m compensating, but…” Your jaw tightens sharply. “Fuck. Could be early sepsis.”
Leon doesn’t respond right away. The words settle in his chest heavier than they should. He can feel something cold settle into his core.
You speak again, voice rough, “Copy that. Transferring you back to Condor One.”
He takes the comm back from you, pressing it back to his ear. Hunnigan is already speaking.
“Condor One.” Her tone is sharp now, clipped by static. “You need to listen to me.”
“I’m here.”
“Your priority is Baby Eagle,” she says, then immediately adds, voice tightening, “but you need to reduce contamination on that wound immediately. We need to slow progression.”
Leon’s eyes scan the dark edges of the environment automatically, listening, moving, thinking. “What do I need to do?”
“If there’s any clean water available… Boiled, bottled, filtered, anything, flush the wound thoroughly. Do not use untreated surface water.”
A beat of static. His mind is already working. Fire. Heat. Metal containers if he can find them. Enough to improvise sterilization. It won’t be perfect, but better than nothing.
Hunnigan continues, “Are you familiar with wound debridement?”
He stills for a moment, trying to remember what little medical training he’s gotten throughout his career. He’s heard of debridement, yes, but he’s never even seen it, let alone done it.
Her voice is frantic as she hisses out, “Leon, this is important.”
“Shit,” The curse slips out before he can stop himself, “I can do it.”
His eyes scan you. You’re slumped slightly against the wooden wall, Ashley beside you. Though you’re looking at Ashley gently, he can see the delay behind your eyes now. The unfocused haze creeping in around the edges whenever you stop concentrating. The paleness of your face. The way one side of your body is rigid and hot.
He lowers his voice, “I can debride it.”
A sigh of relief, “She has enough experience to walk you through it. I’ll send a chopper once the storm clears. Over and Out.”
He doesn’t even bother repeating the ending. The line clicks dead. For a moment, Leon just stands there with the dead comm pressed against his ear.
Then his jaw tightens. “Alright,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.
The corridor feels colder now. Smaller. Ashley is still tucked against your side, pale beneath the dim light, while you sit slumped against the wall trying very hard to look like you are not actively getting worse. It isn’t working.
Leon crouches in front of you, one knee hitting the dirt floor hard enough to echo. “We need to move.”
Your laugh comes out weak and humorless. “Your observation skills are unmatched as always.”
“You’re burning up.”
“No shit.”
Ashley glances nervously between both of you. “You said ‘debride’. Doesn’t debride mean…?”
Leon’s expression shifts immediately. Tiny. Barely there. But enough. You answer before he can.
“It means cutting dead tissue out of the wound before the infection spreads further.” Your voice stays clinical, detached. Like if you say it professionally enough it somehow becomes less horrifying. “Otherwise the bacteria keeps growing.”
Ashley goes pale. “Oh.”
Leon exhales slowly through his nose before standing again, already scanning the tunnel ahead. “We need somewhere enclosed. Fire. Clean water, if we can get it.”
“And tools,” you add quietly.
His eyes flick back toward you.
The fever is getting worse now. He can tell. Sweat dampens the strands of hair stuck against your forehead despite the cold. Your breathing keeps hitching every couple seconds like your body can’t decide whether it wants to stay conscious or not. Still, you keep talking.
“Knife, preferably.” You swallow hard. “Needle if we restitch. Alcohol if we get lucky.”
“You say that like we’re shopping.”
“I’m trying not to say it like I’m about to throw up.”
Ashley immediately looks more alarmed. Leon rubs a hand down his face. “Great. Fantastic.”
Despite everything, your mouth twitches slightly. Then your expression suddenly tightens. Your hand flies harder against your shoulder as pain lances through you, sharp enough to visibly steal your breath away. Leon catches the movement instantly, stepping forward before you can fold fully into yourself.
“Hey.”
“I’m fine,” you hiss automatically.
“Yeah? Because you look seconds away from meeting God.”
“Not my type.” You wave him off, blood streaking your fingers. By the way you’re swaying, he can imagine that your vision is swimming. Red is still trickling into the dirt.
“C’mon, Rabies,” His tone lowers, hand coming up to your arm, “We gotta get moving.”
Ashley is the first to move. Carefully, hesitantly, she slips out from beneath your arm and steps closer to Leon instead. Like she finally realizes you’re only still standing through pure stubbornness.
“You can lean on me too,” she says quietly.
For a second, something unreadable flashes across your face. Then you snort weakly. “Fantastic. The president’s daughter is rescuing me now. Career highlight.”
“You’re bleeding everywhere…” Ashley mutters.
Your expression, though pained, is still gentle when you look at her, “I’ll be fine, Ashley.”
Leon ignores both of you, already scanning ahead through the environment again. To his right, he can see a tunnel. The wooden passage stretches underground, dimly lit by old torches burning low against the walls. The air smells damp. Mold. Smoke.
But further ahead-
Light.
Fire. Not the out of control orange of a raging burn. No, it’s gentle and warm. Controllable. Candles, with any luck.
“There,” Leon says immediately.
You glance up sluggishly. “Please tell me that’s not more cultists.”
“No chanting yet. Good sign.”
“Debatable.”
Another wave of dizziness visibly hits you mid-sentence. Your hand catches the wall hard enough to scrape skin against boards, splinters embedding in your skin. Leon reaches you before your knees can fully buckle.
This time, you don’t pull away. That catches him off guard more than it should. His arm hooks around your good side automatically, steadying your weight against him. Up close, he can feel the heat rolling off your skin even through the soaked fabric of your clothes. Jesus Christ.
“You’re burning up.” Ashley whimpers.
She’s right. Your body shivers once beneath his grip, before you grit your teeth hard enough to stop it.
“Okay,” Leon says flatly. “That’s officially bad.”
“I gathered that when my shoulder started leaking.”
“Can you stop joking for five seconds?”
“Can you go fuck yourself for five minutes?” The answer comes instantly. Somehow, that worries him more. Your voice sounds weaker now. Thinner around the edges. Like even speaking is taking effort.
Ahead, the warm light grows stronger as the tunnel finally opens into another room. Small. Old stone walls. Wooden shelves lined with dusty supplies. A rusted stove in the corner.
And, most importantly, no villagers.
Leon exhales hard. “Alright. We’re stopping here.”
Your head tilts back against the wall the second he helps you sit down. Not dramatic. Not graceful either. Just exhausted in a way that finally looks human.
Ashley hovers nearby anxiously while Leon immediately starts moving through the room. He tears open cabinets. Drawers. Anything that could be useful.
“C’mon,” he mutters under his breath. “Give me something.”
Behind him, your voice cuts through the silence again. “Leon.”
He turns immediately. You’re watching him through half-lidded eyes now, breathing uneven. “If I pass out-”
“You’re not passing out.”
“Leon.” Something in your tone makes him stop moving. You swallow once before continuing. “If I pass out, do not let Ashley see the wound while you clean it.”
Ashley goes pale instantly. Leon’s jaw tightens.
Somehow, your words sound worse than everything Hunnigan already told him.
Warnings: fluff, married!Leon, whiny Leon, needy Leon, established relationship, tiddies <3
Summary: Leon Kennedy has seen it all: broken bones, las Plagas, gunshot wounds ... but nothing, nothing is worse than the common cold.
a/n: I had a cold recently and I wondered who would be whinier, me or Leon? So I wrote this. I feel like this could be any version of Leon, but I had RE9 Leon in mind because it's the funniest. Special shoutout to @regionaldoubloon <3
Masterlist
word count: 900
The chicken noodle soup was bubbling on the stove and the house was quiet. Too quiet.
Another cough from the bedroom, followed by a pained groan.
Ah, yes. Poor Leon was suffering unimaginable torture.
You rolled your eyes, put the lid on the pot and reduced the heat down to a simmer.
"Baby?" His voice was pathetically thin as he called for you from your bedroom. "Baby, can you come here?"
"In a minute, honey," you yelled back, grabbing a bottle of Tylenol and the other remedies you had gathered to nurse your husband back to health. The same husband that had lived through cracked ribs, several other broken bones and unfathomable horrors multiple times, but for some reason the common cold was what made him want to write his testament.
"Nurse is here," you announced yourself as you walked into the room. The curtains were drawn and Leon was sprawled out on the bed, arm theatrically draped over his eyes. "Do you need me to call the priest?"
"Not yet," he croaked, breaking into a coughing fit.
You sat down on the edge of the bed. "Oh my poor baby," you crooned, gently brushing a sweaty strand of hair out of his face. Leon closed his eyes and leaned into your touch like a stray kitten. “How are you feeling?”
“Terrible,” he whined, sniffling. “I’m all congested, I have a headache, I can’t sleep because I’m coughing so much…”
“I made you chicken noodle soup,” you said.
“Thank you,” he whispered, reaching for you but you leaned back.
“Leon, no. I can’t get sick, too. One of us has to keep this house running,” you said, firmly brushing his hands off your body. He whined again.
“So you’re really going to let me die without a kiss, huh? Wow.”
You chuckled. “You know, for being a tough government agent, you’re being a little bit dramatic right now.”
He groaned, a cough racking through his body again. “That’s just not true,” he insisted, his hands wandering again, slipping under your shirt.
“Leon,” you warned him, opening the bottle of Tylenol. “Here, take these.”
He obliged and you pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead. “Good boy.”
He chuckled and his hands immediately found your breasts, softly squeezing them. “You know, I think it’s actually very beneficial for my recovery to receive a kiss at least every five minutes. And body heat is also very important.”
You tried to lean away from him to prepare what you actually came here for, but no matter how whiny, he was a trained agent with great reflexes after all. Before you could react, he pulled up your shirt and slipped his head under it, burying his face in your chest.
“I thought you had a hard time breathing?” you asked, gently rubbing his shoulders.
“It’s already getting better,” he murmured, his voice muffled by your boobs. You sighed and he pulled your bra down, gently slipping one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking on it.
“Oh my god, you’re just like your son.” You let out a defeated breath. “Only that your son is barely two years old.”
Leon let out a content sigh, as he kept sucking and kneaded your other breast with his free hand. “It’s actually also medically proven that sucking on boobies can help recover from any kind of illness.”
“Leon, stop. That’s for babies. You’re a grown man.”
“So?” he murmured, demonstratively coughing again, looking at you with puppy eyes. He knew full well those were your weakness. Jesus Christ, that man was impossible.
You pushed him off you.
“Here, open wide big boy,” you said, offering him a spoon with an entire clove of garlic covered in honey on it.
“Why do you always have to come in with your witchy shit? Why can’t we just be normal, take a Tylenol and call it a day?” He eyed the spoon in front of him and hissed like a cat.
“Oh?” your eyebrows shot up. “Look who’s already feeling better and obviously doesn’t need any tiddy time. Well in that case…” You faked getting up from the edge of the bed and Leon’s hand shot forward, snatching the spoon from you and pushing it into his mouth.
He grimaced as he chewed. “Happy now?”
“Not quite.” You handed him a glass full of cloudy yellow liquid. “Turmeric ginger shot. It’s good for you.”
He looked at you like you were about to betray him, then knocked back the drink in one go. He shuddered, sticking out his tongue.
“Oh come on,” you mocked him. “Leon shooting-whiskey-like-it’s-nothing Kennedy can’t handle a ginger shot? Are you sure you’re my husband?”
“Don’t ever question that, I love you,” he said, pressing his face back against your chest. “Thank you for taking care of me. You’re my favourite nurse.”
“And you’re my least favourite patient,” you said, not getting very far because Leon pulled you into bed with him.
“Leon,” you yelped, as he moved down, pushed your shirt up and cuddled up to your chest.
“I’m already feeling much better, you know.”
You huffed. “I have to get up to take the chicken soup off the heat.”
Leon shook his head, nuzzling your tits. “No, you don’t.”
hii! I hope ur taking requests right now cause I have an idea ive been thinking about for a little bit... leon kennedy x gn! reader whos like a master at cooking. like they graduated from culinary collage type. mabye leon is just getting back from a mission, driving in the Porsche back home and hes getting restless cause all he wants to do is eat reader's cooking.
thank u in advance if u make it, but its okay if u dont!! :D
In Time For Supper
relationshop: leon kennedy x gn!reader
tags: fluff. that's it. and cooking, because of course!
a/n: wonderful idea, anon! i got carried away with this one, and it ended up longer than expected cause it was so fun to write lol
wc: 1.5k
5:50 PM- you begin prep. You cut chicken, season it with salt and pepper, and turn the oven on. Chilies, onions, and bell peppers are sliced in ribbons, and spices are gathered in small ramekins.
Around 6:10 or so, the chicken needs to be browned on both sides before you cook the onion and bell pepper. The chicken goes in easy, sizzling to a honey-colored finish, and you move it to a separate pan. You add the bell pepper and onion next, and you watch the vegetables soften in the pan, smooth pieces of orange, red, and white blending under the golden kitchen lights. You give the pan a short toss, admiring the glimmer of how the glistening vegetables jump. The smell of caramelized onions and lemon greets you, and when the toss lands perfectly without a drop of oil on your hand, you continue shifting the veggies in the pan with a professional sort of manner.
Music plays as you work. Sometimes it's something pop-like; other times, an upbeat hip-hop rhythm. But tonight you've decided on something golden, like those same overhead lights, so the melodic tunes of soft jazz pour from the Bluetooth speaker attached to your phone.
The best way into a person's heart is through their stomach, which is a quote you live and die by without questioning. Food has a way of bridging the gap between people, a universal language shared by everyone. You've seen the magic it plays, food- you've seen years of tension between families melt with a dish shared during dinners, seen awkward first dates blossom into marriages because of a dining experience that they couldn't help but bond over, seen things like these happen over and over again, each like a bandage that heals. It was what led you to pursue a culinary degree, to work in kitchens all over the world, each place's cuisine better than the last, and ultimately to Leon.
How you met deserves its own story, you like to say shorthandedly when people ask, but all you find important about it is that you're together now. You both met on the job, you can recall- you were working at Le Procope in Paris, and he happened to be there because of a mission- and while it was a rather awkward initiation phase, complete with growing pains and lots of extended, thoughtful discussions with each other, you both ended up here, and wouldn't have it any other way.
At around 6:30, you've layered the chilies, spices, black beans, cherry tomatoes, rice, and chicken in a skillet, already baking in the oven, and are bringing gnocchi to a boil in a small saucepan when your phone rings and the music halts to a stop, pausing your flow.
You check to see who's calling. Leon.
----
"Good evening," your voice pours from his phone's speakers, "Everything alright?"
"Yeah, just peachy," says Leon, and from his phone he can hear the typical sounds of you bustling around the kitchen: pots are being stirred, something sizzling in the pan, music in the background. Even from here, it already loosens the knot that's been building in his chest.
"I'm on my way back now. We finished up here early." This particular mission took way shorter than expected to complete, but even with the early dismissal, he can feel restlessness starting to set in his bones like an itch he can’t scratch. The Porsche's engine is a low growl that thrums a steady tune as he presses the gas pedal, and the scenery outside the car starts to melt into painted blurs of green and brown.
"Oh, that's good," he can hear you murmur, seeming a little distracted. He doesn't have to think that hard to guess that you're probably holding the phone between your shoulder and ear, your hands busy with what unmistakably sounds like dinner prep. "Well, I've got started on supper tonight, if you can't tell already," you say casually, "I'd let you know what I'm working on, but then that'd ruin the surprise."
A truck with bright headlights passes by, and it makes him squint. "I'm sure whatever you're making right now is guaranteed to taste good."
"Well, of course, otherwise you'd be doing all the cooking, God forbid."
Leon has tried to cook with you, or for you, on multiple occasions. Don't get it twisted- he's fairly decent at putting together something that tastes nice, but he can't do it as you do. He can try to recreate the combinations of ingredients, spices, heat, and time you put together into the dish, but somehow it simply doesn't come out the same. You've got him convinced that you can do some kind of magic when it comes to this stuff- you've got the golden ratio of spice assortments filed in your head, or know how things taste without trying it first- either way, he can't help but be impressed. It's just another one of those things that you surprise him with. He can hear the oven beep from your side of the exchange. “Hey, don’t ‘God forbid’ me. I can cook on Friday night. It’ll blow your culinary-school-Michelin-Star mind,” he quips sarcastically.
“Yeeeah, okay. We’ll see about that.” There’s a loud clatter, and he can hear you swear under your breath. “Dropped something. Listen, I’ll call you back, okay? Or actually, no- how close are you to the house right now?”
He checks the GPS on the Porsche’s console screen. Forty minutes. If he tries hard enough, he’s sure he can make it in half that, because jeez, he really is starving. Surviving off of MREs and water for three days does something to a man.
“I’m forty minutes out,” he says. “I can make it in twenty-five, maybe.”
“Unless you have a get out of jail free card after you get your butt thrown into the slammer for going 90 in a 60, then I suggest you cool your jets there, sir,” you warn him carefully. Little do you know, but he’s actually going 110. He’d tell you, just to prove you wrong, but a part of him advises that the earful of scolding isn’t worth it.
He hmms in consideration. “I’ll be as discreet as possible.”
“Discreet, my ass. There’s nothing discreet about driving around in a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car that’s also going twice the speed limit.” You pause. “I’m not bailing you out this time, either.”
He shrugs. “I can pay my own bail.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
There’s an incomprehensible string of angry grumbling from your end of the call, and he can’t help but smile a little to himself.
“If you get arrested for speeding, you’ll completely miss dinner,” you point out.
“I guess so,” he concedes.
“Exactly. So don’t be an idiot, and I’ll see you when you get back home,” you say. “Okay, I have to go now because if I keep calling you I’m bound to burn something to a crisp.” He can hear the kitchen faucet turn on. “Okay, love you. Don’t be too late.”
“See you,” he says, and you hang up. The bite of hunger is starting to sink its teeth into him. Yeah, he’s gotta get back already, screw the traffic management system. He can get away with speeding, he’s sure.
It is around seven o’clock when Leon arrives, which means that he absolutely went way over the speed limit on the route back home, much to your dismay, but regardless, he arrives perfectly in time for dinner.
He pulls into the driveway just as you walk outside to greet him, and when you connect the dots to form the conclusion that he indeed did not follow the law on the journey back, you pinch his side with your forefinger and thumb when he pulls you in for a hug. “I told you not to pull that shit again,” you gripe, but there’s no bite behind your words, and you wrap an arm around him.
He kisses the top of your head. “Can’t miss supper,” he says lightly.
He can smell whatever you’ve cooked wafting in through the room. The kitchen is halfway clean; most of the dirty dishes are contained in the sink, the stove is turned off, with a couple of pots still sitting on the burners. He knows he’ll be put on dish duty afterwards, but he doesn’t mind. It’s only fair, anyway.
“Go wash your hands,” you tell him, giving him a light push towards the sink. “Everything’s all set up in the dining room.”
“You got it, boss,” he replies.
When he enters the dining room, you’re already sitting in the chair opposite to him. “Well, don’t be a stranger,” you say, chin resting on your hand, eyes following him as he takes a seat.
You point to a dish filled with chicken, rice, beans, and other things he can’t quite make out. “Skillet chicken with black beans, rice, and chilies.” You point to a smaller container, “gnocchi gratin,” and to a wooden bowl, “And then some arugula salad with lemon vinaigrette.”
“Damn, you didn’t have to make all of this just for dinner,” he says after a second, and like he usually does, he feels a little guilty for not helping with making it, but you tell him the same thing you always say, and it makes him smile every time.
“Yeah, well, you can make it up to me by cleaning up the kitchen.” You push one of the plates toward him. “Now eat.”
summary: you come back from a mission with leon, furious at how reckless he was, and you spend the next hour following him around headquarters yelling at him. but leon isn’t really listening to the anger—he’s watching how you won’t let him out of your sight, and slowly realizes it was never just anger.
pairings: leon kennedy x reader
RIN'S NOTE: I first came across this idea on tiktok. Her account is @/oglexistar, and I love her sm. She is hilarious. She has a lot going on with her content, so you guys should follow her. While watching this video, all I can think about is Leon, even though her idea is supposed to be Gojo from JJK which is also making me giggle about it too hehe. I hope it was fun for all of you!
【 WC 1.66k 】
The mission had been over for almost an hour.
Unfortunately, your anger had not.
"You are unbelievable."
Leon didn't even look up.
The man had the audacity to be sitting at a workbench in the armory, calmly disassembling his handgun while you followed him around headquarters like an extremely angry shadow.
"You drove a motorcycle through a second-story window."
A click. A magazine dropped into his hand.
"It worked."
"It was insane."
"It was effective."
You stared at the side of his head. Leon Kennedy, apparently, had chosen today to be the most irritating man alive.
"You know what?" you continued. "I don't even know why I bother arguing with you."
"That's a good question."
Your eye twitched. Across the room, another agent wisely decided to leave. Coward.
Leon continued cleaning his weapon as if you weren't standing there mentally preparing several crimes.
The worst part?
He wasn't even trying to defend himself. That somehow made it worse.
"You almost got yourself killed."
"Didn't."
"That's not the point."
"Hm."
That stupid sound. That stupid, knowing sound. You pointed at him immediately.
"Stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"That."
"Very specific."
"Oh my God."
Leon chuckled under his breath. You wanted to throw something at him. Instead, you followed him when he stood. Of course you did.
He moved from the armory to the hallway.
You followed.
“What you did on the mission is unbelievable!”
Then the break room.
You followed.
“How can you be so chill about this?!”
Then his office.
You followed.
“How can you be such a stupid bastard?!”
At this point, it had become less of an argument and more of a lifestyle.
"You know," Leon said as he walked, "most people celebrate after successful missions."
"We almost died."
"We didn't."
"That's not helping."
"It should."
"It doesn't."
Leon opened his office door and let's you in first as he step aside while you keep throwing curses at him.
You marched right past him. Still talking. Still irritated.
Still completely unaware that he was watching you more than he was listening.
You didn't even notice that he open the door for you first before he follows you inside. A gentleman, truly. The door clicked shut behind him. You barely noticed.
"You jumped off a moving vehicle."
"You would've complained if I stayed on it."
"I would've preferred that over watching you launch yourself into traffic."
Leon dropped a folder onto his desk. Then your gun beside it. Cleaned. Maintained. Already put back together.
You hadn't even realized he'd taken it from you earlier.
"You're impossible."
"Probably."
"You never think."
"I do."
"No, you don't."
"I thought about jumping through the window."
"That is the problem!."
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
You hated that grin. Mostly because it always made him look unfairly handsome.
You continued pacing. Around the desk. Past the bookshelf. Back toward the door.
Still talking. Still venting. Still going.
Leon watched for another minute before finally sighing. Long. Patient.
The kind of sigh a man released when he'd finally figured something out.
"Are you done barking, baby?"
The room went silent. You froze mid-step. Slowly. Very slowly. You turned toward him.
"...Excuse me?"
Leon leaned back against his desk. Completely unbothered.
"I was just asking."
"You were just asking?"
"Yeah.”
Your jaw dropped. "What the hell are you talking about?" His expression remained infuriatingly calm.
"I asked a question."
"You called me a dog."
"No."
"Leon."
"I asked if my woman was done barking."
Your brain briefly stopped functioning.
"Your—"
"Yep."
"That is not the issue right now."
"Sure."
"Don't change the subject."
"I'm not."
"We almost failed the mission because of you!"
"And we also completed the mission because of me."
"You son of a—"
The insult died instantly.
Because suddenly Leon was standing right in front of you. One moment he'd been leaning against the desk. The next he'd crossed the room. Close enough that you forgot the rest of your sentence. Close enough that your heart immediately became uncooperative.
The bastard noticed. Of course he noticed.
He noticed everything.
"What's really the problem?"
His voice had changed. Less teasing. Less sarcasm. Still calm. Still steady.
But now there was something underneath it. Something that made it impossible to keep talking in circles.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the fact that you've followed me around headquarters for the last hour."
You folded your arms. Defensive. Leon immediately clocked it.
"I was making a point."
"Hm."
"There you go again."
"Baby."
You groaned. "Don't baby me."
"Sweetheart."
"Worse." A faint smile appeared. Mission accomplished. Then it disappeared just as quickly.
"You checked on me in the armory."
You frowned.
"I was getting my equipment."
"You checked on me in the break room."
"You were making coffee."
"You checked on me in the hallway."
Your jaw tightened. Leon tilted his head slightly. The look in his eyes softened. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough for you to notice. And that somehow made everything worse.
Leon didn’t move away. That was the problem. He stayed right there.
Too close. Too calm. Too aware of everything happening inside your head like it was written on your face.
“You’re not angry,” he said again, quieter this time.
“I am.”
“No.”
You huffed. “I literally just spent an hour yelling at you.”
Leon’s eyes flickered briefly over your face. Like he was studying you. Not in a tactical way. Not like a mission.
In a way that made it impossible to keep your thoughts straight.
“That wasn’t anger,” he said.
You scoffed. “Oh? Then what was it?”
A pause. Then, casually—
“Panic.”
Your breath caught. You immediately hated that word. Hated how easily he said it. Hated that it was correct.
“I don’t panic,” you muttered.
Leon hummed. That low sound again. The one that always made your patience snap.
“You do when I disappear from your sight for more than ten seconds.”
“I was not—”
“You were counting.”
Silence. You froze. Leon tilted his head slightly.
“Armory. Hallway. Break room. Office.”
His voice stayed calm. Unbothered.
“Every time I turned around, you were still there.” Your jaw tightened. “That’s because I was still talking to you.”
“Mhm.”
He stepped half a pace closer. Not enough to trap you. Just enough that your brain stopped cooperating again.
“And every time I stopped talking,” he added, quieter, “you got closer.”
Your heart did something extremely inconvenient.
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
A beat. Then, softer.
“Baby.”
That did it. You exhaled sharply.
“Stop calling me that when I’m mad at you.” Leon’s mouth curved slightly.
“I’m not sure you are.”
Your glare should’ve been lethal. It wasn’t. Because he looked entirely too composed.
Too confident. Like he already knew how this ended. “You’re enjoying this,” you accused.
“Maybe.”
“Leon.”
He leaned slightly against the edge of his desk now. Completely relaxed. Completely unfair.
“I like when you talk to me,” he said. That alone made your brain short-circuit.
“…That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It is.”
“No, I’m— I’m yelling at you.”
“Same thing.”
Your eyes widened. “That is absolutely not the same thing.” Leon’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. So quick you almost thought you imagined it. Almost.
Then he looked back at your eyes. And your entire argument collapsed a little.
“…You’re insufferable,” you muttered.
“Mm.”
A pause. Then he added, casually.
“But you’re still standing here.”
Your breath hitched slightly. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? You could’ve left.
You could’ve stormed out of his office. You didn’t. You stayed.
“You always do that,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”
“Follow me.”
You scoffed. “I do not follow you.”
Leon raised an eyebrow. The look said really?
You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Because unfortunately. He was right. Again.
Leon pushed off the desk slightly.
Now he was closer. Properly close. His voice dropped just enough to make it harder to think.
“Say it then.” Your brows furrowed. “Say what?”
“That you’re just mad.”
A beat.
“And not something else.”
Your throat tightened. You hated him. You really did. Because he was looking at you like he already knew the answer.
Like he was just waiting for you to admit it out loud.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said instead. Leon smiled faintly. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Mm.”
Another step closer. Now there was barely any space left between you. Not enough to back away without it being obvious.
Not enough to breathe properly.
“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “if this is your way of getting my attention…”
“I don’t need your attention.”
That came out too fast. Too sharp. Leon’s smile widened slightly.
“Oh?”
Your silence betrayed you. He noticed immediately. Of course he did. His hand lifted again. Not to touch you fully.
Just enough to adjust your collar. Slow. Deliberate.
Like he had all the time in the world.
“You’ve had it all day, sweetheart.”
Your stomach flipped. Again. Annoyingly.
“And you still followed me around,” he added softly. You glared at him. Weakly.
“That’s not—”
Leon leaned in just slightly. Not enough to kiss you. Not enough to cross the line.
Just enough that his voice brushed against you when he spoke.
“You gonna keep pretending you’re just angry?”
Your breath caught again. Because now he was definitely enjoying this. Absolutely. There was no way he wasn’t.
“Leon…”
“Yeah?”
The way he said your name this time was worse than the pet names. Because it wasn’t teasing.
It was patient. Like he was waiting you out.
Like he knew you’d fold. And worst of all?
He was right. So damn right.
You looked up at him again. And for a second, you forgot what you were even supposed to be mad about.
Which, unfortunately, seemed to be the entire point.
(Dad! Leon Kennedy x Mom! Reader)
Now Playing: Orange Juice, Noah Kahan
0:01 ❍─────── 4:57
Summary: All the times in which Leon is forced to face the fact that his little girl is growing up.
Warnings: Pretty much pure fluff of Leon and his wife raising their very rebellious teenage daughter. Very brief mention of infertility/miscarriage before their daughter was born. Teenage rebellion, daughter is a carbon copy of Leon, swearing, Leon being overprotective. Unedited because I am a lazy loser.
DISCLAIMER: I have absolutely no idea how childbirth/development/etc works. I do not have children and never will, so this is purely second-hand knowledge from my sister-in-law lol. So probably super inaccurate, sorry.
A/N: WOOOHOO 200 FOLLOWER SPECIAL LETS GO BABY! The people asked, and I shall deliver. Enjoy! P.S., The dog being named Spider-Man is a very real snippet from my childhood but it was actually a horse and my parents were NOT thrilled. My older brother thought it was hilarious though so we kept calling him that until they gave up. RIP Spider-Man, you were a wonderful horse.
February 19th, 2008
The scariest thing you and Leon ever did was have your daughter. Two seasoned DSO Agents who had survived BOWs, saved the world multiple times, looked the President of the United States directly in the eyes and shook his hand like he was just another acquaintance. Yet still the scariest person you’d ever met lay in your arms, a tiny four-pound ball of flesh and bone.
You were terrified. Absolutely shitting yourself. And Leon, well, he looked like he just ascended to another level of heaven he didn’t know was possible. He was petrified for nine months straight—didn’t think he could cut it as a dad—but now that she was there in front of him, all his doubts went out the window. Because the moment he looked at those little eyes, he knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her; and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?
Your pregnancy was horrible. You and Leon had been trying for a baby for years by that point, nothing but a long list of positive pregnancy tests that never made it past the first trimester. It was devastating in a primal way you can’t explain; having the one thing you want most in your reach, only to be ripped away from you. Leon struggled too. He’d never admit it to you, preoccupying himself during the day picking up your shattered pieces and gluing them back together. But at night, after he thought you were asleep, he would shy away to his study and cry. You tried to bring it up, only once. That didn’t go very well. It was the only explosive argument the two of you had ever had.
You didn’t find out you were pregnant with your daughter until you were already nine weeks in. Irregularities associated with your infertility were common, so it wasn’t until Leon was cooking your favorite meal and the smell alone made you sick, that you knew something was up.
The two of you didn’t want to get your hopes up when that positive pregnancy test rested on the bathroom vanity, but something felt different that time. Before he could even process, like a man possessed, he got down on his knees and wrapped himself around your waist and pressed a kiss to your stomach. “This one’s gonna stick, baby. I know it,” he whispered, a tear slipping down his cheek. “She’s gonna be beautiful.”
You still don’t know how he was so certain she’d be the one, or that she’d be a girl. Some sort of sixth sense, maybe, but he was right. Maybe they were just that attached from the very start.
The DSO put you on leave immediately, something you had a sneaking suspicion Hunnigan had something to do with. Claire stayed with you on the days Leon was deployed. She never said it, but you knew it was because she was worried it would happen again, and didn’t want you to be alone if it did. Leon called every single day he had cell service, talking to the baby through the phone, “Be good for your mom. Don’t cause any trouble, that’s my job.” Then to you, “I love you so much. You’re doing so well, baby. I’ll be home soon.”
Elena was born on February 19th, 2008, at 35 weeks and 4 lbs., 7oz. Being born premature and underweight meant you’d be staying in the hospital for a few weeks, but you and Leon didn’t care. She was here. She was yours—your Elena.
“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy,” The doctor said. “You’ve got a healthy baby girl. Ten fingers, ten toes. Would you like to hold her?”
You were exhausted, tears streaking your face and hair plastered to your forehead with sweat. Still, you nodded eagerly and stretched your arms outward. Your whole body burned and ached, but all of that disappeared when you held Elena in your arms.
Leon all but collapsed onto his knees beside your bed, letting out a long-held breath that broke into a sob at the end. He pressed his forehead to yours, hushed rambling meant for only you. “I’m so proud of you. She’s beautiful. You did good.”
“She looks just like you,” you beamed.
Oh, how lucky you were. All of that grief and agony was well worth it, as the miniature version of the love of your life looks up at you like you’re her world.
April 2nd, 2011
Leon had been washing the same plate for three minutes now. Not because it was still dirty, but because his attention was anywhere but the sink. Elena raced around the yard like she was training for the Olympics. Anytime he thought she had to be out of energy, she’d run another dozen laps around the perimeter of the house, making ‘whooshing’ noises with her mouth and flapping her wings like a bird. He wondered what was going on in that little head of hers. Your family dog, a German Shepard named Spider-Man—your superhero-obsessed child’s idea, obviously—followed her around like it was his only goal in life.
“You’re hovering,” you told him sweetly.
“I’m observing,” he corrected.
You smiled at his protectiveness, moving to wrap your arms around him from behind. He melted into your touch, his muscles loosening and his breath slowing.
“Nothing’s going to hurt her. Not with Spider-Man out there,”
Leon’s chuckle reverberated through both of your bodies. “Why’d we let her name him that?”
“Because she begged, and you’re a pushover,” you reminded him.
He twisted in your hold, pushing your chests flush. “Only for my girls,” he told you, planting a sweet kiss on your lips.
His girls. God, did you love that, a sweet reminder that you’d succeeded in having your own little family.
Elena was perfect in every way. Beautiful and smart, curious and kind. A carbon copy of her dad, down to the blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. The most perfect in the world, because she’s yours. Your baby girl.
The universe has a funny way of humbling people, and that day was no different.
“DADDY!”
Elena’s wail immediately set Leon off, practically leaping out of his skin to get out the back door. He tripped on the porch stairs on the way down, but his pace never faltered as he rushed into the garden. “Elena? Elena!” he grew louder and more frantic the longer he went without her in his sight, tearing up the grass from moving so fast.
Leon was always your anchor. So when he panicked, so did you. You were both practically ripping the garden apart looking for your daughter until you heard a singular sniffle. You reached out to Leon, gripping his shoulder to get his attention. He looked at you, eyes wide with terror as you motioned for him to listen. The silence was suffocating, nothing but the running sprinkler and the beat of your heart against your ribs.
Another sniffle, coming from the empty shell of the in-ground pool that hadn’t been filled for the summer yet. You rushed to it, a blubbering Elena awaiting rescue and her beloved Spider-Man, sitting right by her side, wagging his tail.
Leon jumped in without hesitation. “Lena,” he cooed, wrapping an arm around her. “What happened?”
“I–I–I–” She hiccuped through tears, unable to form words.
“Hey now, shh. It’s okay. Deep breaths. Remember what we talked about?” he soothed, brushing wet hair out of her face. He took a deep breath, making a show of it, holding it for a few seconds before slowly releasing it.
She said nothing, instead pursing her lips and taking a big breath that made her red cheeks swell. She repeats it a few times, matching his breaths until the shutters subside.
“Good girl. Now, want to tell us what happened?”
“We were playing, and I tripped on that,” she explains, pointing to the drain sticking out of the pool floor. She pulled her capris up enough to show him the scrape on her knee. “I fell real good.”
She said it with such a pout that you had to stifle a laugh. “Well, that just won’t do. Might be broken, I’m not sure,” Leon smiled, scooping her up into his arms. He climbed out of the pool using the steps on the opposite side, which is probably how she got down there in the first place. Spider-Man follows on his heels. “We’ll have to get you into emergency surgery. Now I’m no doctor, but I’ll see what I can do,” he’s teasing her at that point, something he loved to do because she took everything he said to heart. You follow them into the bathroom, watching Leon set your daughter on the toilet seat. He rolls her pant leg up the rest of the way, observing the scrape with faux intensity.
He shook his head solemnly. “This is bad, ma’am. We’re going to have to cut it off.”
“WHAT?!” Elena wailed.
“Leon!” You scolded, but you couldn’t help but laugh. You smothered it with your hand and bent down to be eye-level with her. “He’s kidding, Lena.” You kissed her head.
She humphed and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re mean,” she told Leon.
He raised his eyebrows, shaking his head. “Now, that’s no way to talk to someone who saved your life,” he joked. He reached into the medicine cabinet for a box of Band-Aids. “Now, what did we tell you about the pool?”
Realizing she’s been caught, she deflated, going mute.
“Elena,” you encouraged warily.
“Don’t go near the pool without Mommy, Daddy, Uncle Chris or Aunt Claire. Ever,” she recited the rule you gave her. You were so incredibly nervous about buying a house with a pool. You’d heard the horror stories, so you drilled into Elena’s head that she was absolutely not allowed to go near it without an adult.
“Even if?” Leon emphasized.
She let out an annoyed huff. “Even if it’s empty.”
“That’s right,” he said, unwrapping the bandage. “Now do you understand why?” he quirked a brow, awaiting her answer.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Good,” he replied simply, pasting a red and blue Band-Aid onto her scraped knee. “A Spider-Man one, for your bravery,” he ruffled up her hair. “Our little superhero.”
August 23rd, 2013
“Maybe we can hold her back for another year,” Leon suggested, arms folded across his chest.
“Leon,” you deadpanned, zipping up her backpack.
“What.” He said flatly, raising his arms defensively.
“It’s Kindergarten. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“She could get bullied,” he shrugged.
You stopped dead in your tracks. “Your child? Be bullied? Right,” you snort. “Leon. She thinks that showing people pressure-point takedowns is a party trick. If anything, they’ll be afraid of her.”
He simpered in his disapproval for a moment. “It is a party trick.”
You groaned and rubbed your temple. Good God, your child’s never going to have any friends. Is it too late to homeschool? Would that be worse?
“Daddy!” Elena squealed, skipping the last stair as she leaped off the staircase to reach him quicker and show him her new dress you’d picked out together. Your heart damn near dropped onto the floor, but Leon was there, like he always was, to catch her.
“Look at you!” he gushed as they twirled around. He placed her on his hip, looking at her seriously. “You better be good for Mommy today, yeah?”
Elena nodded enthusiastically. Your whole body was swarmed with the feeling of love just watching them interact.
“Good. Can’t have the boss upset, y’know.” He joked, setting her down beside you. You snorted, handing Elena her Spider-Man-themed backpack from the countertop. You checked the Dutch braid you’d carefully done in her hair one last time before ushering her towards the front door.
Leon had to go to work, which left you alone to take your daughter to school. You tried to be brave, smiled the whole way to the front door, but the moment you were alone in your car, the tears slipped through. Not because you were all that sad. No, this was different. Happy tears, maybe? Proud, of course. Perhaps a little afraid, because going to school meant your baby girl was growing up.
This is good for her, you reminded yourself. She needs to interact with other kids.
You watched the clock the entire day. Didn’t get an ounce of work done, not mission reports, not house chores. No. You sat, for six whole hours, in front of the clock hanging above the kitchen doorway. 1:45 PM came, and you were already outside the school’s front door, counting the brick columns to keep your brain busy. You glanced at your watch. Only three minutes had passed.
Son of a bitch.
Is this what being a helicopter parent feels like?
Mercifully, the bell finally rang. Kids flooded out the glass doors in waves, but your eyes were locked on that sparkly pink dress. She walked out of the school with another girl in tow. You called out to her, waving to get her attention. Her bewildered expression flipped like a switch as she dragged the other girl towards you.
You crouched to eye level, soothing the unruly strands sticking out of her braid. “Hey, Love, who do you have here?”
“This is Amelia, and she’s my best friend.” Your daughter said simply.
You held in your laugh because, of course, it’s that simple for five-year-olds. You were just happy she had a friend at all. “Is that so?” you smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, Amelia. My name is Y/N.”
September 10th, 2021
It was an average, quiet evening in your household. You leisurely chopped vegetables at the counter while you waited for the soup on the stove to reach a boil. You occasionally glanced out the window, watching the yellowing leaves drift from the trees outside your house and onto the grass. Autumn had set in early this year, sweeping away the remnants of summer within mere days. Not that you minded.
Carefully, you swept the chopped vegetables into the pot, wiping your hands on your already dirty skirt. As if on cue, two pairs of footsteps came thumping down the stairs.
"Mom!" Elena called, springing off the final steps of the staircase and making your heart leap in the process. Amelia followed her like a shadow across the house. Since that fateful first day in Kindergarten, the girls hadn’t spent a single day apart. On weekdays, Amelia stayed at your house, since your family had a rule about staying away from home on school nights. On weekends, Elena was allowed to spend the night at Amelia’s.
"Stop that, you're going to break your ankles," you scolded the girls as they entered the kitchen too fast, socked feet slipping against the hardwood floor. They almost barreled into you as you turned to pull the rolls you were baking out of the oven, but missed you by just an inch.
"Do we have any Kool-Aid?" Elena asked, trying to seem inconspicuous.
Your first mistake was trusting her. Your daughter loved Kool-Aid, maybe to a concerning level. Nevertheless, this addiction to the sugary beverage didn't make you think twice about nodding and pointing to the snack cupboard. "Don't put too much sugar in that. You've both got school in the morning, and I don't need you bouncing off the walls."
"Yes, Mom!" Elena squealed, climbing the countertop to reach the snack cabinet.
"You got it, Mom!" Amelia added.
The appearance of the girls left a quiet warmth blooming in your chest. Elena was your one and only child. You were never able to give her a sibling, as much as you tried, and a part of you always felt guilty for the loneliness. You’re thankful for Amelia, the girl you’d adopted into your little family, she was just as much your daughter as Elena at this point, and Elena didn’t have to grow up alone.
You were so busy with dinner, you didn't notice that the girls snuck away with the Kool-Aid packet without the necessary supplies; no pitcher, no water, no sugar. Just the packet and spoon. Suspicious, of course, but you weren't paying attention.
Imagine your surprise when you go to fetch the girls for dinner, just as Leon's Porsche pulls into the driveway. You climb the carpet stairs, hand brushing along the cream walls as you inch closer to your daughter's bedroom. Your eyebrows furrowed when you heard hushed, panicked whispers from the other side of the door.
Trying to respect your daughter's privacy, you knocked instead of barreling in like you wanted to.
She ripped the door open all too quickly, like she was expecting you, wearing a sweatshirt with the hood tightened as much as possible around her head.
You quirked a brow. "Cold?" you bluffed. You knew damn well she was hiding something under there.
"Yup." She popped the 'p' and rocked on the balls of her feet. That's when your brain started to spiral. Is she wearing a crop top she'd borrowed from a friend again? A hickey? Fuck, you hope not. She's thirteen.
"Mhmm," you hummed casually. "Dinner's ready, and your dad's home. Time to come down."
She nodded, shutting the door before you could get another word in. You groaned. A part of you was frustrated by the secrecy, but you remember what it was like being a teenage girl. Always tired, always arguing with one friend or another, trying not to fail school when you couldn't care less to do any of the work. Miserable. It's miserable. So you give your daughter some grace, because some battles are really not worth adding to it all.
Leon was waiting for you when you made it back downstairs, loosening his tie. He immediately brightened when he saw you. "Hey, gorgeous," he breathed, opening his arms to you.
You hooked your arms around his shoulders, burying your head into his chest. "Hey, handsome," you smiled.
"Where are the girls?" he knows Amelia is here without having to ask.
"Upstairs. Up to no good, I'm sure."
"Hmm." His hum reverberates through his chest, making you dig yourself deeper into his embrace. He chuckled, planting a kiss to the crown of your head, then your temple, then your cheek. A calloused hand softly brushed your chin, lifting it so you're looking at him. When your lips meet--just like every time you kiss--it feels like the first time. He's gentle with you in a way no one could ever predict. This hardened, seasoned Agent, all but putty in your hands, for you and you alone. His rough lips danced against your soft ones, and the rest of the world disappeared. No more work, no more household chores or grocery shopping or taking Elena to swim practice. Just you and your husband.
You carded your fingers through his hair, drawing him impossibly closer to you, your chests flush. Just as he deepened the kiss and slipped his tongue through your lips, a sound startled you.
Elena made a dramatic gagging noise. "Ugh, love. Gross!"
“I think it’s cute,” Amelia sang.
“Those are my parents, Melia. It’s icky,”
Leon wrapped a thick arm around your waist. “Icky, huh? You know how you were made, right?”
“Oh my God, shut up!” she squealed, and you shoved Leon for his brashness. He laughed.
The girls brushed past, and still your daughter kept her hood up. Once they had their backs turned to the two of you, Leon gestured around his own head, a question of your daughter’s strange behavior. You shrugged.
Elena had been acting peculiar lately. Everything was fine on the surface: her grades remained high, her swim performance spectacular, her assigned chores timely done. She was a disciplined child, you and Leon made sure of it. Her responsibility was not lost upon the two of you, so you respected her the way she respected the two of you. She had freedoms—a list of dos and don’ts, of course—but for the most part, she was a tactile decision maker. Though lately, you’d noticed things. She swapped out the pink dresses for ripped skinny jeans and band t-shirts, only wore the darkest colors out of the nail polish set you’d gifted her, and you even caught her getting into your makeup a couple times. She began asking to go out more, hang out with friends after school. When you would pick her up, you noticed it was always a park or diner and never someone’s house.
You tried not to worry, and wanted to trust your daughter. After all, she’d never given you a reason not to. You chalked it up to simply getting older. Leon was a tougher nut to crack than yourself, though. In his eyes, she was still that little girl he’d plastered hundreds of Spider-Man Band-Aids on. As he grew older every year he seemed to expect her not to, like she wasn’t supposed to grow up at all. That’s the unfortunate part about parenthood, you reconciled, is that no matter what you do, they’ll always grow up.
You sat at the dinner table, the air heavy. Leon and you sat across from your daughter and Amelia, eating mostly in silence. It was unusual, Elena was usually a talker at dinner, especially when Leon was home. She’s such a daddy’s girl, cataloging all the things she wants to tell him until he returns from wherever the DSO sends him. That night, however, she was silent, a particular glint in her eyes. Guilt.
Leon stood abruptly, clearing his throat. Without a word, he crossed the kitchen to the thermostat on the wall. He cranked the heat all the way up. He sat back down next to you, a shiteating grin on his face. You side-eyed him questioningly, and he shifted in his seat. “‘M getting cold.”
Bullshit. Absolute, total bullshit. You knew so because as long as you’ve known Leon, he has always run hot.
Elena squirms uncomfortably in her sweater, and immediately you catch on. He’s baiting her to take it off. Her father has caught onto the fact she’s hiding something, and he’d like her to reveal it willingly rather than him forcing it.
The unfortunate thing about your daughter being just like your husband, though, is that she inherited his stubbornness. Leon stared down his mini-me across the table, piercing blue eyes clashing. They even had the same scowl. If you weren’t so uncomfortably hot, you’d have laughed.
“Dad–” she started.
“What’s under your hood, Lena?”
“I’m just cold,” she pouted.
“You’re sweating,” he countered.
“Maybe I’m getting sick?”
“Hmph.” Leon hummed, taking a bite out of a dinner roll.
Elena had stopped eating entirely, instead focusing all her energy on not looking uncomfortable, which she was failing at.
“You,” Leon turned his focus to Amelia. Not mean, just stern. Firm.
“Yes?”
“You gonna talk? Or do you wanna go down for her crimes, too?”
“I—I—Uh,” Amelia stammered.
You covered your mouth with your hand, doing your best to look serious. In all honesty, you really loved when Leon went all ‘serious dad mode’ on the girls. Maybe you liked it a little too much.
“Melia I swear to God if you say anything I’ll tell Connor about your crush on him,” your daughter snapped, making you straighten up.
“Hey, that’s not nice!” You scolded, clenching your fists to ease yourself.
Leon let out an annoyed huff, standing so fast his chair scratched against the hardwood. He rounded the table at breakneck speed, ripping the hood off your daughter’s head before he could be stopped.
There, the big secret was revealed to all. Elena’s once beautiful blonde hair that perfectly matched her father’s, now stained a splotchy pink. It looked like what it was, which was an awful at-home job done by a thirteen year old.
“What in the hell?!” Leon gasped.
Elena’s face was beet red. “It’s Kool-Aid, it’ll wash out!”
“Elena Claire Kennedy. I don’t care if it’s fucking chalk. Why is your hair pink?!”
“It’s trendy!” she defended.
Leon rubbed both hands down his face before turning to you. “You hear that, babe? It’s trendy. That means it’s okay,” he huffed before turning back to her. “You are grounded, young lady. Until college or death, whichever I decide.”
“WHAT?!”
That’s when you decide it was time to step in. You and Leon have an agreement to try not to overrule each other when it comes to discipline, as to stand in a united front for your daughter, but you felt things had gotten out of control. You stood slowly, composed. “Elena, go to your room. I will come talk to you in a minute,”
“Am I in trouble?” she pouted.
You pursed your lips. “We will talk. Go.” you emphasized the last word sternly. Very rarely did you use that tone with her, so she immediately high-tailed it up to her room. As for Amelia, well, your daughter isn’t permitted sleepovers when she’s grounded, so you called Amelia’s mother to come pick her up.
Once you were down to one child, you soothed your hands over Leon’s heaving shoulders, letting him rant his frustrations out to you. “Pink. Her hair is pink,” he groans, shaking his head. “She’s thirteen. What’s next, makeup?” You tried real hard to suppress the look on your face, truly did, but he caught it anyway. He clutched his chest painfully. “What?! Already?! Oh God. I think I’m having a stroke.”
You couldn’t help but laugh. “Leon. She’s a teenager,” you shook your head. “Remember the kind of shit we got up to as kids? Be grateful she isn’t like that,” you remind him.
“God. Don’t even bring that up. I think I’ll actually have a stroke,” he grumbled.
You kissed his chin. “I think you need to calm down. I’ll handle this one. It’s more of a girl thing anyway,”
“Girl thing?” he quirked a brow.
“Self expression,” you explained. “How about… I take her to the salon tomorrow? Have my hairdresser get that Kool-Aid out of her hair… and maybe—if we think she’s ready—we can talk about a couple highlights instead?”
“Hmm…” he trailed off, unsure.
“At some point, we’ve got to let her grow up a little bit,” you informed him.
You remember being a teenage girl. Everything changes so fast and it feels so overwhelming, so why not allow her a bit of self-expression?
He clenched his jaw. “I don’t think I’m ready for that,” he admits.
“I know, but no matter what, she’s always gonna be your baby girl. You know that,” you whispered, digging your face into the crook of his neck and squeezing him tight. He held you like that for a while, silence occupied by the occasional sway back and forth of your bodies.
“...a couple highlights,” he relented finally. “If she comes back with a head of pink hair she’s going bald.” that last part was a joke, you know he’d never do anything like that, but you shoved him playfully anyway. You sent him away to the garage to blow off steam working on his bike while you went to talk to Elena.
You knocked once to let her know you’re coming before entering. She was on her bed, stomach down and sketching something on a notebook. You stopped a few feet in front of her, enough distance to not suffocate but close enough where she couldn’t ignore you.
“Mom,” she said, looking up at you.
“Elena,” you said flatly. For a moment, the two of you sat suspended in tense silence, staring at each other. After letting her sit in discomfort for a bit, you smile. “You took five years off your father’s life tonight, you know that?”
Her deep frown flipped upside down, and she laughed. You joined her, the sound of laughter filling her bedroom just like it did when she was younger. You crouched in front of her, smiling softly. “Why didn’t you tell us you wanted to change the way you look?”
She sighed at that, hanging her head. “You’re always saying how much you love that I look like Dad and… I don’t know. I didn’t want him to think that’s why I wanted to change how I look,”
Your shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, but she caught it. Observant, just like her dad. “Lena. We will love you no matter what, you know that. If you want to dye your hair, okay. But we expect honesty, and you were not honest. So for that, you’re in trouble.”
She pursed her lips, nodding. “Grounded ‘till college?”
You squinted in thought. “Hmm. Maybe just ‘till high school. We’ll see what Dad has to say once he’s cooled off a bit,” you leaned forward, kissing her forehead. “We will go to the salon tomorrow and fix your hair. And maybe afterward, we will go to the beauty store and get you some makeup, so you can leave mine alone,” you teased.
Her face went pale. “Y-You know about that?”
You cocked your head. “My dear. I worked for the United States Government for a whole decade before I had you. Trust me, there’s not a thing that goes on in this house that I don’t figure out.”
April 17th, 2024
When Elena told you and Leon that she’d been asked to prom, the happiest smile ever on her face, you were overjoyed. Leon was happy, somewhat. Of course he was, his baby girl was smiling. However, there was a problem. The person who asked her to prom. Not just anyone. A boy.
A boy! Taking his child on a dinner date and then prom! His only child, his daughter, his sweet baby Elena. He tried to remind himself that she’s not a baby anymore, and that hurt somewhere deep in his chest.
He didn’t know what to do with that ache, didn’t know where to place it. So instead he ignored it, replacing it with aggression as he sat patiently by the front door. He pulled an arm chair from the living room into the foyer, leaning back in it just enough to show off the pistol strapped to his belt.
His girls were upstairs. You, Amelia, and Elena, elbow deep in makeup and hairspray.
A knock on the door. He straightened immediately, ignoring the cracking in his back. He’s getting too old for this shit. Grunting, he swung the door open to meet his opponent. There, clad in a perfectly pressed tuxedo, stood a trembling young man with big brown eyes and curly hair. He held a bouquet of pale pink peonies, the same color as Elena’s selected dress.
“G–Good mor–I mean, evening, Sir. You must be Mr. Kennedy,” the poor boy could barely get the words out, hands shaking as he reached out to shake Leon’s hand.
So maybe Leon squeezed the kid’s hand a little too hard, yanked him inside the home like he owed the family money. Maybe he wanted to freak him out, just a little bit. The boys sat in the foyer, the distant laughter of the girls dancing down the staircase.
“I’ve uh… I have heard so much about you, Mr. Kennedy. When Lena told me who her dad was, I almost couldn’t believe it,” he squeaked out.
Leon hummed. “So you know I kill people for a living?”
“A-And save people, sometimes! You did save the President’s daughter, after all,” the boy chuckles.
Leon glares. “What’s your name, kid?”
“C-Cameron,”
“Okay, Cameron,” Leon grumbled, leaning close, still shoulder-to-shoulder with the boy. Instinctually, Cameron leaned in to listen. “If you don’t have my daughter home by midnight, I will hunt you down and kill you myself.”
Cameron audibly gulped.
Leon straightened back up, staring forward at the staircase like nothing had happened. “Do we understand each other?”
“Y-Yes, Sir.”
Leon was wholly unprepared for when Elena finally emerged. He’d seen her dressed up for family events and dinners, sure, and the occasional funeral. This was another beast entirely, however, because she truly looked like a young woman. Not the little girl who scraped her knee or named her dog Spider-Man. Not the rebellious kid who dyed her hair with Kool-Aid. No, the girl that stood before him, the one he swore would stay little forever, looked so grown up. Made worse only by you excitedly trampling down the stairs, squeezing Elena’s shoulders from behind.
“Doesn’t she look beautiful?” you asked him and goddammit, you were right.
Leon swore he wasn’t going to cry. He was a big fucking liar. “You look beautiful, baby girl,” he breathed shakily, pulling her into a big hug. There, consolidated by confidence between himself and his daughter, he whispered, “y’look so grown up. Gonna make your old man cry.”
Elena pouted, pulling away only a bit to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Daddy.” she grinned. Under that makeup, he could still see her. That little girl. Maybe she’d just always be that to him.
“I hear you’re going to dinner,” You chimed in.
This made Leon’s grip tighten on his daughter. “Where?” he asked her.
“That new fancy Italian place downtown,” Elena beamed.
Leon raised a brow at the teenage boy. “And how’d you manage to afford that?”
“Saved up from my job, Sir,” Cameron answered too quickly for Leon’s liking.
“And where is that?”
“Leon.” you scolded.
“Maurey’s Diner, Sir. I’m a dishwasher.”
“So if I dug into it, I could confirm you work there?”
Cameron, sensing the challenge, straightened his posture. “Yes, sir.”
“Okay then. What’s your social security number?”
“Leon!” You squealed, coming to his side and squeezing his arm before looking at the boy apologetically. “Don’t answer that,” you lean in to kiss Elena’s cheek and then Amelia’s. “Have fun, kids. Stay out of trouble.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy.”
“See you later, mom!” Amelia skipped.
“Bye, Mama!” Elena called.
And then the door shut and the house was plunged into silence. You still clung to Leon, more for comfort now. Your head drifted to his shoulder, laying there sleepily. You thought about Elena: her good grades and her spunky attitude, the swim captain uniform hanging in her bedroom, the streaks of pink still in her blonde hair, the small group of wonderful friends she’d acquired over the years.
“We did good,” you murmured, sleepiness overtaking you.
Leon relaxed at that, kissing the top of your head. “Yeah,” he agreed, relaxing. “We did good.”
