Mentioning a Date to Dad's BF! Leon Kennedy
A/N: dadsbestfriend! Dadsbestfriend! Dadsbestfriend! 😘🥰
WC: 1.7k
Summary: While helping prepare for a family dinner party, you casually tell Leon about an upcoming date you have with a man around his age
You and Leon somehow got recruited by your parents to help them prepare for another dinner party.
After all, he's your dad's best friend and you're their daughter; who else would be more convenient?
The two of you are alone in the kitchen. You're chopping vegetables, Leon is basting a bird and then putting it back in the oven.
Every loud chop against the cutting board is like another strike against Leon’s sanity as you tell him about your upcoming date.
You’re talking so casually, too unaware of the way his attention has already snagged on you. You’re mentioning dinner, some new place, a man who “seems nice enough.”
He doesn’t react. At least, not outwardly. He just goes quiet in that familiar way that usually means he’s filed something away for later and decided it doesn’t matter.
Until you add, almost offhand, “He’s around your age, actually.”
That’s when he slips. Leon pauses mid-motion, baster in hand, like the sentence didn’t fully compute the first time.
“…My age,” he repeats.
You nod, still scrolling your phone. “Yeah. A little older maybe? But not by much.”
“That so.”
It isn’t a question.
You finally glance up.
“Is that weird?”
He should say yes. He should say it doesn’t matter. Instead, he looks at you for a long second and something in his expression tightens like a restraint he didn’t realize he was already using.
“It’s not weird,” he says finally. “It’s worrying, though.”
You blink.
“Worrying?”
Leon exhales through his nose, already regretting every word forming in his head.
“Yeah.”
He drags a hand over the back of his neck, gaze flicking away like the ceiling suddenly has answers.
“There’s a lot of men my age,” he mutters, more to himself than you, “who don’t need to be anywhere near you.”
You stare at him now.
“Leon?”
He looks back and for once he isn't as unreadable as usual. His jaw tightens. His eyes linger on you a second too long. He looks like a man trying very hard not to say what he's actually thinking.
“Go for it,” he says, too quickly. “Just… be careful.”
You stop and look at him, now, leaning against the counter. He's stiff, his expression guarded in a way usually reserved for friends of your dad that Leon doesn't like.
He watches you frown at him, almost like you've figured out something he doesn't want you to know, so he turns away. When he does, it’s a little too controlled, like the idea of your date existing at all is something he’s still trying not to physically deal with.
He spends the next twenty minutes pretending the conversation never happened. It's a skill he's perfected over years of surviving things most people never have to think about. Push it down. Box it up. Focus on the mission.
The mission, currently, is dinner.
Unfortunately, you are also currently part of dinner, which means every time he turns around, there you are: standing on the counter to reach a cabinet your father insists isn't too high, skirt riding dangerously high on your thighs, leaning over the island while reading a recipe, finger absently resting between your parted lips, laughing at something on your phone that he wonders is related to the guy his age.
When that particular one occurs, his gaze lingers on the screen of your phone too long, as if he's trying to catch a glimpse.
You notice he's slower to respond after you glance up from your phone. His voice is quieter.
It's becoming a problem.
Leon is basting the bird again in the oven when he hears you curse softly behind him.
"Ouch."
He turns.
"What happened?"
You stare at your finger, wrinkling your nose slightly.
"Knife."
The word is barely out before he's crossing the kitchen like the movement is automatic.
"Let me see."
He reaches for your hand, but you pull it away.
"It's literally a papercut."
He's faster than you. His hand catches your wrist, then slowly, his fingers trace along your skin light enough to almost tickle until he's delicately holding your fingertips.
"Show me,” he mutters.
You sigh dramatically but hold up your finger to him.
A tiny slice runs along your fingertip. It's really barely anything. The small line through your skin has practically already closed. Only one drop of blood smeared across the pad of your finger.
Leon continues to hold your hand.
You're too busy squinting at the cut.
"See?" you say. "Tragic."
His thumb brushes lightly beneath your knuckle.
Leon had seen firsthand the kind of injuries people don't survive from. The cut wasn't serious. Leon knew that immediately. Still, he turned your hand toward the light, checking the angle of it, then the other side, as though a threat might be lurking there, as well. His thumb brushed lightly beneath your knuckles.
"Leon."
He looked up.
"It's a paper cut."
His thumb brushed your knuckles again.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
He didn't let go.
"You need a bandage."
"I don't think–"
"You do."
You stare at him. He stares back, his face as serious as if you'd told him you were dying.
Neither of you move. He's still holding your hand hostage. You try to pull it away. He holds it tighter and gives you a look.
Then you laugh.
The kind where you close your eyes and lean into it, one hand coming to rest on Leon's bicep.
Leon felt his expression threatening to soften.
He took a long inhale and looked away at once, busying himself with opening a cabinet and pulling out a box of bandages.
“Think I'm gonna live, Agent?” you ask.
He grabs your hand again and hoists it up. He starts wrapping a bandage around it.
“You're laughing now, but I've seen a cut like this turn into a lot worse.”
You nodded sagely.
“Yes, yes,” you appeased. “But that won't happen to me. Not when you're always around to patch me up.”
Your other hand squeezes his bicep.
Leon’s grip on your finger is suddenly too tight. You wince.
“Sorry,” he mutters, his eyes falling to your finger and refusing to look anywhere else.
He cut the gauze and took a step backward. Away. Turned to put the bandages back in the cabinet.
Need space.
Need distance.
Need literally anything that isn't whatever this is.
Behind him, you continue talking.
"’S okay, Leon, you can't help that you're a roided up super soldier” you say while turning back to dinner. “So anyway, I think we're getting drinks before dinner. At that nice place we all went that time."
"That's nice."
"Yeah."
You sound pleased. Happy. Excited.
He hates that.
Because he wants–
No.
Not going there.
He focuses aggressively on chopping the lettuce into small pieces.
“Wondering what I should order to impress an old man. Thought you might have some suggestions,” you tease, a small smile on your lips, not looking at him as you continue making the drinks.
Leon pauses. Looks at you.
“Because I'm an old man?”
You half shrug, the smile on your face growing wider.
“Hey, you said it, not me.”
Leon pursed his lips. Clicked his tongue. Nodded his head once.
“Guess I am.
"He works in finance."
Leon nearly snaps the bandage in half.
"Mm."
"And apparently he travels a lot."
"Mm."
"And he owns a boat."
This time Leon actually stops.
Slowly, he turns around.
"A boat."
You nod.
"A boat."
The expression on his face is impossible to interpret.
"A real one?"
You laugh.
"What does that mean? Why would he have a pretend boat?"
"I don't know."
"Yes, Leon. A real boat."
"Hm."
You narrow your eyes.
"Are you judging him because he owns a boat?"
"No."
"You're absolutely judging him because he owns a boat."
"No, I'm judging him because every guy I've ever met who mentions owning a boat within the first three conversations turns out to be an asshole."
A startled laugh escapes you. The sound punches directly through his sternum.
"That's an oddly specific observation, Leon."
"I get paid to make oddly specific observations."
You finally turn to him. Your smile fades as your glance turns into a stare. He, unbelievably, finds himself worrying what it is you're seeing as you stare.
You tap the rim of a glass.
“So, what? Should I cancel my date because he owns a boat?”
Leon’s mouth comes up into a half smile. He thinks about what to say to get out of the situation, and of all the things he considers saying, what comes out of him is a quick, easy, “Yeah.”
His gaze catches on your face.
The early evening light coming through the kitchen window softens everything. Your eyes. Your lingering grin. The small crease near your mouth that appears whenever you're trying not to laugh.
His eyes move over your face like he's forgotten he isn't supposed to linger there. Leon forgets himself. When he looks at you, everything he's feeling is visible on his face. Whatever distance he usually keeps between himself and the rest of the world simply isn't there.
He looks exactly the way a man shouldn't look at someone he's trying very hard not to want.
Your smile falters.
Suddenly you're looking at him differently, like you're seeing something you hadn't before.
The air shifts. Leon feels it happen.
He sucks in a breath and turns away.
"You should finish those drinks."
His voice is rough.
You blink.
"Oh. Yeah. Right."
“So, about the date?” Leon asks nonchalantly, back still turned to you.
You feel the blush climbing onto your cheeks as you finish the drinks and place them on the tray.
“Yeah, yeah,” you clear your throat slightly. “I'll cancel it.”
He hums, but it sounds vaguely pleased.
The back door opens. Your father walks into the kitchen carrying two cases of wine.
"Everything under control in here?"
You swallow, the blush getting hotter.
"Yep,” Leon answers.
You hold up a thumb to your dad, careful to keep your back turned to him.
"Good."
He walks back out.
You stare at the cutting board.
Leon stares at the oven.
Neither of you mention what just happened, but as you pick up the knife again, blush still scalding your cheeks, you find yourself smiling faintly.
And when Leon catches that smile from the corner of his eye, his own follows.
