Leon comes home with split knuckles like it’s nothing but you notice because he tries too hard not to mention it.
He shoulders through the front door with his academy duffel slung over one broad shoulder, hair damp at the temples, face a little flushed from exertion. Your parents are in the kitchen arguing amiably over dinner, neither of them paying much attention when he mutters a tired hello.
But you do, because you always do.
“Leon,” you call from your spot on the couch. He pauses, giving you enough time to scramble over to him. If he wanted to be secretive, fine, you wouldn't tell your parents.
But he sure as shit was telling you.
“What happened to your hand?”
He freezes halfway down the hall. Then, with the guilt of a man already caught, glances down.
“It’s nothing.”
You snort. “That’s blood.” Not much, but enough.
He looks almost sheepish as he turns around.
“Defensive drills,” he finally admits.
You soften, thankful that's all it had been.
“Come here.”
His brows lift. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
That does it. How could he not give you something you wanted?
He sighs but lets you lead him to your bathroom, looking almost like a child dragging along her very large golden retriever, and reach for your first aid tin.
You walk him back to your room and sit him on the edge of your bed.
He sits with his knees spread, forearms braced loosely on his thighs, all six feet of him folded awkwardly into your space.
He's musky and rough and looks so perfect against your light pink comforter.
You pop the lid and look at his hands. Both knuckles are scraped raw, one split enough that dried blood has crusted along the ridge.
You hiss, fingers absentmindedly running just below the hurt. “Jesus. Did you punch a wall?”
He huffs a laugh, eyes trained on your face. “No.”
“Another cadet?”
“…Maybe.”
You glance up.
He gives you the smallest, most apologetic shrug.
“You are such a boy,” you chastise and open an alcohol pad.
“I am literally training to be a cop,” he said, making himself sound even more boyish.
“That doesn’t make this less stupid.”
His mouth twitches. Things unsaid. You caught it.
“What aren't you telling me?” You ask.
He holds your face but doesn't speak. He's embarrassed of the truth, but knows he'll give it if you push.
“Fort Knox all of a sudden, huh?” You study him. “Was it really defensive drills, or was it a cadet with a big mouth?”
His silence answers you loud and clear.
“And what might this big mouth have been saying?” you ask, smoothing ointment across his knuckles.
Silence. You wipe the excess off on some extra gauze and grab his face, grabbing his chin and forcing his gaze to yours.
“Leon,” you guide gently.
He sighs, his head falling against your hand. You let him and run your fingers through his hair like you might a dog.
“I just wanted to make sure they had nothing else to say about how pretty my sister is.”
His tone made it clear they hadn't used the word pretty.
You were shocked into stillness and silence. When you finally came back to yourself, you blinked the information away.
Unsure what to do with it, you just move past it, offering one last rub through his hair as a reward for defending you.
You wet a cloth and take his left hand. The second antiseptic touches the cuts, his fingers jerk.
“Sorry, should have warned you” you murmur automatically.
“No, it’s fine.”
“It hurt,” you defended him, giving him the option to admit he actually feels.
“I’m okay.”
“You winced,” you told him.
“I did not.” His voice was almost strained.
You give him a flat look.
Leon, traitorously, starts to blush. He's a grown man. Built like a truck. Shoulders stretching the seams of his academy shirt. Biceps corded from daily training.
Blushing because you caught him being a baby.
The realization nearly makes you laugh.
“You’re cute when you’re pathetic,” you say before you can stop yourself. Before you realize you shouldn't be calling your brother cute.
Silence.
His entire body goes still, ears turning bright red.
You blink once, realizing belatedly what you said.
“…I’m not pathetic,” he mutters after a long second, reminding you how he used to be when he was much younger.
You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to hurt, focusing very intently on wrapping gauze around his knuckles.
“No,” you say, voice suspiciously tight. “Just dramatic.”
Most of your focus is on keeping her fingers from tightening around his.
“Okay.”
“Very dramatic,” you push.
“...Okay.”
You risk a glance upward but he thankfully isn’t looking at you.
His jaw is clenched. His throat bobs once. Your eyes linger there longer than they should.
And his hand, large, warm, obedient in your lap, has gone completely limp, like he’s forgotten how to use it.
Something strange twists low in your stomach.
You tie off the bandage and pat it once.
“There,” you say quietly.
Leon clears his throat.
“Thanks.”
But he doesn’t take his hand back right away. And you don't offer it until your parents ask where you've gone.
