ㅤㅤㅤ✟ WELCOME HOME, MR. KENNEDY? : PART 2 leon s. kennedy [resident evil 9: requiem] !
⋆˚࿔ leon kennedy x preg!wife reader ꒰ ✟ ꒱ … Leon races to stop Gideon while the virus in his body worsens, but miles away, you go into labor alone. Hope is born carrying the T-virus… and while Leon fights for a cure, your daughter's life becomes the most fragile hope either of you has left. — last chapter.
warnings ⟢ +16 (MDNI) ⋆ established relationship ⋆ t-virus infection ⋆ illness themes ⋆ angst/fluff ⋆ hurt/comfort ⋆ emergency childbirth ⋆ miscarriage ⋆ anxiety ⋆ domestic leon ⋆ happy ending ⋆ pós-requiem ⟢ words count: 6,6k
notes ⟢ domestic Leon completely healed me. I love my man having a family. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !
⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ TIP JAR ⋆
The days after Leon went to investigate Umbrella's connection to the surviving victims of Raccoon City, everything seemed to get harder for you.
You spent the first forty-eight hours staring at the phone, waiting tirelessly; every notification made your heart race, imagining it could be good news or bad news, but the silence was somehow worse.
By the third day, you'd stopped hoping and started fearing.
The contractions started before your due date. You were in the kitchen — trying to learn how to make Mexican tacos just like his, as if that might bring him closer — when the first contraction gripped your stomach like a clenched fist. The wooden spoon clattered to the floor. You held onto the counter, breathing deeply, counting the seconds until the pain eased.
False alarm, you thought. Just another rehearsal for Hope.
But Hope didn't agree. She kicked hard, making you tense up even more as the next contraction hit. You touched your stomach, which had gone rigid, and with your other hand you reached for the phone, dialling Leon's number.
Nothing.
"Please, Leon," you murmured, dialling again. "Pick up."
On the fourth try, the call finally connected, but the voice that answered wasn't his.
"Mrs Kennedy." The greeting came through cold, and you just knew whoever it was was smiling as they said your married name. "What an honour to receive your call."
You swallowed hard, a frown creasing between your brows.
"Who is this?"
"Dr Gideon." The name came out drawn out, like he was savouring every syllable. "Mr. Kennedy is... occupied at the moment."
You knew he wasn't. Leon was meant to be in trouble.
"Where is he?" Your voice came out firmer than you expected, despite your hands shaking as you held the phone.
"The virus has finally started to collect its debt from him." Gideon paused, and you could hear something in the background. Something that sounded like Leon's voice in a muffled room. "I sincerely hope the child has inherited the T-virus. That would be a fascinating experiment."
Your heart stopped.
"How..."
"Oh, of course... I may have spoken too soon." The amusement in his voice was nauseating. "Little Hope isn't quite due yet, is she? So you don't know yet whether she has the virus, which is entirely possible, I speak as a doctor."
You felt sick.
"What have you done to Leon?"
"Me? Nothing." Gideon laughed quietly. "The virus is doing the work for me. It's progressed faster than any of us expected, but don't worry, Mrs Kennedy, I'm hoping."
"Hoping?"
"For your daughter." His voice got closer, like he'd brought the phone right to his mouth. "It would be such a shame... a much-wanted child born already infected, but then again, if she is... well, that would be an experiment I'd be willing to study... A second generation. The effects would be..."
You hung up.
The phone slipped from your hand, hitting the kitchen floor with a hollow crack. You stood frozen, one hand on your belly, the other covering your mouth to muffle the sob threatening to escape.
Experiment Hope.
You'd always known it was a possibility — that's why you'd avoided mentioning the pregnancy, except to Sherry — and then the next contraction came, stronger than the first. This time you couldn't hide the whimper of pain.
"No," you whispered, gripping the counter. "Not now, Hope."
You forced your legs to move, awkwardly steadying yourself against the marble, crouched down and grabbed the phone from the floor, dialling another number.
Sherry picked up on the second ring.
"Leon said to call if there was an emergency." Her voice was instantly alert. "What's happened?"
"The... the contractions have started." You gasped as another one gripped your stomach. "And I... I called Leon, but Gideon answered. He said... he said..."
"Breathe. Just breathe." Sherry spoke like she was trying to calm herself down. "I'm sending an ambulance to you now."
"Sherry." Your voice cracked. "What's happened to him?"
"I don't know. My last contact with him was before I sent him to Rhodes Hill after Gideon," Sherry admitted. "He should still be there, but I don't know what he might have found..."
She didn't need to finish. You slid down the kitchen wall, sitting on the cold floor. Hope was kicking desperately, like she knew something was wrong.
"Victor's with him. Leon will sort it out," you murmured, more to yourself than to Sherry. "He promised he'd come back."
"And he will." The Sherry's voice was almost fierce. "But first you need to focus on Hope, you hear me? The paramedics will be there in minutes. You're going to the hospital. You're going to have this baby, and when Leon shows up — because he will show up — the first thing he'll want to know is that you're both okay."
You could hear sirens in the distance.
"Sherry..."
"I've got something to check out, but I'll be in touch with the hospital." Her voice wavered slightly. "I promised him I'd look after you if anything happened, and I'm keeping that promise."
The line went dead.
You stayed there, on the cold kitchen floor, feeling the contractions coming closer together. You held your belly with both hands as tears streamed down your face, and you did the only thing you could do.
Wait for him to keep his promise.
Wait for him to be there when you opened your eyes after the birth, with his stained hands — though you prayed they wouldn't be - his tired smile, his blue eyes seeing your daughter for the first time.
The ambulance cut through traffic like it didn't exist, but for you, time had stopped.
Every bump was a stab of pain. Every corner seemed to take an eternity. The paramedics talked to you — asking your name, your date of birth, how long the contractions had been going — and you answered on autopilot, your fingers clenched in the sheet, your other hand pressed to your belly where Hope wouldn't stop moving.
"Blood pressure's rising," one of the paramedics murmured to her colleague, but you heard. "Baby's heart rate is unstable."
"We need to hurry this up."
You closed your eyes and tried to think of Leon. The way he'd tuck your hair behind your ear. The way he said your name. How he'd sit beside you while you were reading, just watching you in silence, pretending he hadn't been when you looked up.
The ambulance braked suddenly and the doors flew open. The bright white hospital lights blinded you for a second, and then there were hands — so many hands — moving you to a different stretcher, corridors flashing past, voices overlapping.
"Pre-eclampsia?"
"Not confirmed yet."
"Foetal distress?"
"Reduced variability. We need to do an emergency C-section."
"Where's the consent form?"
"The husband? Has anyone managed to contact the husband?"
"No answer."
"Damn."
You wanted to scream that he couldn't answer, that he was out there trying to save the world, trying to save himself, trying to get back to you, but the pain hit again and all that came out was a muffled groan.
"Mrs. Kennedy." A face appeared above you — surgical mask, tired but steady eyes. "I'm Dr Kasuga. I'll be delivering your daughter. We need to go to theatre now."
You just nodded.
In the operating theatre, the cold was different from the rest of the hospital. A clinical, sterile cold that seeped into your bones. The anaesthetic spread up your spine like fire, and then you couldn't feel anything from the waist down, just a distant pressure, like they were handling something that no longer belonged to you.
"Incision started."
The blue drape blocked your view. Just the surgical lights, the focused faces above you, the monitors beeping in rhythms you couldn't interpret.
Leon. You could only think about your husband and where he was.
"The waters haven't broken yet," Dr Kasuga's voice came from somewhere distant. "We need more exposure. Scalpel."
Leon.
You couldn't tell what was happening — you just saw movement around the room and stared at the ceiling, wondering about this investigation, what Leon would find when he came home.
And then a cry echoed — fragile, loud, perfect.
Hope.
You cried before you could see her. Hot tears ran down your temples, soaking into your hair, while the most beautiful sound in the world filled the theatre.
"Congratulations, Mrs Kennedy," Dr Kasuga said, approaching you with a smile. "It's a girl. We just need to clean her up and run some tests."
"Is something wrong?" You tried to lift your head, but the anaesthetic wouldn't let you. "What's wrong with Hope? Why can't I see her?"
Nobody answered, and you turned your head as far as you could and saw.
The small team around the resuscitation table were moving quickly, precisely. And in the middle, there was a tiny body, with a streak of sandy hair — blonde with brownish tones, just like Leon's — and a dark mark spreading up from the thin little arm towards the shoulder.
"Mrs Kennedy, we need you to stay calm..."
"You said the T-virus wasn't integrated into Leon's DNA, that it hadn't changed his cells."
Dr Kasuga approached, her face pale even under the surgical lights. She pulled off her gloves with a sharp movement, put her hand on your shoulder.
"Your daughter was born with the T-virus. Everything we knew was uncertain." Her voice was quiet. "We don't know the extent of it, or how it will affect her."
You heard the monitors beeping, Hope's weak cry in the distance, the hurried footsteps of the team, but it all seemed to come from very far away, from inside a dark tunnel where you were sinking, unable to breathe.
Experiment Hope.
Gideon's voice echoed in your head.
Hoping she doesn't have the T-virus. That would be a fascinating experiment, wouldn't it?
"No," you whispered. "The tests... all the tests were normal..."
"The virus can remain dormant at undetectable levels during pregnancy." Dr Kasuga squeezed your shoulder. "But at birth, with the change in circulation, the stress of delivery... it might have been activated."
You thought about Hope, yes, about how that virus would affect her, but you also thought about Leon, how he'd blame himself for the rest of his life if he couldn't find a cure.
"I want to see her," you said, and your voice was so firm it surprised the doctor. "Bring my daughter to me."
She hesitated for a second, then nodded to the team.
A nurse brought Hope over, wrapped in a white blanket, so tiny she fit in the crook of an arm. The wrinkled little face, eyes closed, tiny lips moving like she was searching for something.
And the mark.
Dark and irregular, spreading up from the left arm — Leon's arm, the same side — almost to the shoulder. You held out trembling hands and the nurse placed Hope on your chest, carefully, like she was made of porcelain.
"Hi, sweetheart," you murmured, your fingers touching the soft cheek. She was warm. "Hi, Hope."
The mark was warm too. You felt it when your finger brushed the darkened skin. Different from the healthy skin of her little face. Rougher. Hotter.
Just like Leon.
"I'm going to protect you," you whispered, tears falling onto the white blanket. "I promise. Your dad's going to find a cure. You're going to grow up. Have a normal life. You'll..."
Your voice broke.
Because you didn't know if it was true. You didn't know if a cure existed. You didn't know if Leon was still alive. You didn't know if Hope had days, weeks, or years, but as long as she was there, warm against your chest, breathing that fragile newborn rhythm, you would fight.
For her. For Leon. For the family you'd built against all odds.
"I love you," you said, kissing Hope's forehead. "And your dad loves you too. He'll come back. He has to come back."
Hope opened her eyes, and they were blue. Blue like Leon's. And in that blue, for a fraction of a second, you saw something you couldn't explain. It wasn't fear. It wasn't pain. It was just... her. Hope. Your daughter. Your miracle. She was perfect.
"Dr Kasuga," you called, not taking your eyes off your daughter. "What happens now?"
The doctor approached, her face tense.
"We'll monitor her. Blood tests every hour. Watch for progression. If there are signs of accelerated mutation, we might have to..."
"No." You interrupted her. "You're not doing anything to her without my permission. She's not a guinea pig. She's not an experiment. She's my daughter."
Dr Kasuga nodded slowly.
"Understood. But you need to know we don't have a protocol for this. Babies born with the T-virus... there's no precedent. We don't know what to expect."
You held Hope tighter against your chest.
"Hope won't be an experiment."
Her cry filled the room again, and you held your daughter, looked at the mark on her little arm, stroking it the way you did when Leon looked at his own with such apprehension.
A day later, the flat felt different. Not physically — the taco stuff was still in the fridge, the blue blanket was still on the balcony, the dishes were still in the sink — but the silence had shifted.
You were on the sofa in the living room, Hope curled up on your chest, both of you wrapped in the blanket Leon loved so much. The mark on her little arm was still there — scary, real — but the tests over the last twenty-four hours showed she was stable.
The virus was there. It wasn't advancing, wasn't retreating. It just... existed. Waiting.
The doctors had called in specialists. Held video meetings. Sherry mentioned a name — Elpis — but you were so tired the word slipped from your memory before you could hold onto it.
Hope moved her mouth in her sleep, a tiny sucking motion, and you smiled even though your eyes burned with exhaustion.
"It's okay, sweetheart," you murmured. "Mummy's here."
Sleep came without warning. A total blackout — no dreams, no fear, just the dark nothing of complete burnout. You woke to morning light streaming through the living room window. Something was different.
Hope was still on your chest, warm and breathing in the calm rhythm of deep sleep. You got up slowly and carried her to the bedroom, laying her in the cot as you reached under Leon's pillow for his gun. There was a weight in the air — a presence that hadn't been there before.
You crept out of the room, cocking the gun carefully so you wouldn't wake the baby, and then you saw him.
He was in the doorway of the living room.
Leon.
Standing there, leaning against the frame, bandages wrapped around his arms, his hands, winding up his neck until they disappeared under a battered t-shirt you didn't recognise. His face was etched with dark circles so deep they looked like bruises.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just looked at you.
For a long moment, no one moved. You were scared that if you blinked, he'd disappear. That he was a dream. That exhaustion had finally broken something inside you.
But then he breathed — a rough, broken sound — and you knew.
It was real.
With infinite care, you took a step, still feeling your C-section stitches, then another, and then you wrapped yourself around him.
Your body crashed into his in a desperate hug, your arms gripping his back, your face buried in his chest, feeling his heart beat — alive, alive, alive — while his arms held you with the same need, his bandaged hands pressing into your back, your shoulder, the nape of your neck, like he was trying to memorise every inch of you all at once.
"You came back," you sobbed against his chest. "I thought the worst."
He didn't answer with words — just held you tighter, his whole body trembling, his breathing uneven and warm against your hair. You felt the rough bandages against your skin, and with a jolt of realisation, you understood.
"The marks," you said, pulling back just enough to look at him — at the bandages, at his eyes, which were glassy but clear. "Leon, the marks..."
He swallowed hard.
"Grace managed it." His voice came out hoarse, worn, but alive. "Elpis — it was actually a cure. It... it worked."
You cupped his face in your hands, running your thumbs over the bandages, over the clean skin peeking out at the edges.
"You're cured?"
"I am." He smiled, but it was fragile — on the verge of crumbling. "I'm... I'm clean."
You kissed him then. Fierce, desperate, tasting of tears and relief and love. He kissed back with the same intensity, his hands holding your face, your waist, like you were the only solid thing in a world that had tried to swallow him alive.
When you pulled apart, you were both crying.
"I thought I'd lost you," you confessed, your voice breaking. "Gideon answered your phone. He said... he said things about Hope..."
Leon's face darkened for an instant, but he controlled his expression quickly.
"I know." His voice was too controlled. Too dangerous. "He won't bother anyone again."
You didn't ask what that meant. Not then.
"Hope..." you started, but he cut you off.
"I know." This time his voice was different. Softer. "Sherry told me. She was born with..."
You took his hand — his bandaged hand, now clean underneath — and gently pulled him.
"Come on."
Leon let you lead him. You could see the weirdness he felt looking at your stomach, no longer carrying the bump you'd held for nine months — the bump he'd miss. You crossed the room slowly, him limping slightly, you feeling every movement like it was your own. When you reached the bedroom door, he stopped.
The cot was in the corner, exactly where you'd left it. The pink blanket folded. And inside, small and perfect, Hope slept with her fists closed near her face, the dark mark visible even in the dim light.
Leon didn't go in.
He stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the cot, and you saw something break in him. All the defences. All the armour. All the years of survival and loss and pain — it all crumbled in that look.
"Leon," you called softly.
He didn't answer. Took a step forward. Then another. Like he was learning to walk again. When he reached the cot, he stood still for a long time, just looking.
Hope twitched a tiny finger in her sleep, and he held his breath.
"She's so small," he murmured, his voice so low you almost didn't hear.
"Three point two kilos," you answered, moving to stand beside him. "Perfect."
He reached out his bandaged hand but stopped before touching her. Hesitated.
"Can I?"
"She's your daughter, Leon. Of course you can."
With a gentleness that seemed impossible for hands that had spent decades holding guns, he touched Hope's cheek. His finger traced her soft skin, circled her tiny ear, brushed her blonde hair.
Hope wrinkled her nose in her sleep but didn't wake.
Leon smiled.
It was such a pure, vulnerable smile that it made your heart ache.
"She's got my hair," he observed, wonder in his voice.
"And your eyes." You rested your head on his shoulder. "She opened them yesterday for a few seconds. They're blue, just like yours."
He closed his eyes for a moment, like he was storing that information somewhere safe.
"And the mark..."
"It hasn't spread." Your voice faltered a little. "The doctors can't explain it. She's... she's stable."
Leon opened his eyes and looked at you.
"Grace said Elpis might work on newborns." He was talking fast now, pulling an auto-injector from the pocket of his DSO jacket. "The antidote was designed to reverse the virus at any stage. If Hope's stable — if it's not progressing — maybe we can..."
"Leon." You touched his face. "Slow down. We'll figure it out. But right now... just stay here with us. Please."
He relaxed against you, his forehead resting on yours.
"Sorry. I just..." He took a deep breath. "When I found out she was born with the virus, I thought I'd failed. That all this time trying to find a cure, trying to get back... it was for nothing."
"You didn't fail." You held his face, making him look at you. "You're alive. You're cured. And Hope is here, breathing, alive. We'll figure it out. Together."
He swallowed hard.
"I almost didn't make it back." The confession came out quiet. "There was a moment... I didn't think I'd see you again."
"But you did."
You stood there, holding each other, watching your daughter sleep in her cot. After a long moment, Leon spoke again.
"Elpis, the name of the cure, and the name of the key to unlocking it..."
You frowned.
"Spencer named the cure Elpis."
"Elpis," you repeated. "It's..."
"Greek." He smiled. "It means hope."
The air left your lungs.
"Leon..."
He turned to you fully, holding your face in both his bandaged hands.
"You were always my hope. Even when I didn't believe in anything, you were there. And when we finally had Hope... she became my hope again. For a future. For a family. For everything."
Tears streamed down your face, but you didn't wipe them away. He kissed your forehead with a tenderness that hurt. You hugged him so tightly it hurt, but he didn't complain, just held you back, his whole body trembling against yours.
In the cot, Hope woke up. She didn't cry, just opened her blue eyes and looked at her parents holding each other, like she somehow knew this moment mattered.
Leon felt her gaze. He turned slowly, still holding you, and met his daughter's eyes.
"Welcome home, Hope," he whispered. "Daddy's here."
Hope moved her little arms, the dark mark shifting with her, and made a small sound — not a cry. Leon laughed softly and reached out to touch her again.
"I'll protect you," he promised. "Elpis will work. You'll grow up. You'll have a normal life. You'll be happy."
You pressed your hand to his over the cot, and Hope grabbed her father's finger with a grip that seemed impossible for such a tiny baby.
"We'll figure it out," you said. "Together."
Leon looked at you, at Hope, at your hands intertwined over your daughter — and for the first time in a long time, maybe since Raccoon City, he believed it.
Three days later, the living room looked like a war room.
"The virus is dormant," Sherry announced after two hours of tests, her eyes fixed on the results she'd pulled up on her laptop. "It's not common, but it's not unheard of. Some Raccoon City survivors had long-term latency. The problem is with newborns, there's no data. We don't know what could trigger it."
Leon was perched on the arm of the sofa, his fingers restless even though he was healed.
"But Elpis could work?"
Grace looked up at him.
"Elpis was designed to reverse mutation in advanced stages. In theory, it should eliminate the virus completely at any phase." She paused. "But it's never been tested on babies, Leon."
Hope slept in the portable cot Grace had brought.
"I want to try," you said.
Everyone turned to you.
"Wait," Leon started, but you cut him off.
"She's stable now, but what about tomorrow? Next month? A year from now?" You took his hand. "We spent twelve years trying to have her. I'm not spending the rest of my life scared something inside her will wake up. If there's a chance to give Hope a normal life, I want that chance."
Leon looked at you for a long moment. Then at Hope. Then at Grace.
"What are the risks?"
Sherry tilted her head, considering.
"The biggest risk is a severe allergic reaction. We've prepared antihistamines and adrenaline. There's also a chance the cure won't work, the virus could stay, or worse, mutate into a resistant form." She took a breath. "But if it works, she's clean. Completely."
Leon closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, he looked at you.
"You're sure?"
You squeezed his hand.
"I'm sure."
Sherry administered the injection into Hope's marked little arm.
The baby woke with a start and let out an indignant cry, her tiny face scrunching up. You scooped her up immediately, rocking her, shushing her while Leon watched every movement, every expression, every breath.
"How long until we know?" he asked.
"Hours. Maybe a day." Sherry was already preparing another blood sample. "We'll monitor the viral markers hourly."
The first hour was the worst.
Hope cried for twenty minutes, then tired herself out and fell asleep in your arms. You couldn't look away from her little arm, waiting for the mark to magically disappear — knowing it didn't work like that.
Leon stayed by your side the whole time. Sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, sometimes pacing like a caged lion. Grace brought coffee no one drank, and Sherry ran tests in silence, her face focused.
At the three-hour mark, she looked up from her portable microscope.
"The markers are dropping."
"How much?"
"Fast." For the first time, Sherry smiled, a small, contained smile, but genuine. "Elpis is working."
You reached out and pulled Leon close, cradling Hope between you. The three of you, there on the sofa, as the mark on her little arm faded.
By the next morning, Hope's skin was completely clear.
The years went by and Hope grew up.
She grew up with her dad's blonde hair and eyes that changed with the light — sometimes blue like his, sometimes more like yours. She grew up with endless questions about the world, with scraped knees from running too fast, with a smile that could light up entire rooms. She grew up with Leon, and watching the two of them together was something you never got tired of.
Saturday morning, the house was chaos.
Hope was seven years old and had enough energy to power a small town. You heard her before you even opened your eyes — those little feet running down the hallway, your bedroom door flung open with the kind of force that comes from not having learned patience yet.
"Dad!"
You felt Leon stir next to you, a sleepy groan.
"Hope, it's..." He tried to check the clock. "It's six in the morning on a Saturday."
"I know!" Hope was already jumping on the bed, using the mattress as a trampoline. "You promised we'd have the pillow fight today!"
Leon cracked one eye open, found you already laughing into your pillow.
"Did I promise that?"
"You did!" Hope confirmed, jumping higher. "At dinner on Thursday! Mummy heard!"
You raised your hand, eyes still closed.
"Can confirm. He promised."
Leon let out a dramatic sigh, but you could hear the smile in his voice.
"Fine, fine, but after breakfast."
"After breakfast we can start the war?"
"We can."
"And can breakfast be pancakes?"
"Hope..."
"Pancakes, Dad, pancakes, pancakes, pancakes..."
"FINE, PANCAKES!"
Hope let out a victory shriek and ran off to the kitchen, her footsteps echoing through the house. You turned to Leon, who was burying his face in the pillow.
"You're so soft," you teased, running your hand over his back.
"I'm defeated," his muffled voice came through. "Defeated by a seven-year-old."
"Your seven-year-old."
He turned his face to look at you, and even with his hair all messy and the dark circles from not sleeping enough, his smile was the most beautiful thing in the world.
"Our seven-year-old," he corrected, pulling you in for a kiss. "Our little Hope."
An hour later, the kitchen looked like a battlefield.
Hope was on the counter on a little stool, "helping" flip the pancakes — which meant half the batter had ended up on the stove and the other half on her t-shirt. Leon was next to her, patiently wiping up and flipping, the two of them chatting about things you couldn't keep up with even if you tried.
"...and then Aunt Grace said the monster was as big as a building!" Hope was saying, her eyes wide.
"She exaggerates," Leon replied, flipping another pancake. "It was the size of a truck."
"IT'S THE SAME THING!"
"It's really not. Buildings are bigger."
"Dad."
"Hope."
You watched from the table, a mug of coffee between your hands, and felt your chest overflow in a way you still hadn't learned to name. Seven years. Seven years since Hope was born with the virus, since Leon came back cured, since Elpis saved your daughter.
Seven years of this.
"Mum!" Hope called, jumping off the stool and running over to you. "Dad said after breakfast we can start the war!"
"I heard."
"And you're gonna join in?"
"Of course." You pulled Hope into a hug, kissing the top of her blonde head. "Someone needs to teach you two how to lose."
Hope huffed, offended.
"We never lose!"
"That's what you think."
The pillow fight lasted two hours.
The living room looked like it had exploded. Pillows were flying, cushions were being used as shields, and at some point Hope discovered she could use the blanket as a cape, which made her "invincible."
Leon, obviously, let her win.
You saw it. You saw him holding back, pretending to be weak, falling dramatically to the floor every time a tiny pillow hit his shoulder. Hope laughed so loud the neighbours must have heard, jumping on top of him, declaring her victory.
"WE WON!" she shouted, fists in the air.
"We?" Leon complained, face-down on the carpet. "I lost on my own."
"It's 'we' because you're on my team!"
"And why would I be on your team if you defeated me?"
"Because..." Hope thought for a second. "Because you like losing to me!"
Leon turned his head to look at you, a huge smile on his face.
"She's your daughter," he said.
"Our daughter," you corrected, laughing. "And she learned to be a strategist from you."
Hope flopped onto the floor next to him, snuggling against his shoulder.
"Dad?"
"Hm?"
"Tell the story again."
"What story?"
"The one about when you met mum."
Leon went quiet for a second. You two exchanged a look.
"You already know that story," he said.
"But I like hearing it."
Leon sighed, pulling Hope closer.
You got up from the sofa, walked over to them, and lay down on Leon's other side, the three of you squished together on the living room carpet. The mess around you didn't matter. The scattered pillows, the dust floating up, the smell of pancakes still hanging in the air. Only this mattered.
Leon reached his arm over Hope and pulled you closer.
"I love you," he murmured.
"I know." You kissed his shoulder. "And I love you too."
He smiled, eyes closed.
At seven years old, Hope Kennedy still had two absolute certainties in life:
First, that her mum's spaghetti was the best in the entire world — she'd done an informal survey at school, asking her classmates what they ate at home, and nothing came anywhere close.
Second, that her dad was the coolest, strongest, most amazing man in the whole known universe.
This second certainty, she demonstrated every single day.
"Dad!"
Leon was in the backyard, trying to fix the garden hose — a simple task that, in his hands, had become a two-hour project. He heard the footsteps before he saw her, that clumsy childhood run that always ended with an impact against his legs.
"Hey." He put down the hose and crouched to catch her. Hope jumped into his arms with the confidence of someone who knew she'd be caught. She always was. "Did you finish your homework?"
"Almost all of it."
"Almost all isn't all."
"Buuuut..." She drew out the word, her blue eyes sparkling with that expression Leon knew well. "I wanted help with the science bit."
"What science bit?"
"We have to draw the solar system and I can't remember the order of the planets."
Leon set her down but kept his hand on her shoulder as they walked back inside.
"Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune."
"Wow, you know it off the top of your head?"
"I do." He opened the kitchen door, holding it for Hope to go through. "We used to learn this at the academy."
"What academy?"
Leon hesitated for half a second. Then he crouched down beside her, lowering his voice like he was about to share a secret.
"A really boring academy. Just serious men and white walls."
Hope wrinkled her nose.
"That sounds awful."
"It was."
You appeared in the kitchen doorway, drying your hands on a tea towel, and stopped when you saw them there, crouched in the hallway, sharing some secret you had no idea about.
"Can I ask what you two are plotting?"
"Nothing!" Hope answered too quickly, getting up and running to hug your legs. "Dad's just gonna help me with the solar system!"
"Hmm." You raised an eyebrow at Leon. "And why were you crouching?"
Leon stood up, an innocent smile on his face.
"It's easier to talk at her level."
"Sure." You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "Come on, Hope. Wash your hands first. Then you can draw planets."
"Yay!"
Hope was attached to Leon in a way that sometimes made your heart ache, it was so beautiful.
Not that she didn't love you — she did, and she showed it with tight hugs, colourful drawings, and the way she always asked your opinion on everything. But with Leon, it was different. It was like she instinctively knew that man needed to be loved a little harder. Like she understood, without anyone explaining, that her dad carried heavy things and that her job was to lighten the load.
Leon would come home from work — with the DSO, fewer field missions, more hours at home — and she'd already be at the door. Didn't matter if it was three in the afternoon or nine at night. Hope waited.
"Dad!" The shout was always the same. The hug, identical.
And Leon, who'd faced bioterrorists, monsters and corrupt governments, would always kneel down to receive that hug like it was the most important thing of the day. Because it was.
The nights when Hope would convince Leon to read stories even after he'd already read three. The mornings when she'd wake up before sunrise just to jump into their bed and "help" dad make coffee. The weekends when the two of them would disappear for "secret adventures" that always ended with Hope covered in dirt, Leon covered in Hope, and both of them swearing they hadn't done anything special.
"Did you see what she did?" Leon showed his arm once, all scribbled on with coloured markers. "She said it was a tattoo like mine."
You looked at his arm, at the old scars that Elpis couldn't erase, and at the colourful scribbles Hope had drawn over them.
"Let me see." You moved closer, pretending to examine it seriously.
"Hmm. I think Hope's version is better."
Leon laughed, that warm, rough sound you loved.
"She said when she grows up she's getting one just like it." He looked at their daughter, who was now distracted drawing at the living room table. "A marker tattoo. Forever."
"Hopefully she never finds out marker comes off with water."
"Shh." Leon covered your mouth with his hand, laughing. "Don't ruin the magic."
Slowly, the three of you built rituals.
Sunday night was pizza and movie night. Hope always picked some animation she'd already seen forty times, but that still made her laugh in the same places. Leon complained, but you knew he loved it. In the end, Hope always fell asleep on the sofa, nestled between you two, and Leon would carry her to bed with a gentleness that seemed impossible coming from such calloused hands.
Friday night was spaghetti night. Hope would "help" in the kitchen, which meant you spent twice as long and the kitchen got three times messier, but when the three of you sat at the table, with Hope's favourite dish steaming in front of her, the mess didn't matter.
"My family's the best in the world," Hope would always declare, without fail, at some point during the meal.
"Mine too," you'd answer.
"Mine's okay," Leon would tease, just to see her get indignant.
"Dad!"
"Alright, alright. Mine's the best too."
One night, you woke up to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. You looked beside you and Leon wasn't in bed. Your heart raced for a second — old habits, old fears — but then you heard low voices coming from Hope's room.
You got up and went to the door, which was slightly ajar. The cloud-shaped nightlight illuminated the pink room. Hope was sitting up in bed, her eyes still sleepy, and Leon was crouched beside her, his hand running through her blonde hair.
"I can't sleep," Hope murmured.
"Why not?"
"I had a nightmare."
"What about?"
Hope was quiet for a second.
"You were sick again. And mummy was crying. And I couldn't find you."
Leon closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he pulled Hope into a hug.
"Listen to me, little one." His voice was controlled, calm, but you knew Leon well enough to hear the tremor there. "That sickness Daddy had was a long time ago. And it's never coming back. You hear me?"
"Yeah."
"And mummy and you are the two most important people in the world to me. I'm not going anywhere without you. Not ever again."
Hope hugged him tighter.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Swear?"
"I swear on everything I love most." He kissed her forehead. "And you know what that is?"
"What?"
"You and mummy."
Hope smiled, finally relaxing against him.
He laid her down in bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin. You moved away from the door, letting them have their moment. Inside, Leon's voice continued, talking about cures and hope and a girl who came into the world against all odds.
You went back to bed and waited. A few minutes later, Leon appeared in the bedroom doorway. He stopped when he saw you awake.
"Did I wake you?"
"No." You reached out your hand to him. "Come here."
He lay down beside you, pulling you into that automatic hug you both knew so well.
"Nightmare," he murmured against your hair. "She dreamed I was sick again."
"I heard."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Sometimes I think she feels it, you know? Like... like she remembers something. Even though she was so small."
"She doesn't remember, Leon." You ran your hand over his chest, feeling his heart beat calmly. "She just... loves you. And when you love someone that much, you're scared of losing them."
He held you tighter.
"I'm not losing you."
"I know."
"And you're not losing me."
"I know."
He kissed your hair.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For everything. For her. For this." His voice cracked a little. "For letting me have this."
You lifted your head to look him in the eyes, even in the dark.
"You deserve this, Leon Scott Kennedy. You deserve everything."
He smiled, that tired, beautiful smile you loved.
"I've got everything."
© 2026 KONALIS | all rights reserved. don’t copy my work or translations, and don’t upload them to other platforms. / cr: divider @uzmacchiato
