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I am obsessed with your one-shots oml I bindged as many as I can.

Dad!Leon being worried about his son (us). The only thought living rent free in my head is Leon being captured and we finally get to prove our skills!

Make You Proud

Pairing: Dad!Leon Kennedy x Son!Male!Reader

Rating: PG-13/Familial

Words: 2.5k

Content Warning: Kidnapping/Abduction, Violence

A/N: Long time overdue, sorry!

Enjoy, Reader

The warehouse smelled like wet concrete and rust, with that chemical sweetness that pinched the back of your throat before you even made it past the loading door. Leon’s old jacket hung loose on your shoulders, navy fabric brushing your knuckles, one sleeve already torn from squeezing through the fence instead of just going home like anyone with sense.

You told yourself it was reconnaissance. That word sounded official enough to steady your hands for maybe three seconds. Take pictures. Send them to Leon. Prove the black van outside your school wasn’t nothing. Prove you noticed things. Prove you weren’t just the kid he kept behind locked doors and emergency contacts.

The chain on the warehouse door snapped too easily under the crowbar you found. That should have been your first clue. But you were sixteen, scared for your dad, angry at being protected, and desperate to see pride on Leon Kennedy’s face without fear getting in the way.

You told him about the van once. Same fake plumbing logo. Same man with a scar down his cheek, pretending to smoke while watching the school doors.

Leon went still over his coffee, so still the kitchen felt like it lost sound. He asked what the man looked like when you saw him, if he spoke to anyone, and if you touched anything. Then he kissed the top of your head like you were still small enough to fit under his arm and said, You did good telling me. Let me handle it.

He came home near dawn with bruised knuckles, a split lip, and that quiet face he wore when the truth had teeth. The van disappeared the next day. Two days later, a receipt showed up in your locker, folded behind the vent, address and time scrawled across it. Leon would have called it bait. You called it a chance because, apparently, your brain thought the consequences were just decoration.

Pictures. Then leave.

Your phone light crawled over stacked crates, plastic curtains, collapsed shelves, and faded hazard labels. When the biohazard symbol slid into view, black against peeling yellow, your stomach sank.

“Oh, that’s bad,” you whispered.

Your voice vanished into the warehouse rafters.

You should have left. You knew it. Instead, you raised your phone and took one picture, then another, because you wanted to hand Leon something useful. Not a school drawing. Not a birthday card. Not another reason for him to check the locks twice. Evidence. Something from his world, found by you. Maybe then he’d stop looking at you like the universe had a knife with your name on it.

A shoe scraped against concrete somewhere beyond the shelves.

You froze.

Leon’s voice came back from a dozen garage lessons, low and dry and patient in the way he only got when he was trying not to show fear. Panic gets half a second. Then it starts charging rent. Breathe. Look. Decide.

You clicked off the flashlight.

Darkness dropped over you. Another scrape came closer. Your thumb shook over your phone. Face ID failed. Of course, it did. You typed the passcode wrong once, twice, and then a hand clamped hard over your mouth from behind.

You stomped down and threw your elbow back the way Leon had taught you. The man grunted, grip loosening enough for you to tear sideways. Your shoulder slammed into a shelf. Cans rattled overhead, and one crashed to the floor with a bang that cracked through the dark.

“Found him,” someone snapped.

You ran.

Plastic curtains slapped your face as you ran through the aisles. Your phone flew from your hand and skittered under a pallet, glowing once before the dark swallowed it. Footsteps pounded after you. Someone shouted for them to cut you off. You turned hard, almost slipped on wet concrete, and burst into the open center of the warehouse.

A black van waited there with its rear doors open.

The man with the scar stood beside it.

“Well,” he said, smiling like he had been expecting you. “Kennedy’s kid really does take after him.”

Your whole body went cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You climbed a fence, broke a chain, and walked into a condemned warehouse wearing Leon Kennedy’s jacket.” His gaze dragged over you, amused and mean. “That’s either his kid or the saddest fan club I’ve ever seen.”

You swallowed. “I’m just lost.”

“Lost?” He laughed once. “Kid, you found exactly what we wanted you to find.”

The words hit worse than a punch. Your hand tightened around a loose metal pipe near your foot. “If you wanted him, you could’ve gone after him.”

“We have,” Scar-Cheek said. “He’s irritatingly difficult to keep dead, so we thought we’d try something he actually cares about.”

The men moved.

You swung the pipe wildly. It cracked against someone’s arm, and he shouted. You swung again, forcing space for one frantic second, but then a pistol came up and pointed at your chest.

The lights died.

Glass shattered overhead. Something small hit the floor and hissed, thick, white smoke spilling across the concrete. Men shouted. A gun fired once. Then Leon dropped from the overhead walkway and hit the ground as the dark had delivered him.

He moved fast, silent, brutal in the way only he could be. Not flashy. Not clean. Just precise. One man lost his gun before he finished turning. Another hit a support beam hard enough to make dust rain from above. Leon’s hair fell into his eyes, sleeves rolled up, face pale under grime, and when he found you through the smoke, something in his expression broke so fast you almost missed it.

“Down,” he said.

You dropped.

A shot cracked over your head. Leon fired back twice, and someone fell near the van before you could move, an arm locked around your chest from behind, and a knife pressed into your ribs.

Leon turned.

The pistol in his hand stayed raised, but his finger rested along the frame. His eyes moved from your face to the blade, then back to the man behind you.

“Let him go,” Leon said, quiet enough to make your skin prickle.

Scar-Cheek breathed hard against your ear. “You’re late.”

Leon’s jaw flexed. “Traffic was terrible. You know how it is.”

“You make jokes with a knife on your kid?”

“No,” Leon said. “I make jokes so I don’t shoot too early and hit something I love.”

Your breath caught.

Scar-Cheek’s grip tightened. “Tell him to lower the gun.”

Leon’s eyes locked on yours. “Hey. Look at me, not him.”

You tried. The knife nudged your ribs.

“That’s it,” Leon said, his voice steady, but his eyes were terrified. “You’re doing fine. Breathe through your nose. Remember what I taught you.”

“I can’t,” you whispered.

“You can. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to give me half a second.”

Scar-Cheek snarled, “Stop coaching him.”

Leon did not look away from you. “Then stop holding my son like you’re not shaking.”

You felt it then. The tremor in Scar-Cheek’s arm.

Leon’s gaze flicked down once.

The knife arm.

Half a second.

You let your knees give out.

Scar-Cheek cursed as your weight dropped. You grabbed his wrist and twisted away from the blade, messy and panicked but enough. Leon moved at the same time, slamming into him and knocking him away. The knife skidded across the floor. You hit the concrete hard. Scar-Cheek staggered back and yanked something from his vest.

A detonator.

“Dad!”

Leon shot it out of his hand.

For one breath, nothing happened. Then something beneath a tarp began to beep.

A metal case sat wired to a timer.

Forty-eight seconds.

Leon grabbed your arm. “Can you run?”

“Yes.”

He looked straight into your face. “I’m not asking for the brave answer. Can you run?”

“Yes,” you said, stronger. “I can run.”

“Good. Stay on my left. Don’t look back unless I tell you.”

You ran.

Leon guided you through the smoke, one hand on your shoulder whenever you faltered. Shots cracked somewhere behind you. Leon fired once without slowing. The exit appeared ahead, gray with night air. You stumbled through it and twisted your ankle on gravel, but Leon caught you, half carrying you behind a concrete barrier.

He shoved you down and covered you with his body as the warehouse blew.

Heat rolled over the barrier. Glass rained across the asphalt. The world shrank to ringing sound, smoke, and the weight of your father shielding you from the blast. When the night finally came back, ash drifted down like dirty snow. Leon pushed himself up and checked you over with shaking hands, turning your face toward the light, pressing along your ribs, searching for blood.

“Dad,” you said.

His hand froze against your cheek.

Then you saw the red soaking through his sleeve. “You’re hit.”

“It’s a graze.”

“That definitely still means you’ve been hit.”

Leon blinked once, like he wanted to be mad but had briefly lost the thread. “You picked now to develop bedside manner?”

“You picked now to get shot.”

His mouth tightened, and the almost-humor vanished. “You had one job tonight. Stay home.”

Your throat closed. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice stayed quiet, which made it hurt more. “You walked into a trap built for you. You saw biohazard labels and kept going. You lost your phone. You let them move you toward a van. Do you understand what almost happened?”

“I was trying to help you.”

“You think this helped me?” His eyes flashed, fear finally showing its claws. “You think watching a man put a knife against my son helped me?”

“I found the place.”

“They wanted you to find it.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You should have suspected it.”

“I’m sixteen, Dad.” Your voice cracked. “You keep acting like I’m old enough to know danger but too young to do anything about it. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Leon went still.

You wiped at your face, furious that your eyes were wet. You come home bleeding and say it’s nothing. You check the windows like someone’s coming. You teach me how to break out of holds, then act shocked when I think I might need to use it. I just wanted you to look at me and think I could handle something.

Leon looked away, jaw tight. When he spoke again, the anger had dulled into something heavier. “I do think you can handle things. That’s what scares me.”

You stared at him.

“I think you’re smart,” he said. “Too smart when rules annoy you. I think you’re brave. I think you notice things most adults miss. And I think if I’m not careful, you’ll confuse being capable with being disposable.”

Your chest ached.

Leon stepped closer. “You are not my backup. You are not my partner. You are not the person who has to bleed so I hurt less. You are my son. That means my first job is getting you home alive, even when you hate me for it.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You were considering it when I mentioned the parent portal.”

Despite everything, a weak laugh slipped out. “That was betrayal.”

“That was responsible parenting.”

“That was espionage.”

“That was a website.”

You laughed again, smaller this time. Then Leon swayed, just enough to make your stomach drop.

“You need a medic,” you said.

“I need you where I can see you.”

“The ambulance is coming. You can see me from there.”

He gave you a look. “Do not start sounding reasonable after breaking into a bioterror warehouse. It’s tacky.”

Sirens wailed closer. Leon’s expression softened when he saw your hands shaking. “Come here.”

You hesitated.

“I’m still furious,” he said, quieter. “But I need to hug my kid before the feds get here and turn this into paperwork.”

That broke you a little.

You stepped into him, and Leon pulled you close with his uninjured arm. He held you carefully at first, then tighter when you gripped his shirt. You were nearly as tall as him now, but under the smoke and flashing lights, you felt small enough to fit under his coat again.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I wanted you to be proud.”

Leon’s hand pressed to the back of your head. “I am proud of you. I’m just also mad enough to invent a new category of grounding.”

“Can it have a cool name?”

“No.”

“That feels unfair.”

“So did aging ten years in one night.”

The ambulance arrived with police and dark unmarked cars. Leon stood between you and everyone else until a medic bullied both of you onto the back bumper. A blanket landed around your shoulders. The medic cleaned Leon’s arm, and you watched the wound with a sick twist of guilt.

Leon noticed. Of course, he did. “Stop looking at it like you caused it.”

“I kind of did.”

“No. They did.” He paused. “You caused the report.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“The detailed report you’re writing about every bad decision you made tonight.”

“That’s cruel.”

“Single Spaced. Times New Roman. Twelve font.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I am clinging to consequences because the alternative is panicking in front of federal agents.”

You looked at him. He looked away first.

After a moment, you leaned your shoulder against his good arm. “I don’t want you to stop teaching me.”

Leon sighed, long and tired. “I won’t. But we’re doing it properly. First aid, emergency communication, observation, running until you hate me.”

“I already hate running.”

“Then we’re making excellent progress.”

“And after that?”

“After that, we talk.” His eyes sharpened. “Training is not permission to chase danger.”

“I know.”

“You know now,” he said. “I need you to remember it when your pride starts driving the car again.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Across the lot, Scar-Cheek was dragged upright in cuffs. His glare cut toward you. Leon saw it, and his arm tightened around your shoulders, calm going dangerous in an instant.

You slipped your hand under the blanket and found his. He held on immediately.

“You did good at the end,” Leon said, so quietly the sirens almost swallowed it. “When it mattered, you listened.”

Warmth gathered behind your bruised ribs. “Thanks, Dad.”

His fingers squeezed yours. “Don’t make me proud like that again.”

“No promises.”

“Kid.”

“One promise,” you corrected, a tired smile tugging at your mouth.

“That’s a start.”

And under the broken industrial lights, with ash drifting through the cold and Leon’s ruined jacket wrapped around your shoulders, your father sat beside you on the back of an ambulance, bleeding through a bandage and pretending not to hold on too tightly, while you let him pretend.

A/N: I wish I were sixteen again. I hate taxes.

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