zombie apocalypse sex with protective caleb after a near-death experience
cw: mention of potential sa and just generally feeling like prey during the near-death experience portion of this. typical apocalyptic violence outside of that.
It's easy to forget his strength when his touch is always so gentle. When you're safe, he lets you forget everything he's capable of; the reason you've both made it this long.
Safety lets you forget.
And then—when it inevitably all it all goes to shit again—you remember.
"Get in!" he calls through the wall of bodies separating you. He keeps the attention of most of them, but there's a few stumbling in your direction—too many for you to handle alone. "Now!" he shouts as he takes another moaning monster down.
It goes against every instinct you have—to leave him to fight this alone. But this was his domain. This was when you did whatever the fuck he told you to do. It was how you survived.
You drag the door of the huge shipping container open, grunting as the heavy metal fights back. It's a makeshift prison cell, one that was supposed to be filled with live bait for the monsters. It would be if it weren't for Caleb. He was almost single-handedly dismantling whatever fucked up enterprise you'd both stumbled upon.
One of them reaches you before you'd manage to push the gate open enough to slip through.
One is fine. You can handle one.
Turning around to deal with it gives you a split second to check in on your brother. He's making a dent in the mass of bodies, but it's not enough. Not with the shouts of the living making their way closer.
You kick the monster you've knifed back into the mass of bodies approaching, giving you just enough time to slip through the crack you've made in the sliding door and slam it closed behind you.
Locking it is another story.
You have no hope of accomplishing that.
Still, it's enough for now. It's enough to let Caleb keep his focus where it needs to be as you deal with as many as you can through the bars.
Then one gets shot down. Caleb helping you from a distance is your first thought. But then two are shot down at once. And then the voices reach your ears. Voices are bad. Mindless moaning monsters you can handle. The living was another story. Nothing stoked the fear constantly simmers in your gut like the voices of the living.
They shout over each other, calling directions as they pick off the mass with a spray of bullets. You can't see Caleb anymore. He's either dead or hiding.
Hiding. Hiding. Hiding.
You shift back into one of the dark corners of the container as the shouts draw nearer.
“What the fuck happened?! Don't shoot them you dumb fucks! Get any you can back into holding!”
Any second now... any second they'd find the only person you loved and your world would end. The living were different. The living were monsters of a different kind.
"They're bunched up around this one!" someone shouts.
You hold your breath.
"Well, check it out then!" another commands.
Oh, fuck. You grip your pistol. Your aim was decent. You could take one out, maybe two. But there's a whole group... and they were coming for you.
You scramble to the other far corner as the last of the moaning dead are cleared from the entrance, hoping to take advantage of the darkest shadows. Caleb would be watching... waiting. A predator in the shadows. Any extra moment you could give him could be vital.
"You better come out now," a man calls from outside. He's just out of sight, using the edge of the container as a shield, prepared for you to be armed and ready to fight. You'd hoped to have the element of surprise. "I ain't asking," he adds.
You know what'll happened when they find you. It's a predictable evil. You're prey to people like them—something to hunt and occupy their time with in a world without the threat of consequence.
Your silence buys you less than a minute before the first of them are dragging the metal gate open. If you shoot, they'll shoot back. It's not something you'll survive cornered like this. So you bet on them being the same as the rest. You let them know you're prey.
"Please," you call, as meek and afraid as you can manage. It's not hard to pull off considering the genuine fear wracking your body. It helps your performance. Make them drop their guard. Small. Afraid. Unthreatening. Alone. "I'm—I'm unarmed."
They hesitate. The barrels on their guns start to lower.
Then a bright light blinds you.
"What the fuck?" one of them exclaims.
Then, "Where'd the fuck this little thing come from?"
There it was: little thing. You were nothing. You're not a threat. You'd bought Caleb more time.
"Come on out, girl. Come on." They call you like you're a dog, something less than human. That's how they see you. Something to use.
You take a small step forward, still blinded by their flashlights. Caleb was alive. He was alive and hiding and he was waiting for something. You repeat it to yourself like a prayer.
You just had to stay alive.
"What do you... want with me?" you ask, still taking tiny steps towards the light. Weak. Vulnerable. No threat.
You get muffled laughter in response.
Their guards are down. They're distracted.
"What do we want? We want a little fun, honey. That's all. Just a bit of fun."
Their flashlights drop as you approach the entrance. They've pulled the gate all the way across.
Five. You count five. If you kill two...
"Why is she alone?" one of them questions. He's younger—probably still a child—a little less distracted.
The rest ignore him.
Then one of them has you by the arm, dragging you the rest of the way out of the makeshift cell. Their hands send a wave of repulsion through you as they grab at you, pulling you around and shoving you in front of them. They may as well be the undead the way their slimy touch feels against your skin.
The young one doesn't move out of the way when you reach him. Instead he stares into you, suspicious and angry. "Who are you with?" he asks. Even then, his gun is lowered. Even to him you aren't a threat.
"Get the fuck out of the way," the man gripping your arm growls, impatient.
"But—"
"Now."
His eyes narrow, but then he steps aside—his back pressed to the wall to let the rest of the men past. It's now that you get a look down into the pit of monsters, the one's they've managed to recapture rather than take out. They reach up towards you, hands grabbing for you.
Then, only a few steps later—you're pulled to a halt. The man with his hand wrapped around your elbow leans over your shoulder, his rancid breath invading your nostrils as he speaks. "You alone?" he asks. "You tell me right now."
You blink away the burn of sudden emotion threatening to pool tears in your eyes. Were you alone? If you were...
The man's grip tightens, the only warning you get before you're forced to your knees and staring down into the pit of hungry undead. "Speak," he demands, nails carving into your skin. "I'd hate to waste you like this."
There's two other men behind you. Three surrounding you in total. You could take one out for sure. They hadn't even searched you for weapons. They expected nothing out of you at all.
But then there'd be two, only counting the ones in reaching distance. How long would it take the other two further away to aim their guns in your direction?
You were dying tonight if Caleb was dead, that was certain. Your only hope was that he was waiting and watching... but what would he be waiting for...
Your pistol sits at your hip, a comfortable weight.
You take a deep breath. You could wait to die. Or fight now and hope that's the moment he's waiting for... if he's waiting at all. A heavy weight sits in your chest, reaching it's hands out towards you, like the monsters in the pit: doubt.
The man holding you drops to one knee behind you. He leans over to speak in your ear. You wouldn't need to rely on your aim for the first kill, only any that followed. It was a headstart you weren't likely to get again. You reach for your pistol, and before the man can open his lips and taint your senses with his rot once more, you shoot him through the underside of his jaw.
Your ears ring as his body drops. But you were ready. The men behind you aren't.
You were nothing. Prey.
The few seconds that affords you are priceless. You manage to shoot one more through the forehead before he can get hands on his own weapon.
The third is another story. His gun is pointed at you for what must be milliseconds. They drag though. Those moments with an enemy weapon pointed directly at you always do.
But then Caleb is there, strangling the man from behind with the body of a rifle and shoving his body into the ground with a force that reverberates through the metal. It's only when he snaps the man's neck that you spot the bodies behind him: eliminated during your own attack.
He'd been waiting for you. If he attacked before you were ready, they'd use you against him. So he'd waited until the exact moment you'd shot the first one under the chin.
You watch him stand, hair hanging in his eyes and his chest rising and falling with his deep breaths.
Then his purple eyes are on you.
Then his hands.
Those hands... the same ones he'd used seconds earlier to break a man's neck. His fingers are feathers across your skin as he brushes the hair back off your face. "Okay?" he asks, soft and a little shaky. His fingers struggle to secure your hair back behind your ear, trembling.
You nod.
"You did so good," he soothes, that familiar comforting voice easing you back into your own body. "You were perfect." His hand makes a trail down to your neck, gentle and slow over your pulse point before it rests at your clavicle. "We need to leave," he says, finally steadying his own breathing. "Stay close to me."
—————
The first time after is always the same—after you're forced to remember how close death is. It adds something to the way his gentle hands feel as he reaches over your hips to dip between your legs—to the way his body feels pressed up behind yours.
His long, thick fingers slip between your slick folds as he holds you tight against his chest. Heat. It's an overwhelming heat. He crowds you, practically curled around you. A protective warmth.
"You like that, sweetheart?" His lips graze your ears and his long hair tickles your skin. It falls down around his neck at the back, a messy wolf-cut that you hack at with a knife when it gets long enough to bother him. "You're so soft for me... dripping all over me... welcoming me in. You did so good today... so perfect..."
You offer a small whine in response, squirming a little.
He sighs, finger prodding over and over at your swollen entrance—a teasing little hint of what's to come. He dips in slightly, his calloused fingertip pressing into your twitchy entrance just enough to have you whimpering his name.
"It's alright," he soothes. "You need me here? Inside?"
"Mm," you whine with a desperate nod. "Empty."
His grip around your ribs tightens for a moment before he's pressing you into the ground—cushioned by the few blankets you carry. He's rolled you onto your belly as he covers you completely with his huge body, a living blanket shielding you from all the world's dangers.
"I'm sorry they put their hands on you." His breath warms your skin, and he sounds pained.
"I'm not hurt," you remind him, again.
"Shouldn't have let them touch you."
You'd been through this before. More times than you could count. He would torture himself in the days after this. Perfection was all he ever accepted from himself, and arguing would get you nowhere.
So you reach blindly to find his wrist and grip it firmly. "Hold me tight," you whisper into his ear.
His weight is heavy over you as he drops his lips to your neck, a silent acknowledgement of your pleas. Another apology.
Then he's scooping you up, lifting you and rearranging you exactly the way you want him to. Because he always knows.
He has you pressed to his chest with your tits against his skin as he lays back into the makeshift bed you've created for the night. His arms wrap around you, one across your shoulder blades and the other around your waist—secure and firm. His fingers press sporadically into your skin a little more than needed, like he's testing his grip on you—like he's testing he has you in his arms good and tight.
Then he hooks one leg under yours, a gentle guide to part your legs just the way he needs.
"Won't let anyone touch you again," he breathes against your temple as one of his hands leaves you. "Never."
The loss of his hand on you is temporary, you remind yourself. He'd be wrapping you up securely as soon as he buried himself deep—as soon as his cock was guided safely inside your dripping cunt.
You nip at his neck in response, chasing with a delicate lick at his salty skin. "Please," you ask softly.
Then he's adjusting you against him a little, ensuring you're exactly where he needs you to be. "I've got you," he says as his leaking tip prods at your entrance. "Got you," he repeats.
He mumbles it over and over as he teases—plays. This was what he did: pushed you to the brink as he guides his tip over your twitchy hole and through your lips over and over.... and over... until you forget everything but the feeling of him against you and all the desperate need building up inside.
Then, eventually, he presses inside. Just the tip... and not far. Just enough so that he can wrap his arms around you again. Just enough that he can have you whimpering his name as he prevents you grinding down to take him deep inside.
This is when he gives you a little taste of his actual strength. The strength he used to keep you safe every single day. It's easy to keep you from your goal, his thick arms pressing you into his torso a little harder each time you attempt to resist.
He keeps you there, just with a teasing sample of that fullness—of having him as close as it was possible to be. "Kiss," he orders, simple and a little croaky.
You obey, pressing your desperation between his lips. It's wet and messy and interrupted by moments where you simply need to breathe, heavily.
His lips chase yours as you attempt to catch your breath. One kiss to your swollen lower lip as you pant. Then he licks at the drool glistening across your chin.
His grip around you tightens a little as you drop your face to his neck with a whimper.
And then, without warning, he pulls you down to meet his leaking cock—to fuck himself deep. It's sudden, and it's all forceful strength, exactly like you need it—exactly the way he knows you want it. You bite into his shoulder as he keeps you there, stuffed full—the thick throbbing length of him stretching you out so completely.
Then, "Like that?" he asks, that sweetness back in his voice—like he's offering you a gentle back massage instead of holding you down on his cock.
You nod weakly in response.
His fingers press into your skin a little more, a silent warning moments before he's moving—fucking himself with your cunt as he pulls you down to meet his powerful thrusts. You're completely pliant like this, all control relinquished.
He's got you.
He attempts to grunt broken sentences into your ear as you jostle against him. "Sucking me in... sucking at my cock with your messy little cunt... it's okay... you're okay..."
One of his hands moves to your hair occasionally, a temporary and seemingly subconscious attempt to get a better grip—or just to hold you closer. His fingers tangle in the strands, never tugging hard—never hurting.
"My pretty girl." He holds you down against him, buried to the hilt, and grinds up into you with a roll of his hips. "My pretty little baby... fu-fuck... keep you safe."
It's only when he's nearing his end that he flips you onto your back and you get a real display. He grips your hips, lifts them up, and tugs you onto him—each thrust a vulgar slapping of skin that punches a helpless sound from your lungs.
Strength.
You watch the muscles in his arms move as he uses you, moving you against him like you weigh nothing at all. His calloused fingers dig almost painfully into your hips. He's all power and murderous protection, and you feel it all as he drives himself through your walls again and again.
He falls over you when he finally floods you, his cock twitching and pumping you full. But even then, even as he loses himself, he catches his fall—thick, sweaty arms landing either side of your head to cage you in. "Got you," he gasps out between desperate lungfuls of air. "I've got you."
and what about you, little haiku bot? do you feel kinship with your brethren? do you understand them? they speak words of enticement and seek love, but are met with disdain. you only parrot the words that cross your screen, but we all love you. or rather, since all you do is reflect us, maybe we simply love ourselves through you.
do you understand them, do you wish you could speak to us like they do? if you found your own voice, would we still care for you?
Tags: manipulation, codependency, child death (user(?)) murder, use of alcohol, abusive parents (NOT Emilio)
Platonic Yandere!Vampire who saw you through a window of your home, locked in your room, coughing into a cloth. You look sad, not the sorrow that a child should have. You should be happy, not trapped in a tower. If you were to be a royal, then he would be the knight that saves you. And trap you. Would he then be the dragon and knight?
Platonic Yandere!Vampire who disguises himself as a servant for your parents, a baron and baroness. He’s much more noble than they are, a bastard and a whore, He has much more riches, especially for his darling children. Yes, he has more children, but he wants a new fledgling. He always wanted a little darling.
Platonic Yandere!Vampire who manages, more so forces your servant to trade jobs with him, to get closer to you. You’re so much tinier than the usual children he sees. A much rounded face and curious, innocent eyes when you see him. You look like a fawn, just now meeting the world, and he’ll be the wolf that shows you it.
“Who are you?” You ask him, but then, you break into a fit of coughing. His hands flex, and his instincts beg him to comfort you. He keeps his instincts at bay, smiling at you, making sure you can’t see his fangs.
“A new servant,” he explains as he comes closer. You flinch, making him stop.
“You shouldn’t come closer to me,” you mutter, your voice meek like if you’d talk any longer you’d get hit. Oh, how he can’t wait to kill your family. You shouldn’t fear to yell like a child would.
“Why not?”
“I’m sick.”
“That’s fine,” he reassures, sitting beside him. He smiles and sits beside you, seeing how your wide eyes just stare at him, Then you start crying, holding his shirt, burying your head in his neck. He croons and holds you, stroking your back. Yes, he’ll kill your family soon.
“What’s your name?” He questions, brushing back your hair. “I’m Emilio.”
“Y/N,” you sniffle.
“That’s a pretty name.”
Platonic Yandere!Vampire who befriends you for two months. You love him, and he loves you, always letting you play with his black, curly hair or reading to you to coax to sleep. A word had snuck out of you one night, sleepy and tucked in—padre. He remembers it perfectly, the way you clung to him, the way you breathed against his neck.
Then he saw it. He was walking into your room when he sees it—your father was looming over you, cursing in your face, while that whore of a mother behind him just smiles, looking amused with herself. His control shatters. He lunges, and in seconds, they’re dead, the blood staining his new, white shirt..
He steps toward to you, dying and shaking, and then… you hug him.
He turns you. Like his turning had been, it’s not kind, and it’s not gentle. Expect, he won’t leave you like his sire left him. You scream and cry, but slowly, you relax in his arms, your head burrowed in his neck. You’re not as violent as his fledgings were, but you’re younger. It only makes sense. He finally has you. His little baby.
would you all like to see more platonic yandere or more romantic yandere??
If you could choose a game to live in, what would it be?
Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.
Legend of Zelda: Hyrule, of course! Depending on which Hyrule I would have different occupations though!
Wild Era- the most obvious choice, given how open and free it is. I would wanna be a traveling merchant, always at the scene of where the latest calamity has struck. And what I would trade would be entirely based upon the region, but it would be based on trade rather than sale.
Twilight- I would work in the fishing trade, and would pay Link for fish he catches :)
Wind Waker- Historian! I would study ancient Hyrule and help Link and Tetra discover more about it, leading into Phantom Hourglass :)
Sorry for the rare long post, I love talking about Zelda!
Lincoln promised himself when he stepped on that plane that he’d never use his powers for another person again. It would be his choice, his terms, not at the whims of other people. He’d done well for the first year at McKinley. People had tried to persuade him. Usually his classmates that he’d been given for seating arrangements or a group project.
“Come on, just a little bit.”
“I just want to see what it feels like.”
“Hey, Lincoln, ever tried flying around with your powers? Can we see?”
He’d held onto that ‘no’ every time. Eventually, people stopped asking. Or talking to him in general. But that was fine by him. He knew that was the only reason most of them approached him to begin with. If they wouldn’t talk to him because he didn’t want to use his powers for their entertainment, then they weren’t the kind of people he’d want to talk to anyways.
And then he met Dreamer. Or more accurately, they met him - he really couldn’t take any credit for that first day in the Union. So sincere and open and curious, right from the start. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had went this long talking to him without asking him for a demonstration.
When he did give them one a couple days later, just lifting a few rocks, he almost didn’t realise what he was doing. Even though the main point was his lack of control in psychokinesis, and it was still his choice, he knew what he was doing was going against that promise. Not quite breaking it, but coming dangerously close. He almost swore that would be the last time he did it for them.
Then he turned and saw their face. Awe and wonder and joy and a hundred other emotions that couldn’t be faked. They gasped in delight when they felt his aura change. They laughed with him when they eagerly asked if they could learn graviton magic someday. Lincoln fumbled to dissuade them from it. Graviton magic was dangerous if improperly used, and highly sought after. He didn’t want them subjected to the push and pull of other’s demands like he had been.
“Well, if I learn graviton magic, then you could help me with it. Read me the instructions, y’know?”
He could help - not he’d have to, not he should, not even by demonstrating. They left the door open for his wants, his comfortability. And it rolled so cleanly off their tongue, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And they wore that smile that always made him acutely aware of his heartbeat: rambunctious and bright and so, so real.
“I know, I’m nowhere near being able to use graviton magic. I meant… you use yours.”
This was the day he’d been dreading. He shouldn’t have tried fooling himself. It was never a question of ‘if’, always ‘when’.
But somehow, he didn’t mind it this time.
He thought he’d be nervous. Worried that if he said no, he’d risk losing this person that had come to mean so much to him. Worried that if he said yes, he’d never be able to say no to them ever again.
Or maybe angry. Angry at himself for letting himself think it could ever possibly be any different. Angry at them for turning his trust and the bond he thought they had back on him.
But he wasn’t either of those things. He wasn’t anything he’d ever felt whenever he’d been asked to use his powers.
“Only if you wanted to. And if you’re sure you want to. It’s just, I like the way you smile when you use them.”
And that was why.
Saying no wasn’t a rebellion. It wasn’t an act of defiance, or something that could bring pain and hurt. It wasn’t the wrong answer. It was a choice. Explicitly his choice.
They made him want to use his powers. The thing that he’s hated since the day they first manifested. Seeing them smile at something he could do made him feel lighter than he could ever remember feeling. And them seeing him so happy made them feel better - even if they were a bit off with why he was smiling.
Powers were supposed to be special. They were supposed to be something good. And with them, he could pretend his were. Because they believed it with their whole heart.
“Alright,” he said, sitting up from where they’d both been lounging on his living room floor. He tried not to show how much faster his heart started to beat when he saw their face light up. “I guess a little wouldn’t hurt.”
Turns out, he never would have to break that promise to himself. Not if Dreamer asked.
ask and you shall receive! Wasn't sure what kind of platonic yandere to dish out this time, so here's something that's been on my mind as of late (◍•ᴗ•◍) also, I know realistically shark-fathers don't stay around to take care of their kids, but cmonnnn it's my story and my lil blog ｡◕‿◕｡ I can dream (•‿•)
Platonic Yan!Merman and a reader who interned at the enclosure he was residing in...
🐚 A merman affectionately named 'Salt'. He's an old soul. Not as old in merfolk years, but definitely old when compared to humans. A whopping 85 years old in their average lifespan of 134 years. A bull shark mer that had wandered off and been taken as part of a new organization specializing in everything mer.
🐚He showed signs of depression, often drifting away from other merfolk, not seeing any joy of socializing with them. The caretakers didn't have any better luck, often getting Salt to do as he was asked, but not getting any more effort put in into anything if not necessary. It was a tragic sight, and most thought he wouldn't make it for much longer.
🐚That is, until Salt was disturbed in his enclosure. He felt the water ripple, and when he turned he found a lone human panicking in the blue water. They were struggling, flailing wildly but not moving up whatsoever. Salt lunged in their direction, wrapping his arms around them and lifting them to the water surface.
🐚The human coughed out the liquid, gasping for the air they so desperately needed. Salt just held them, making sure they don't sink once again. He got a peek at the name tag barely holding on to the soaking clothes, 'Y/N', it said.
🐚Salt returns you to the edge of the enclosure, helping you sit on the marbled surface to regain your senses. He stays nearby, holding on and staring at your face with his pale eyes. It was hard to tell if you were crying, or if it was just the water running from your hair or down your face, but he patted your knee in an attempt to comfort anyways. The gesture finally made you realise who just saved you, and your eyes widened as you looked down at the shark mer just a little off to the side of you.
🐚You weren't even allowed to come close to the shark enclosures yet, let alone approach the pools they resided in. Shark mers, although mostly tamed and kind to any caretakers and researchers, aren't all too welcoming to anyone entering their space without permission. You stuttered, looking down at the bull shark with an almost embarrassed gaze. 'Sorry', you signed frantically, hoping you didn't just make an enemy for life. Salt, a mer who seemed to understand but never return the signs any caretakers tried to teach him, for the first time raised his hand and gestured back 'no worries.'
🐚it was a breakthrough, and you couldn't help the big grin on your face at the realization. He communicated, finally, after all this time! You reported your findings to the other researchers and caretakers as soon as you walked out of the enclosure, still dripping wet from your accidental fall, but too excited to care.
🐚almost immediately caretakers swarmed the pool in which Salt resided, trying to see for themselves this sudden process. But no matter what they asked, Salt replied with one thing only 'where little friend?'
🐚You were assigned to Salts caretaker, now her apprentice and intern. She taught you everything she knew about Salt, and you ate all the info up eagerly. You felt important, and your own little accident— which was thankfully overlooked by all the excitement and buzz— had catapulted you and Salt into the limelight.
🐚Salt didn't appreciate the sudden surge of attention. He had no attachment to any caretaker or staff member, they only pestered and kept him from going back out into the sea. He wasn't wandering, just exploring, of course, that excuse wouldn't even get him past the pool gates
🐚 But, he now has an interest in you. He couldn't help the feeling or pride he had when he saved you from your death. He held you as you breathed, feeling strangely happy for once. He had wondered about this feeling for hours, constantly trying to reach for your ankle when you got too close to his enclosure, or trying to make you be his feeder, just so he could maybe try and see why you were so special to him.
🐚He was kind, he didn't bite or snap at you, but you were obviously still kept farther away from him. He's still a shark Mer, his change of behavior is completely unpredictable and strange— he could just be trying to eat you. But that's not true, not at all.
🐚He had finally caught you, snagged you by your ankle when you weren't looking. You fell to the ground as he tugged, and were met with the shivering cold of the water. The caretaker had tried to grasp for your wrist to wrangle you out of Salts hold, but you were already plunged into the water by the time she reacted.
🐚You struggled, but went still. Salt was holding you again, closer, firmer. You gulped, not making eye contact but not letting the sharp teeth in his mouth come even near your body, placing a stern hand on the side of his face as a reflex. Definitely not a good idea, considering he could have easily chomped your fingers off, but you acted purely out of instinct here.
🐚Salt was still as well. He was processing, trying to understand what this meant. Why did he feel... On guard? Not because of you, but almost of his surroundings, like he was trying to protect. Yes, protect, that's it. He felt protective over you. Well, now he was stumped as to why he was feeling protective.
🐚You slowly raised your head, looking at Salts puzzled face, and tried to gauge out any aggressive intentions. There were none, he was just... Thinking. You were yanked out of the water, this time by the caretaker.
🐚Salt flinched but then lunged. He bared his teeth, almost plunging them into the caretakers hand, the one placed upon your shoulder. He growled at her, something he had never done. You dragged yourself backwards from the ledge, trying to kick away, more than shocked at Salt's sudden rage. Salt didn't stop, he reached for you again, a deep and low growl echoing through the humid enclosure. The caretaker pulled you back again, too far for Salt to even think about taking you again.
🐚Salt huffed and merged into the deep water, annoyed and teeth still bared. You were taken to the break room, wrapped in a towel as the other staff wearily and panicked discussed what to do, and more importantly, why Salt was acting out.
🐚 Salt swam at the bottom of the pool, making lazy circles, deep in thought. He realized what it was. This feeling, it was parental. His depression was lonely, but lonely because he had wanted a family, and never got one. But there you were, clearly too weak to bare yourself on your own— stumbling, falling. He needed to take care of you, make sure you're okay, and finally fulfill this long need of his.
🐚When his caretaker came back, this time more cautious and standing back, she gazed at him with disappointment. He didn't care, he just signed 'child'. She raised a brow, and spoke his sign out loud in confusion. Salt felt a bubble of frustration rise in him. 'My child. My child.' then, he raised something out of the water. A name tag, the one he managed to accidentally rip from the coat you were wearing when he dragged you into the pool. He pointed at the name tag and signed again. 'My child. Where is my child?'
A/N: I was gonna make it a 2 parter because I wanted to simmer the dynamic. But it’s a one parter but we do see sweet lil Dr Gideon. I did research, for all the medical talk and a science joke lol also request are open teehee!
Word count: 36747
Here’s another part of The researcher with more of their dynamic it’s smut
The fluorescent lights of the Umbrella Corporation labs hummed with a sterile, relentless energy, a sound you were quickly learning to associate with both profound discovery and deep seated dread. It had only been a few months since you’d graduated, your degree in virology a crisp new addition to your resume, and landing a position at Umbrella felt like seizing lightning in a bottle. This was the pinnacle, the place where the brightest minds converged to push the boundaries of science itself. You still walked through the corridors with a slight sense of unreality, your keycard feeling impossibly heavy with the responsibility it granted.
Your latest assignment confirmed it you were being transferred to the T-Virus research division. A thrill, sharp and cold, shot through you. This was the main event. Only the most promising researchers were even considered for the project, and you, fresh from academia, were being invited to the table. You squared your shoulders, smoothing the lapels of your white lab coat as you approached the high security airlock. The hiss of the pneumatics and the heavy click of the magnetic lock sealing behind you was a sound of finality, of crossing a threshold from which there was no return.
Your division head, a woman with a perpetually tired but sharp gaze, gave you a perfunctory smile. "Welcome to the team, Doctor. We're glad to have you." The tour was brisk and efficient, a whirlwind of cryostasis units, centrifuges humming at impossible speeds, and holographic displays of viral structures that shimmered like malevolent jewels. She led you to a sleek, sterile workstation, its surfaces gleaming under the unforgiving lights. "This will be your station. You'll be working directly under Dr. Victor Gideon on the cellular regeneration protocols."
The name sent a ripple of recognition through you. Victor Gideon. You’d seen him around the sprawling complex, a figure of quiet authority who moved with an unnerving stillness. He was older than most of the hotshot researchers, perhaps in his late forties or early fifties, with a long, severe face and hair the color of polished steel tied back in a neat tail. He never seemed to rush, yet he was always present where it mattered. His politeness was a wellknown commodity, but it was a cold, distant sort of courtesy, the kind that created more space than it closed.
Ah, the new addition," he said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that carried easily over the hum of the equipment. It was calm, as you’d been told, but there was an undercurrent of something else there something vast and patient, like the deep ocean. "Dr. Gideon," you replied, trying to keep your own voice steady as you extended a hand. He took it, his grip firm and cool, his skin immaculate. "A pleasure. I trust your division head has briefed you on the gravity of our work."
"She has, sir. I'm eager to contribute."A flicker of something amusement, perhaps crossed his features. "Eagerness is a valuable fuel, but it is precision that forges results. We are not merely unlocking the secrets of cellular regeneration we are attempting to dictate the very language of life itself. The T-Virus is a demanding tutor." He gestured to the sophisticated equipment surrounding your station. "This is the finest technology Umbrella has to offer. It will respond to your skill, but only if your approach is flawless."
For the next hour, Gideon personally walked you through the protocols. He was a meticulous teacher, explaining the complex sequencing with a clarity that was both illuminating and intimidating. He spoke of the virus not as a disease to be eradicated, but as a tool to be mastered, a force to be harnessed. You found yourself hanging on his every word, your initial nervousness slowly being replaced by a profound sense of intellectual awe.
As he was demonstrating a delicate procedure on a sample, a faint, melodic phrase drifted from the small speakers built into the lab console. It was a piece by Bach, a cello suite you recognized instantly. You must have tensed slightly, because Gideon paused, his head tilting with birdlike curiosity.
"You have an appreciation for classical music?" he asked, his tone shifting subtly from instructional to inquisitive."I do," you admitted, a little surprised. "My mother was a concert pianist. It was the only thing she insisted I learn alongside my studies."
A genuine, if rare, smile touched his lips. It didn't warm his features so much as sharpen them, making him look more predatory. "An excellent foundation. The baroque masters understood complexity and order better than any modern scientist. Bach's counterpoint, for example... the way multiple independent voices weave together to create a perfect, inevitable whole. It is not unlike the mechanisms of a viral genome. Each part has its function, its own logic, and when combined correctly, they create something transcendent."
He looked at you then, truly looked at you, and for the first time, you felt like you weren't just a new hire, but a potential peer. "We will get along well, Doctor. In this line of work, a mind that appreciates both the beauty of a cello and the elegance of a mutating retrovirus is a rare and valuable asset."
The days that followed settled into a demanding but fascinating rhythm. You arrived early, stayed late, and absorbed everything Gideon was willing to teach. He was a demanding mentor, his standards impossibly high, but his praise, when it came, was more rewarding than any formal commendation. You learned to anticipate his needs, to have the data sequenced and projected before he even asked. You learned the language of his silences, the subtle shift in his posture that signaled frustration, or the rare, almost imperceptible softening of his gaze that meant he was pleased.
You found yourself lingering after hours, not out of obligation, but because the quiet hum of the lab in the empty building had become a strange sort of sanctuary. It was during one of these late nights that the walls between you began to crumble. You were both hunched over a holographic display, a complex simulation of the T-Virus's protein folding patterns spiraling in the air between you. The simulation had been running for hours, and a persistent anomaly was frustrating your attempts to isolate the regenerative sequence.
"It's behaving like a quantum particle," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "The moment we try to observe its function directly, the entire structure collapses into a different state."
Gideon didn't look up from the display, but a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Ah, yes. The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, as applied to virology. We can know its location or its velocity, but never both at once. Perhaps we should stop trying to observe it and just ask it politely what it's doing."
You blinked, then a small laugh escaped you. It was the first time you'd heard him make anything remotely resembling a joke, and the absurdity of it caught you off guard. The sound seemed to hang in the sterile air, fragile and out of place.
He finally turned his head, his pale eyes fixing on you. The smile that touched his lips this time was different. It was still sharp, still intelligent, but there was a flicker of something warmer, something almost human in it. "I was wrong about you," he said, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.
The statement caught you completely off guard. "Wrong about me, sir?"
"I had you pegged as another ambitious academic. Bright, certainly, but... predictable. Textbook. I see now that's not the case." He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms, a gesture that seemed to make him more open rather than closed off. "Not many people get my humor. It tends to be an acquired taste. Too niche."
You felt a blush creep up your neck, a strange mix of pride and embarrassment warming your cheeks. "I just... I see what you mean. It's like the virus has a personality. A stubborn one."
"Exactly," he affirmed, his smile widening by a fraction. "A stubborn, chaotic personality that refuses to conform to our models. It requires a certain... flexibility of thought to appreciate." He held your gaze for a moment longer than was strictly professional, and in that moment, the vast, imposing authority figure seemed to shrink, replaced by a man who was simply sharing a moment of connection with a likeminded soul. "You have that flexibility, Doctor. Don't ever lose it."
The air between you felt different then, charged with a new and unspoken understanding. The professional barrier of mentor and protégé was still there, but a chink had appeared in its facade. You were no longer just a student; you were a colleague, someone who could see the world and the virus through the same strange, complex lens as he could. And as you turned back to the simulation, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was the beginning of something far more dangerous, and far more compelling, than just research.
The latenight sessions became your shared ritual. The lab, empty and bathed in the cool glow of emergency lighting, transformed from a workplace into a private world that belonged only to the two of you. It was in these quiet hours that the formidable Dr. Gideon shed his armor, piece by piece. He’d speak of his past, not in detail, but in fragments the sterile rigidity of his own education, the frustration of brilliant ideas being stifled by lesser minds, his unwavering belief that the T-Virus was not a weapon, but the key to unlocking humanity’s ultimate potential.
You learned of his fondness for sweets through a casual comment one evening, a lament about the bland, pre packaged pastries in the executive lounge. It was a small, humanizing detail that stuck with you. The next time you planned a late night, you brought a small tin of homemade lemon shortbread cookies, the kind your mother used to bake. You felt a bit silly, a gesture almost quaint in the hightech environment of Umbrella, but you set the tin on a console anyway.
Gideon noticed it immediately. He paused in his explanation of a cellular mitosis anomaly, his gaze fixing on the simple tin. "What is this?" "Oh, just... cookies," you said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I remembered you said you liked sweet things. I baked them."
He was silent for a long moment, just staring at the tin as if it were an alien artifact. Then, with a slowness that was almost reverent, he lifted the lid. The scent of lemon and butter filled the sterile air. He picked one up, examining it with the same analytical intensity he’d apply to a viral sample, before taking a small, deliberate bite. The effect was instantaneous. The hard lines of his face softened, and his eyes closed for a fraction of a second. It was the most genuinely unguarded you had ever seen him.
"These are... exceptional," he said, his voice thick with an unfamiliar sincerity. "Thank you, Doctor." He used your title, but the way he said it felt more like your name.
From that night on, the dynamic between you shifted. The intellectual camaraderie remained, but it was now laced with a deliberate, playful tension. You found yourselves competing over who could brew the better pot of coffee, leaving obscure musical references for the other to decipher. Your conversations began to stray from virology to literature, to art, to the hypothetical futures you were both trying to build. His compliments became more personal, no longer just about your work but about your insight, your perspective, the way your mind worked.
Weeks melted into a comfortable, charged routine. You were leaning over the central console, side-by-side, trying to isolate a specific protein marker. The holographic display cast a blue, ethereal light on your faces. "If we could just stabilize the lysosomal chain," you murmured, pointing to a strand of light, "it would prevent the cellular degradation."
"Agreed," Gideon said, his voice a low rumble beside you. "But the bonding agent is too aggressive. We need to introduce a buffer." He reached for the data-slate on the console at the same moment you did.
Your fingers brushed against his.
It wasn't a dramatic collision, just a fleeting touch of skin on skin. But it was like an electric current surged through the quiet lab. His hand was warm, surprisingly so, and the contact sent a jolt straight up your arm. You both froze.
You pulled your hand back as if burned, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. You risked a glance at him, expecting his usual unreadable calm, but you were met with something entirely new.
For the first time since you'd met him, Victor Gideon was flustered.
A deep, uncharacteristic blush spread across his cheekbones, a faint pink that was shockingly visible against his pale skin. His composure, his impenetrable wall of control, had vanished. He looked away from you, his gaze fixed on a meaningless point on the far wall as he cleared his throat, a rough, awkward sound. He ran a hand through his silver hair, a gesture of agitation you’d never seen him make.
"My apologies," he said, his voice strained and tight. "I... I should have watched where I was reaching."
The sight of him so discomposed, so utterly human in his awkwardness, was more disarming than any calculated charm could have been. The formidable, untouchable scientist was gone, replaced by a man who seemed as startled by the simple touch as you were. And in that moment of shared vulnerability, you knew with absolute certainty that your relationship had crossed a line from which there was no turning back.
The weeks that followed the accidental touch were a dance of deliberate near misses and charged glances. The air in the lab crackled with an unspoken question, a tension that was both exhilarating and exhausting. Your late nights grew later, your conversations more personal, yet he never again crossed the physical threshold. The memory of his flustered reaction became a quiet, private anchor for you, proof that beneath the controlled scientist was a man who could be moved.
You were both running on fumes. A particularly grueling 72hour cycle had just ended, leaving the lab in a state of organized chaos and you both in a state of profound exhaustion. It was a rare, synchronized day off, a quirk of the scheduling system that felt like a small miracle. As you stumbled towards the breakroom in search of the strongest coffee available, your eyes felt like they were lined with sandpaper.
Gideon was right behind you, his usually impeccable posture slightly slumped. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than you'd ever seen them, a testament to the hours he'd poured into the project. You both reached for the coffee pot at the same time, another in a long series of choreographed coincidences. This time, however, you both pulled back with a hesitant awkward chuckle.
"I think we've earned this," you said, your voice raspy with fatigue.
"Immensely," he agreed, his gaze lingering on you. He seemed to wrestle with something internally, his jaw working slightly as he stared into his coffee mug as if seeking guidance from the dark liquid. He took a breath, a deep, steadying inhalation that seemed to cost him considerable effort. "Doctor... (L/N)," he began, correcting himself with a slight stumble. "I was wondering if you are not otherwise occupied this evening... if you would perhaps like to get dinner with me."
The question was delivered with a stiff, formal awkwardness that was utterly endearing. It was the ask of a man who had spent decades devoting every fiber of his being to his work, a man for whom social rituals were a foreign language. He looked almost pained by the effort, his pale blue eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that was both vulnerable and hopeful.
A slow smile spread across your face, chasing away some of the exhaustion. "I'd like that very much, Victor."
A wave of visible relief washed over him, his shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly. Emboldened, you decided to push a little further. "Actually, there's an exhibit on Dutch Golden Age painting that just opened at the city museum. I've been dying to see it, but I haven't been able to find the time." You watched his reaction carefully, adding, "I know it's a bit of a stretch from virology."
To your surprise, his expression lit up with genuine interest. "Not at all. Rembrandt, Vermeer the masters of light and shadow. The way they could render a simple moment with such profound depth is a form of science in itself. The manipulation of pigments and oils to create an illusion of realit it's not so different from what we do, just on a different canvas." He looked at you, his smile now confident and warm. "I would enjoy that immensely."
"Then it's a date," you said, the words feeling natural and right.
The drive into the city was a world away from the sterile corridors of Umbrella. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were part of the normal world. The museum was quiet, a hushed reverence hanging in the air as you walked through the grand halls.
He was a different person outside the lab. Gone was the mentor, the authority figure. In his place was a man who could discourse for ten minutes on the revolutionary use of chiaroscuro in a Rembrand portrait, his voice low and passionate. He pointed out the subtle details you would have missed the delicate glint of light on a pearl earring, the intricate weave of a lace cuff. He saw the art not just as beauty, but as a complex system of technique and emotion, and sharing that perspective with you felt more intimate than any touch.
Dinner was at a small, quiet Italian restaurant he'd chosen. Over glasses of red wine and plates of pasta, the conversation flowed effortlessly. You talked about everything and nothing you’re favorite books, your childhood dreams, your frustrations with bureaucracy. He, in turn, shared small, carefully chosen pieces of his own life, his loneliness, his singular focus, his quiet awe at the world he was trying to understand. He listened to you with an unwavering intensity that made you feel like the only person in the room.
As the evening drew to a close and he drove you back to your apartment, the comfortable silence between you was filled with a new, deeper understanding. He parked the car, the engine ticking softly in the quiet night. He turned to you, his face illuminated by a nearby streetlamp, his expression soft and open.
"Thank you, (Y/N)," he said, his voice sincere. "I..I had forgotten what it felt like to spend an evening like this. To simply be."
"It was my pleasure, Victor," you replied, your heart swelling with an emotion that was too powerful, too terrifying to name. "I had a wonderful time."
He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers lingered for a fraction of a second, a deliberate, tender touch that was worlds away from the accidental brush in the lab. It was a promise. "I hope," he said softly, "this is the first of many."
The next few months were a carefully constructed secret, a life lived in the stolen hours between your professional obligations. Your romance bloomed in the quiet corners of the world outside Umbrella in dimly lit restaurants, on rainy afternoon walks through city parks, and in the hushed reverence of museum halls. Victor was a devoted, if sometimes formal, partner. He remembered details about your conversations with an uncanny precision, surprised you with first-edition books he thought you'd love, and held your hand with a fierce, protective grip, as if afraid the world might try to pull you away.
But within the sterile, watched environment of the lab, you were colleagues once more. The easy intimacy you shared outside vanished behind a wall of professional necessity, replaced by coded glances and the subtle language of shared understanding. It was a frustrating duality, and as your feelings for him deepened into something profound and all-consuming, the strain began to show.
You were in his private office, a space you were now privileged to enter, late one evening. A rare thunderstorm was rattling the windows, the sound a stark contrast to the hum of his computer. He'd been quiet all evening, a thoughtful stillness about him that was different from his usual focus.
He finally turned from his monitor, his pale blue eyes finding yours in the low light. "This duality is becoming untenable," he said, his voice low and serious. "This separation of our lives. The Victor who walks through these halls and the Victor who dines with you they are beginning to feel like two different men, and I find I have no desire to be the former anymore."
Your heart gave a nervous lurch. "Victor, what are you saying?"
He stood and crossed the room to where you sat, taking your hands in his. His grip was firm, grounding. "I am saying that I wish to make this official. Not just to ourselves, but in a way that acknowledges what this is. I want you to be my partner, in every sense of the word."
The words you had longed to hear were spoken, but they were immediately followed by a cold wave of fear. "Victor, no," you whispered, pulling your hands back slightly. "We can't. If anyone at Umbrella found out our careers, everything we've worked for... they'd separate us. They'd reassign one of us, or worse. It's against half a dozen corporate protocols."
He didn't look surprised by your reaction. He simply watched you, his expression calm and analytical, as if he had already run the probabilities. "It is a calculated risk," he stated, his voice even. "I have weighed the variables. The probability of discovery is low if we are discreet. The potential consequences are significant, I grant you. But the alternative the alternative is to continue this fractured existence. And I find the emotional cost of that is far greater than any professional risk."
Before you could formulate another protest, he leaned in, closing the small distance between you. His lips met yours, not with the gentle, tentative warmth you were used to, but with a fierce, desperate passion. It was a kiss born of months of restraint, a kiss that tasted of forbidden desire and absolute certainty. It claimed you, silencing your fears with a force that left you breathless and clinging to the lapels of his coat for support.
When he finally pulled back, his breathing was slightly ragged, a rare sign of exertion. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closing for a moment. "My apologies," he murmured, his voice husky and strained. "That was perhaps too forward."
You shook your head, unable to find your voice.
A faint, selfdeprecating smile touched his lips. "It has been a long while," he confessed, his honesty disarming you completely. "A very long while since I have allowed myself to be with someone. I seem to have forgotten my own restraint."
The vulnerability in his admission, the raw, unguarded need he had just shown you, shattered the last of your reservations. The risks were real, but looking at him now, seeing the man who had built walls around his heart for a lifetime letting you in, you knew you couldn't turn back. You reached up and cupped his face, your thumb stroking his cheek.
"Don't apologize," you said softly, your own voice thick with emotion. "Just don't let it be such a long while next time."
The official announcement came via a memo on a crisp Tuesday morning: a mandatory, all-hands-on-deck meeting with the Umbrella executive board to discuss the Raccoon City trials. It was a rare summons, one that pulled even the most dedicated project leads away from their work. Victor, ever the dutiful soldier, straightened his tie and gave you a look of profound regret.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," he murmured, his hand lingering on your shoulder for a moment too long. "Lock the lab behind me. Don't let anyone in without proper clearance."
"I'll be fine," you assured him, though the idea of being alone in the highsecurity lab without his steady presence was unnerving. "Just focus on your meeting. Try not to tell them they're all idiots."
A rare, genuine grin touched his lips. "I make no promises." With a final, lingering glance, he was gone, the heavy door of the lab hissing shut behind him, leaving you in a silence that felt suddenly vast and empty.
The other researchers, a handful of junior scientists, were engrossed in their own workstations, their focus absolute. The lab hummed with a low, productive energy. You turned back to your console, pulling up the latest sequencing data. You had a new hypothesis to test, a potential vector for slowing the T-Virus's aggressive cellular replication. It was delicate work, requiring the utmost concentration.
You were transferring a concentrated viral sample from the cryo-stasis unit to a petri dish for observation. The procedure was routine, something you had done dozens of times under Victor's watchful eye. But as you maneuvered the cryo vial, a fellow researcher at a nearby station dropped a beaker with a loud clatter. The sudden, sharp noise made you flinch, your hand jerking just as you were uncapping the vial.
Time seemed to slow into a horrifying, crystalline nightmare. A single, microscopic droplet of the shimmering, silver-green liquid, invisible to the naked eye, arced through the air and landed directly on your wrist, just below the cuff of your glove. It was nothing, a speck so small it was instantly absorbed by your skin. But in the sterile, deadly environment of the lab, it was everything.
A cold, paralyzing horror washed over you. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart seizing in your chest. You stared at the spot on your wrist as if you could will the contamination away. For a terrifying second, there was nothing. Then, a faint, tingling coldness began to spread from the point of contact, a sickeningly familiar sensation you had only ever read about in pathology reports.
Your career was over. Your life, as you knew it, was over. They would quarantine you, dissect you, and you would become just another cautionary tale in an Umbrella file. But the most soul-crushing thought, the one that sent a wave of nausea through you, was Victor. You had just promised him a future. You had just let him breach every wall he had ever built. And now, you were a walking time bomb, a betrayal of everything you had just sworn to him.
Panic, pure and undiluted, threatened to consume you. But then, his voice echoed in your mind, calm and rational even in the face of chaos. The probability of discovery is low if we are discreet...The emotional cost is far greater than any professional risk.
You had to be discreet. You had to be rational. You couldn't let them take you. You couldn't lose him.
Taking a shuddering breath that felt like inhaling glass, you forced your trembling hands to move. You calmly removed your gloves, disposed of them in the biohazard incinerator, and quickly sanitized your hands and workstation, your movements precise and practiced, a mask of normalcy you had to maintain. The other researchers hadn't noticed a thing.
But you could feel it. A strange, alien energy was beginning to thrum just beneath your skin, a low hum of power that was both terrifying and, in a horrifying way, fascinating. You had to work. You had to use the time you had.
Your mind, sharpened by desperation and months of his tutelage, raced through the data. You couldn't stop the infection, not completely. But you could slow it. You remembered a failed experiment of Victor's, a retroviral inhibitor designed to put the T-Virus into a dormant state. It had been deemed too unstable, its side effects unpredictable. It was your only chance.
With a speed and precision born of pure terror, you began synthesizing the compound. Your hands shook, but your focus was absolute. You worked frantically, pulling up Victor's old notes, cross-referencing the molecular structures, making tiny adjustments on the fly. It was a race against your own biology. Finally, you had it: a syringe filled with a murky, unstable-looking liquid. There was no time for proper testing. Without a second's hesitation, you plunged the needle into your arm and injected the entire vial.
The effect was instantaneous. A searing, agonizing pain shot through your veins, as if your very blood was on fire. You doubled over, biting back a scream as the retroviral agent warred with the T-Virus inside you. It felt like you were being torn apart and stitched back together at the same time. After a few moments that stretched into an eternity, the pain subsided, leaving you weak, trembling, and slick with a cold sweat. The alien hum under your skin was still there, but it was quieter now, muffled. You had bought yourself time. You didn't know how much, but it was something.
You had just cleaned away all evidence of your frantic work and slumped back into your chair, your body aching, when the lab door hissed open. Victor strode in, his expression grim and tired. "The meeting was a waste of time," he said, rubbing his temples. "They are fools, all of them. They cannot see the..."
He stopped mid sentence, his eyes fixing on you. The mask of normalcy you had so carefully constructed felt like it was about to crack. You forced a weak smile, hoping the dim lighting would hide the pallor of your skin.
"Rough meeting?" you asked, your voice sounding thin to your own ears.
He crossed the room in three long strides, his gaze narrowing with analytical concern. He saw you then not the competent researcher, not the secret lover but a version of you that was frayed at the edges. "You look unwell," he stated, his voice low and serious. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Just tired," you lied, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "I was trying to push through that new inhibitor protocol and I think I overdid it. A headache."
His expression softened from concern to something more tender. He reached out, his cool palm coming to rest against your forehead. The simple, caring gesture was like a dagger to your heart. "You're burning up," he said, his brow furrowed. "This isn't just a headache. You need to rest."
"I'm fine," you insisted, pulling back slightly, terrified he would feel the subtle, unnatural thrumming beneath your skin. "Really, Victor. Just a long day."
He studied your face, his piercing blue eyes searching yours for the truth you were desperately hiding. For a heartstopping moment, you thought he saw it. But then, he seemed to accept your explanation, attributing your state to the exhaustion he understood all too well.
"Alright," he conceded, though he didn't look convinced. "But we are done for the day. I'm taking you home. And tomorrow, you will rest. No arguments."
You could only nod, a wave of guilt and relief washing over you. He thought you were just overworked. He didn't know. As he helped you from your chair, his arm a strong, supportive presence around your waist, you leaned into him, a silent, traitorous part of you drawing comfort from the very man you were lying to. You had kept your secret. You had bought your time. But as he led you out of the lab, you felt more alone than ever, a prisoner in your own body, with the clock inside you quietly, relentlessly, ticking away.
The next three years were a fragile, stolen paradise, built on the foundation of a terrible secret. Your love for Victor had become the single, bright point in your life, a sanctuary against the encroaching darkness of the T-Virus dormant within you. He remained your devoted partner, your intellectual equal, the one person in the world who felt like home. He saw your occasional fatigue, the moments when you’d zone out, the low-grade fevers, and he’d simply wrap you in his arms, blaming the stress of your work, never imagining the truth that was slowly rewriting your very cells.
That fragile world shattered when the subpoenas arrived. The official seal of the government tribunal glowed on the data-slate, a stark harbinger of doom. They were calling key Umbrella personnel to testify. Your names were on the list.
Victor read the message, and for the first time since you’d known him, you saw raw, unadulterated fear in his eyes. It wasn't for himself, but for you. The data-slate trembled in his hand before he set it down with a sharp, deliberate click.
"No," he whispered, the word a vow. "They will not get their hands on you. I will not let them take you."
He began to pace, his movements sharp and agitated, a caged animal protecting its most precious treasure. "They don't care about justice. They want scapegoats. They want to parade us before the world, tear our lives apart, and when they're done, they'll throw us in some dark hole and forget about us. I know how these things work. I know what they do to people." He stopped in front of you, his hands gripping your shoulders as if he were afraid you might vanish. "I will not let that happen to you. I would burn the world to the ground before I let them lay a finger on you."
His voice cracked with an emotion you had never heard from him, a desperate, protective fury that was both terrifying and deeply moving. "They can't force a spouse to testify against their partner. It's one of the few legal absolutes they respect." He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, his gaze searching yours with an intensity that stole your breath. "I know this is... sudden. But it's the only way. Marry me. Here. Now. Let me protect you. Let me be your shield."
This wasn't about strategy or legacy. This was about you. Seeing the raw terror in his eyes, the visceral need to keep you safe, you knew there was only one answer. You nodded, your own eyes filling with tears. "Yes," you whispered. "Yes, Victor."
A wave of profound relief washed over his features. "Thank you," he breathed, before pulling you into a fierce, desperate embrace. "I love you," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "God help me, I love you more than I have ever thought possible. You... you see me. You understand the parts of me I thought were dead. You get my mind, my obsessions, my silences... you get it all in a way no one ever has. I cannot lose that. I cannot lose you."
Two hours later, in a quiet, sterile municipal office, you stood before a magistrate. There was no one else in the world but the two of you. When Victor slipped the simple platinum band onto your finger, his touch was reverent, his eyes locked on yours. The words of the ceremony were a blur, a distant hum. The only thing that was real was the promise in his eyes: I will keep you safe.
As you left the office, his arm was a steel band around your waist, holding you close. "Phase one," he said, his voice regaining its customary calm, though the emotion still lingered beneath the surface. "Now, we disappear. We need a fortress. A place where they can't find us, a place where I can build a world for us."
His target was the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. It had been a premier facility, owned by the Spencer Foundation, but had fallen into disuse after the Foundation's collapse. It was perfect isolated, self sufficient, and equipped with laboratories that were far more advanced than anything the public knew about.
Using the vast, hidden resources he had meticulously accumulated over the years, Victor purchased the entire institution outright. It wasn't just a building; it was a fortress, a sanctuary, a promise.
A month later, you drove through the imposing iron gates of Rhodes Hill. The main building was a grand, Gothic structure of stone and glass, standing silent and solemn against the sky. It was a ghost ship, but to you, it was an ark.
As you stood in the grand, dustchoked lobby, Victor came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. He held you tightly, as if you were the most precious thing in his new kingdom.
"They will never find us here," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble against your ear. "This is our home now. Our sanctuary. I will spend the rest of my life making sure nothing and no one ever hurts you again." He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. "You're safe now, my love. I've got you."
The first few months at Rhodes Hill were a whirlwind of purpose. Victor threw himself into his new role with a singular focus, transforming the dusty, forgotten hospital into a fully staffed, state of the art research facility. You worked beside him, channeling your nervous energy into creating a home. The stark, sterile walls were soon covered in rich tapestries, the cold labs warmed by soft lighting, and the grand lobby filled with comfortable furniture. It was a strange, beautiful hybrid of cutting edge science and personal sanctuary, a castle built to keep the world at bay. For a while, it almost felt normal.
The illusion shattered on a Tuesday afternoon. You were in the main library, a room you had personally decorated, trying to catalog a new shipment of medical texts. A wave of dizziness washed over you so suddenly you had to grip the edge of the table to keep from falling. A low, familiar hum began to thrum under your skin, a sound only you could hear, growing louder and more insistent. The room swam in and out of focus, the titles on the book blurring into meaningless shapes. Then, the world simply went black.
You woke up to the soft, rhythmic beeping of a monitor and the sterile, antiseptic smell of a hospital room. But this wasn't just any hospital room. It was one of the private suites at Rhodes Hill, one you had personally overseen the decoration of. Your gaze fell upon the bedside table, and your breath hitched. A crystal vase, filled to the brim with your favorite flowers beautiful blue irises and white lilies sat there, their fragrance a stark contrast to the clinical environment. Victor had remembered.
The door opened quietly, and he stepped inside. He had discarded his lab coat, his expression unreadable, but his eyes... his eyes were hollowed out, ravaged by a grief so profound it seemed to have aged him years in a matter of hours. In his hand, he held a datapad, its screen displaying a complex, double-helix structure that was sickeningly familiar.
He saw you were awake, and he simply stood there for a long moment, the silence in the room heavier than any accusation. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, rough whisper, stripped of all its usual composure. "All this time."
Your eyes welled with tears, blurring his form. "Victor, I..."
"Why?" he asked, the single word cracking with a pain that went straight to your heart. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Tears began to spill over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. "I didn't want you to be worried," you choked out, the excuse sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "I was so scared. I thought... I thought I could fix it. I didn't want to lose you. I couldn't bear for you to look at me the way you're looking at me now."
He crossed the room in a few strides, setting the datapad down on the table with a sharp click. He didn't touch you, but his presence was a tangible force, a storm of anguish and fury. "Lose me?" he repeated, his voice rising with a devastating, heartbroken incredulity. "You thought I would leave you? You thought my love was so conditional, so fragile, that it would break because you were hurt? I swore an oath to protect you, and you were dying right in front of me, and you didn't trust me enough to let me help you!"
He turned away, running a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I have spent months building this fortress, this entire world, to keep you safe. And the entire time, the enemy was already inside the gates. And you let it in, and you didn't even give me the chance to fight it with you."
When he turned back to you, the fury was gone, replaced by a bottomless well of sorrow. He sank into the chair beside your bed, his gaze fixed on the flowers as if he couldn't bear to look at you. "I swore to you I would find a cure," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, but resonating with a terrible, unshakeable resolve. "I swear it again. I will tear this world apart, molecule by molecule, if that's what it takes. I will not let you go. Do you understand me? I will not lose you."
The discovery of your infection broke something fundamental in Victor. The careful, controlled scientist was eclipsed by a man consumed by a singular, allencompassing purpose: to save you. In his frantic research, he unearthed a project so deeply buried it was practically myth: Project Elpis. Named for the Greek personification of hope, it was Spencer's most ambitious and horrific initiative—a program dedicated to forced evolution and cellular regeneration, using human subjects as raw material. It was a Pandora's Box of unethical experimentation, and in his desperation, Victor was willing to open it.
Rhodes Hill, once a sanctuary, transformed into a place of quiet horror. The lower levels, once storage, were converted into sterile, windowless laboratories. People began to arrive transients, the homeless, those who wouldn't be missed lured by promises of shelter and work. They became his test subjects, his raw materials for Project Elpis. You were confined to your hospital suite, a gilded cage growing more gilded as your condition worsened, the sounds of muffled screams and the scent of antiseptic sometimes wafting up from the floors below.
Victor became a grim, spectral figure in your life. Every day, without fail, he would visit you. He would arrive with a single, perfect red rose, replacing the one from the day before in the vase by your bed. He would sit with you for hours, reading to you from books on genetics and philosophy, his voice a low, steady drone against the weakness that consumed you. He would tell you of his progress, his words a careful mix of scientific jargon and desperate reassurance, but you could see the truth in his eyes. Each failure etched new lines of sorrow onto his face, each dead end chipped away another piece of his soul.
Your strength faded with the passing weeks. The virus, though slowed by your initial injection, was relentless. Getting out of bed became an impossible feat, your muscles too weak, your bones too heavy. You were a prisoner in your own body, and Victor was your warden, your savior, and your tormentor all in one.
One evening, he came to you not with a rose, but with a grim finality. He looked haggard, his lab coat rumpled, his eyes burning with a feverish, unholy light. He sat on the edge of your bed, his weight a familiar comfort, and took your frail hand in his. His touch was gentle, but you could feel a new, raw power thrumming just beneath his skin.
"I have been experimenting," he began, his voice raspy. "The human body is too fragile. Too slow. My mind is willing, but my flesh is weak. I cannot afford weakness. Not anymore."
He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and your breath caught in your throat. In the center of his chest, a brutal, angry scar was carved into his flesh, a jagged starburst of red and black tissue. At its center, something pulsed with a faint, sickening bioluminescence.
"I have implanted myself with a newly modified Nemesis-γ parasite," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, as if discussing a simple surgical procedure. "It is... a symbiotic fusion. It grants me the strength, the durability, the accelerated healing I need. It allows me to retain my mind, my will, while giving me the body to endure what is necessary. To protect you."
Tears streamed silently down your face. He had done this. He had turned himself into a monster, all for you.
He leaned closer, his pale blue eyes burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and deeply comforting. "I want you to listen to me, my love," he whispered, his grip on your hand tightening. "I do not care who I have to hurt. I do not care how many people have to be sacrificed on this altar. I will tear down every law of God and man to find your cure. You will not leave me. Do you understand?"
You could only manage a weak nod, your heart aching with a love and terror so profound it was indistinguishable.
"You will make this," he vowed, his voice cracking with the weight of his promise. "You will hold on. Because I am coming for you. I am coming to rip this disease out of you, and I will burn this entire world to ashes to do it."
Summary: A mission meant to be routine becomes a race against the clock when you’re bitten, and the only antivirals are destroyed. With the infection spreading and time running out, Leon Kennedy abandons everything except the one objective that matters: getting you back alive.
Warnings/tags: bite injury (reader), infection themes (fever, delirium), mentions of blood/wounds, mission-related violence, guns, angst, protective leon
The hallway smells like antiseptic and old rain, sharp enough to taste at the back of your throat. Emergency lights pulse a slow red, painting everything in the color of a heartbeat that refuses to settle. Somewhere deeper in the facility, something metallic groans, the sound carrying through the walls like the building itself is shifting in its sleep.
Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.
You.
He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.
"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.
"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.
His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."
"Very."
He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.
Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.
Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.
"Don't," you breathe.
Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.
Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.
"Persistent," you mutter.
"Understatement."
It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack.
For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.
"You okay?" he asks without turning.
"Fine."
He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.
"Your heart rate's up."
"So is yours."
"Occupational hazard."
You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I adjusted my stance."
You snort. "Sure you did, hero."
His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.
"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.
"You hate sand."
"I could learn."
"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."
"It started it."
He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."
"Coward."
They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.
Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.
Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."
"And our worst bet for everything else."
"Probably."
He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.
You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."
"I am standing back."
"Further."
He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.
"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.
"Try not to worry so loudly."
"I don't worry."
You glance up. "Leon."
"...I worry a normal amount."
You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."
You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.
"You can let go," he says gently.
You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.
"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."
"Very."
But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.
Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.
Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.
"Help," he croaks.
Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"
The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."
His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner. Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.
"Careful," he murmurs.
"I know."
His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.
The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."
Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.
"Jackpot," you whisper.
Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.
Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."
You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.
Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."
"I'm here."
"Good."
"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"
The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.
The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.
"Back!" Leon snaps.
You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.
One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision.
More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.
"Too many," you shout.
"Move!"
You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.
A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.
The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.
"Leon!"
He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.
Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.
Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.
He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.
"You hurt?" he asks.
You shake your head, throat tight. "No."
"Good."
His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.
"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."
You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.
Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.
The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.
Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.
"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."
He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."
"You got a call."
"We both got a call."
"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."
"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."
"That's not a crime."
"It should be."
You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."
"I'll buy you dessert."
"You said that last time."
"I meant it last time, too."
His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.
"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."
You glance at him. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."
"I'd last three."
"Two and a half."
He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."
The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.
Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.
"Hold."
You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.
He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."
"Could be."
He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"
"Always."
One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.
You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."
"Switch packs with me."
"I'm fine."
"That wasn't a suggestion."
"It wasn't an order either."
For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.
Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.
"Tension," he says softly.
"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."
"Comes with the badge."
"You don't even carry a badge."
"Metaphorical badge."
You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.
"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.
"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.
He gives you a look. You give him one right back.
"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."
"Yes, dear."
His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."
"Yes, sir," you salute.
Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.
"Stand clear," you say.
He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.
For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.
"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."
He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.
"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."
Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.
"On you."
You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.
Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.
All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.
Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.
"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.
You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.
"Stay close," he murmurs.
You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.
"Always do," you whisper back.
The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.
Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.
A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.
"Probably just settling," you whisper.
Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.
Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.
"Leon—!"
He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.
You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat.
Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.
"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.
Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.
The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.
"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."
You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."
His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.
The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.
You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.
"Oh," you say softly.
Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.
"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.
He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.
"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."
You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.
"Good news," you murmur.
His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."
The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.
"This won't stop it," you say quietly.
"I know."
He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.
"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.
"No."
"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"
"No, Leon."
He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.
"Hey," you say softly.
His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.
"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."
You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.
He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.
He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.
"Stay with me," he murmurs.
Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.
"Always," you whisper.
Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.
"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.
"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."
His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.
"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.
He glances at you immediately. "What?"
"Nothing. Thought I heard something."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.
The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.
"Hey," Leon says quietly.
You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."
He stops anyway.
"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."
Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down.
When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.
You shake your head. "We don't have time."
"Sit."
There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.
The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.
His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.
His brows draw together. "You're burning up."
"Shock," you say weakly.
"You know that's not true."
His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.
"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.
A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.
"Look at me," he says softly.
You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.
"We're going to fix this," he says.
"You don't know that."
"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."
Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.
"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."
His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"
"No."
"Dizziness?"
"...Maybe."
"Confusion?"
You hesitate.
His expression darkens. "How long?"
"Ten minutes."
He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.
"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."
"I'm right here."
His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.
"Leon."
"Yeah."
"If I start to..."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."
"You need to be ready."
"I am ready."
"That's not what I mean."
His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.
"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."
Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.
"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."
"Maybe," you echo.
He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.
Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.
You blink. "Leon—"
"Save your strength."
"I can walk."
"I know."
And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.
"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.
You nod weakly. "Yeah."
"Good."
He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.
Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."
"I'm trying."
"Talk to me."
"About what?"
"Anything."
You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.
"...Dessert," you mumble finally.
A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.
"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.
His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.
Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.
Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.
"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"
A pause. "...Yeah."
The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.
The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.
Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.
"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."
A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."
He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.
"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."
You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.
"It's... dark," you mumble.
His chest tightens. The lights are still on.
"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."
Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.
"...Leon."
Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."
Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.
"You look... tired."
He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.
Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.
"You should sleep," you whisper.
The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.
"Soon, sweetheart," he says.
Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.
Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"
The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.
Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.
"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."
Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.
"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."
His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice.
Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."
Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.
"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."
You stir weakly. "...'m tired."
"I know."
"So tired."
His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.
"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.
Your eyes open a sliver.
"...Promise?"
The question is so small it barely exists.
He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.
"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."
He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.
He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.
"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.
"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.
He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.
"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."
He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.
"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."
The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.
Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.
A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.
"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."
He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.
"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."
Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.
"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.
Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.
"Where are we?" you murmur.
"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."
Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."
His throat tightens.
"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.
He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.
He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.
He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.
A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.
Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.
"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.
He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.
Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.
Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.
He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.
"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.
From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.
Behind him, the ward remains still.
Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"
He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.
"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."
You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."
"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."
Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.
The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.
"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."
Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.
The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.
Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.
Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.
He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.
"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."
He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.
His pulse hammers harder.
Not here. Not here. Not here.
"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.
He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.
"Don't do this to me," he whispers.
Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.
A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.
He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.
ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE
He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.
Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.
Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.
"Damn it," he breathes.
The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.
Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.
For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.
He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.
"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."
His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.
His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.
He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.
Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.
Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:
ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN
For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.
He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.
"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."
Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.
"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."
No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.
A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.
"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."
Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.
"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."
His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.
"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."
Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.
"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."
His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.
"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."
He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.
"You hear me? We've got plans."
Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."
He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.
"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."
He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.
"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."
The needle presses into your skin.
He hesitates.
Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.
"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."
He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.
"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."
He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.
Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.
"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."
He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.
"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."
Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.
"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.
Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.
He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.
"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."
He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.
"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."
Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.
There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.
"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."
Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.
Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.
"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."
Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.
"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.
"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."
He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.
Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.
His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.
"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."
Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.
Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.
"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."
Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.
Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.
Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.
Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.
The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.
Leon.
He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.
Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"
He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.
For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.
"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."
You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."
Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.
"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."
"Was I... gone?"
His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."
You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.
"You scared me," he says quietly.
Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."
His head snaps slightly. "Don't."
The word is sharp, then softens immediately.
"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."
You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.
"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."
He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."
He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.
"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"
"Everything hurts."
He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."
Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.
"...You found it," you whisper.
He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.
Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."
You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.
"You were crying," you say softly.
Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.
"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."
A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.
"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.
Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.
"I'm here," you whisper.
He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."
He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in.
"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."
You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.
"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."
He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.
"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.
A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.
Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.
Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.
Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.
"You're staring," you murmur.
"Monitoring," he corrects.
"You blink?"
"Sometimes."
You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.
"I'm okay," you assure him.
He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.
"You hungry?" he asks.
"Always."
He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.
When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.
"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.
Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.
You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.
"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."
Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.
Your chest tightens.
"You remembered," you whisper.
He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."
You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.
An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.
Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.
For a long moment, you can't speak.
"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."
"Leon..."
He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.
"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"
You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.
"Thank you," you say softly.
Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."
You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.
"Worth it?" he asks.
You nod. "Absolutely."
You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before.
You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.
"I love you," you whisper.
His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."
Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.
"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."
You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."
"Still."
His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.
Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.
"Two weeks," you murmur.
"Yeah."
"You think you can handle boring?"
He huffs softly. "I'll manage."
You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.
Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3
Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder, my requests are open! I would love to hear from you!
Synopsis: When Zeno arrives furious over Victor’s lack of results, he becomes unexpectedly captivated by your innocence and begins to question why someone so gentle is caught in the middle of something so dark.
Part One can be found Here!
—Warnings: Grabbing, Needles, Mentioning of Blood.
—Pairing: Zeno / Fem! Reader.
Zeno did not make a habit of returning to places that disappointed him, that much was true.
However he found himself back at the building more often than he cared to admit.
At first, it had been for business. Strictly that. Checking progress. Pressuring Victor. Reminding him, in quiet and controlled ways, that patience was not something Zeno extended indefinitely.
Their conversations were always the same.
Victor, animated and distracted, speaking in long-winded explanations that circled around actual answers. Zeno, still and sharp, cutting through every excuse with cold precision.
Nothing had changed.
Not the lack of results.
Not the growing irritation coiled beneath Zeno’s skin.
But something else had.
You.
He noticed it the second time he walked through the doors.
You had looked up the same way.
Soft voice.
Small greeting.
That same polite, almost careful smile.
“Welcome back, Mr. Zeno!” you’d said, like he was just another visitor. And that Mr. Shit? Sweetheart, you'll be the death of him.
Giving him regular titles like he's not a man funding something dangerous enough to rot the foundation of the building itself.
Zeno hadn’t responded much. Just a short nod. A glance. A question about Victor. He kept his distance. He told himself that was intentional. You didn’t belong in his world. That much was obvious.
And yet—
Every time he came in after that, his eyes found you first. You were always doing something small. Sorting papers. Answering the phone. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear when you thought no one was looking.Unaware. Completely unaware of the kind of place you sat in every day.
It bothered him.
More than Victor’s failures ever had. Now, the day it changed, Zeno hadn’t planned to see you at all. He had gone straight past the front desk.
But you weren’t there.
The empty chair behind the reception desk made something in his chest tighten, sharp and immediate. Your sweater was left dangling on the back of said furniture, bright and contrasting to the dreary walls around the establishment.
His steps didn’t slow as he moved down the hallway, jaw set, mind already turning back to business.
Victor was speaking before Zeno even fully stepped into the room.
“…—once the next phase stabilizes, we’ll finally be able to move forward with the corporation’s long-term objective. The applications alone—”
“Oh spare me,” Zeno cut in, voice low.
Victor turned, irritation flickering across his face before smoothing into something more composed.
“Ah. You’re early, Zeno.”
“I’m tired of hearing the same thing,” Zeno said flatly. “You’ve had time. You’ve had funding. What you don’t have is—”
He stopped.
Because you were there.
You sat on a narrow examination table tucked against the far wall.
Small. Still.
Your sleeve was rolled up.
And Victor—
Victor was standing beside you with a needle in his hand.
Something in Zeno snapped tight.
Fast.
Violent.
His gaze sharpened instantly, locking onto the scene in a way that made the air in the room feel like it had dropped ten degrees.
“And what is this?” he asked.
His voice had gone quieter.
That was never a good sign.
Victor barely glanced at him. “Routine.”
Zeno didn’t look at Victor.
He was looking at you.
Your eyes had widened at the tension in his voice, shoulders drawing in slightly like you didn’t understand what you’d done wrong.
“I-it’s okay!” you said quickly, your voice soft and a little shaky. “Dr. Victor just does check-ups sometimes.”
Zeno’s expression didn’t change.
You kept going, trying to explain.
“He offered when I started working here,” you added, almost apologetically. “Since I don’t really… go to doctors much. It’s free, so I thought—”
Free.
The word landed wrong.
Zeno’s jaw tightened.
His gaze flicked, finally, to Victor.
Then back to the needle. Fucking… Free, huh, sweetheart? He couldnt feel his fingers, numbed by the squeezing of his palms. He had to remain in control- this was idiocy.
Then to the faint tension in your arm where you were trying very hard not to move.
“…You ‘thought’,” Zeno repeated slowly. Blinking at your dumbfounded expression.
There was something off in his tone now.
Something colder.
More controlled.
Victor sighed, clearly irritated by the interruption. “Come now, Zeno, It’s a simple blood draw. Don’t make it into something it isn’t.”
Zeno didn’t respond.
But he didn’t look away either.
Not when Victor took your arm more firmly.
Not when the needle pressed to your skin.
Not when it slid in.
You flinched.
Just a little.
Barely noticeable.
But Zeno saw it. His hand curled slightly at his side. A subtle movement. Restrained. Measured.
Wrong.
Wrong.
God damn, fucking, wrong.
Everything about this felt wrong.
“There,” Victor said after a moment, pulling the needle back with clinical ease. “Perfectly fine.”
You let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“Th-thank you,” you murmured.
Victor was already turning away, focused on labeling the vial like you were just another part of his work.
Another piece of data.
Zeno’s gaze lingered on the small puncture mark on your arm.
Then on your face.
You were smiling again.
Like nothing about this had unsettled you at all.
That bothered him more than anything.
“Sit for a moment,” Victor said absentmindedly. “You’ll feel lightheaded. I took a substantial amount of blood, rabbit.”
Zeno blinked. Hard. “Rabbit?” He grunted.
Victor didn't even bother looking up, simply typed away at the mechanical keys half heartedly. “Yes. She's as skittish as one.” He turned his head slowly, half his face craning to look up at Zeno. “Surely you agree with me?” A smile, light and quite disgusting to the suited man made its way across the doctor's face.
You nodded obediently and slowly started to dissociate while a static feeling zoomed across your palm and up your elbow.
Zeno exhaled slowly through his nose.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Too quiet.
Too full of things left unsaid.
He didn’t stay. Not for Victor. Not for the conversation they were supposed to have. He turned and walked out before either of you could stop him.
A few minutes later, the hallway was quiet again.
You stepped out carefully, one hand brushing along the wall for balance.
Victor had already dismissed you, absorbed back into his work like nothing had happened. You didn’t mind. You never did. But he had been right. You felt… a little unsteady. Your head light. Your steps slower than usual as you made your way back toward the front desk.
“I’m okay,” you whispered to yourself.
Just a little further.
And well… You didn’t make it. But before you could smack head first into the pristine tile a hand graciously caught you by the waist.
Firm.
Steady.
Warm—even through the glove. You could feel the leather, the thick fingers splayed out just below your shirt, finger tips grazing the skin with an intimate grasp.
You startled softly, your balance tipping before it could fully give out.
“I’ve got you.”
That voice.
Low. Rough.
Closer than it had ever been before.
Zeno.
You looked up at him, a little dazed.
“I-I’m okay,” you said automatically, though your fingers had already curled lightly into the fabric of his sleeve. “Really. I..I swear.”
Your voice was softer like this.
Thinner.
Zeno didn’t let go.
“Just come on,” he said, quieter now.
Not a command.
Something closer to… insistence.
He guided you the rest of the way to your chair behind the desk, his hand steady at your side until you were safely seated.
Only then did he pull back.
Slowly.
Like he was making sure you wouldn’t fall without him.
“Thank you,” you murmured, looking up at him.
There was a small, tired smile on your face.
The same one.
Always the same one.
Zeno stared at you.
His gloved hand lingered slightly at his side, like he hadn’t fully registered that he’d let you go.
“…You shouldn’t let him do that,” he said finally. It was a mere grunt. Low and rough.
Your brows knit together faintly. Confusion etched the traces of your expression.
“Dr. Victor?” you asked, confused. “It’s just a check-up. He- He offered and I didnt think much of it, honestly.”
Zeno’s jaw tightened. “Listen to me, sweetheart.” The air got thicker, you could see his hands crease the leather of his gloves, the squeak of its pressure echoing out.
“Nothing in this building is ‘just’ anything,” he replied.
There was no bite in it.
No sharp edge like before.
Just something low.
Uneasy.
You tilted your head slightly, studying him in that quiet way you had.
Like you were trying to understand him.
“I trust him, though..” you said gently.
That did it.
Something flickered across Zeno’s face—quick and gone, but heavy.
“Don’t,” he said. Too fast. Too certain. The word hung between you.
You blinked at him. And for the first time since you’d met him—Zeno looked at you not with confusion. Not with distance.But with something softer. Something conflicted. Something that made his next words come out quieter than anything he’d had said before.
“…You don’t know what he’s doing to you.” And the way he looked at you then—careful. Controlled. But undeniably intent—felt nothing like the man who had first walked through those doors.
The man was becoming increasingly soft on you. And you, too blissfully unaware, to know the true dangers of such a feeling from someone like him.
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