ray

The monster’s clutching you too tight, you're gasping for air. Your dominant arm is free, grenade in hand, even if your other arm is squashed in against your side. The fucker’s whipping you around like a litigiously unregulated county fair ride; black edges your vision and your head pounds horribly. You manage to arm the grenade with your teeth and grip it, breathless, waiting.

You need the hydra to screech again. You need the great stinking mouth open, throwing saliva and mucus past rows of needle teeth, the perfect basket in which to throw your one and only egg.

Leon’s already caught on.

A single splattering gunshot splits the air and the monster jerks, limbs flying skyward as it screams in fury; you’re helplessly along for the ride, heaved almost directly above it – and here’s your window.

You drop the grenade. It goes right down the gullet.

The explosion ruptures the monster’s body cavity in a great geyser of green and black gore. Its limbs thrash and flail, whipping high, slamming into the ground. You brace as the arm gripping you speeds for the ground, but then it swings you around and back up, your stomach lurching violently, and –

It throws you.

Your heart and lungs hitch, suspended; time runs slow as you arc high, tumbling, too high, way too high – and start falling. You see where you’re going to land and curl yourself into a ball, protecting your head and neck.

Your body blows a hole right through the lake ice, plunging into the freezing water below.

Leon’s already running.

The hydra is nothing but a tangled, limp, caved-in pile of slop, disregarded the second Leon saw you go airborne. He’s running, stripping off his jacket, ripping open the buckles on his chest rig, tearing off his tac belt, leaving a trail of weapons and ammunition and nylon webbing strewn in his wake. He reaches the bank in his street clothes, shoes skidding to a stop just before the water, breath loud in his ears and visible in the air.

The jagged crater you left in the ice is still sloshing dark, slushy water.

You haven’t come up for air.

“Fuck.”

He looks down at the scuffed grey ice pack, gauges the distance to you, and sprints.

The ice groans and cracks under his feet; he keeps moving. He closes the gap, every pounding footfall turbulence that fractures the lake ice in great echoing snaps, the whole thick sheet weakened by the violence of your intrusion. Finally, with a leap that calves the ice beneath him, Leon dives into the freezing water after you.

The shock of the cold pulls on Leon’s lungs, he has to fight against the primal instinct to gasp. His limbs are immediately leaden, but he doesn't stop moving. The flat grey daylight barely filters through the murky ice above and the water is dark with disturbed silt. He kicks towards the lakebed in search of you, his pounding heartbeat a timer counting down.

Something that looks like a branch solidifies into your arm, limp hand floating in a slack reach skyward. Leon grabs your wrist, hauling your dead weight towards himself, hooking his arms underneath your shoulders and swimming up for the gap in the ice.

He heaves in air when your heads breach the surface.

You do not.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls through gritted teeth, and manages to slide you up onto the ice pack, pushing you clear as he kicks his legs up behind himself and drags flat onto the ice beside you. He moves you onto a thick, uncracked stretch of ice and pushes you onto your back, plugging your nose and forcing air into your mouth.

You choke, spurting dirty lake water, rolling onto your side and spitting up more, coughing and heaving. You try to prop yourself up on your elbow, your throat raw and tight, nose stinging and burning. Your eyes are blurry when you open them, your ears are waterlogged. You squeeze your eyes shut and blink them clear enough to see what keeps pulling at you.

It’s Leon, wet and pale, saying something to you, his eyes intense. You squint at his mouth, trying to read his lips because your ears might as well have been left underwater for all the good they’re doing you.

Get up

We need to move

Can you “hear me? We have to go, now!”

As if to punctuate his statement, the ice below you jerks, a crack scything underneath your body like a bolt of lightning. You recoil onto your hip and Leon pulls at your arm, pulls you up, the ice creaking and popping under your shoes.

“Run!”

It’s a bit much to ask.

You do your best, stumbling after Leon, short on breath and coughing. You’d impacted the ice with your left shoulder, the force ramming your curled arm into your ribs, hard. That side is tight and painful, and you know you’re too frozen to feel the full extent of it yet. It’s really not gonna be pretty.

Your foot catches on a rising gap in the ice and trips you; you slide and weakly scramble back to your feet. Ahead of you, Leon’s almost to the shore.

You’re almost there.

You hit the bank on your hands and knees, gasping. Your fingers, clawing into the crumbling dirt, are pale, the nail beds blue. You can barely feel the dry grit of the cold earth under your hands.

Leon grabs the collar of your jacket and yanks you to standing.

“Keep moving. Keep moving, come on.” He grabs your hand, already running, pulling you after him.

You half-register the scattered bullet clips, weaponry, and leather jacket on the bank as you run in Leon’s wake. You pass the fuckass hydra; it’s nothing but a gelatinous stinking puddle that you quickly leave behind.

The thin, brittle air razors through your lungs, freezing and metallic. The bitter wind axes at you. You can’t feel your extremities; you keep stumbling and it’s slowing you down. Leon looks back just in time to watch you actually fall, tripping in a rut, knees slamming into the ground. He runs back to you and helps you up. You’re both breathing shallow, wracked with tremors, teeth chattering and skin close to blue.

“Almost there. Come on.”

Leon’s car is half-hidden behind a broken fence and an overgrown shrub, parked haphazard on the dry, patchy grass. He hits the driver’s side door with more momentum than he meant to, pressing his thumb to the door handle; it unlocks and he yanks it open. You hear the whole car unlock, the lights flashing, and he slaps the driver’s door shut in favor of the backseat.

“Get in. Get in!”

You slip in the back passenger’s door just as he slides in on the other side, the both of you slamming the doors on the freezing wind. Leon immediately grabs the hem of his soaked shirt, peeling it over his head and dumping it over the headrests into the trunk. It lands with a wet plap.

“Wet stuff in the back,” he says, twisting over the seats to grab something out of the trunk. It’s a duffel; he grunts in frustration when his numb fingers fail at first to catch the handle but then he drags it into the backseat while you’re struggling out of your soaked jacket and shoving it over the backrests. It lands with an even wetter plorp.

You’re still wearing your chest rig; your numb, stiff fingers can’t get the fucking plastic buckles to open.

“Fuck!”

There’s a sharp snk noise; Leon shoves your hands clear and slips a folding knife under the nylon webbing of your rig. The straps pull taut and dig into your injured side, but then he’s cut clean through the belts and he’s helping untangle it from your arms. The buckles clatter against the back windshield as you throw it in the trunk. Leon uses the knife to make quick work of his shoelaces, kicking his soaked and muddy shoes into the footwell, then he leans across and holds your ankles steady, cutting your bootlaces while you peel your shirt up over your head. Your side screams at the stretch and you rasp out a cry of pain.

Your left side is already violently bruised, livid and dark against the pale blanch of your goosepimpled skin. You’re caught for a moment by the horrible picture it makes, trying to remember to breathe.

“Jesus,” Leon says in agreement. In your periphery, he’s struggling with his waterlogged skinny jeans and there’s suddenly a lot more skin above the line of his waistband; the denim sucked his boxer briefs halfway down his hips before he managed to shove the jeans to his knees and off. He throws the jeans in the back, pulls the waistband of his underwear up, and again he’s in your space undoing your useless fucking tac belt that your frozen fingers can’t open. His hands are just as cold and numb as your own, why the fuck do they work better than yours?

Wind gusts against the outside of the car, scratching the scraggly branches of the nearby shrub against the doors. You feel a draft even through the sealed door. Your teeth are clacking uncontrollably.

“Can we get the fucking heat running?” You shove your pants and boots into the trunk, smearing mud on the leather seat. Leon’s rooting through the duffel again.

“No.”

“No?”

“The keys are in my coat.”

“The fuck kind of agent are you? Hotwire the car.”

“Smart, when I can’t feel my hands,” he says, and shoves the duffel into the footwell, tearing open a passport-sized plastic package with his teeth and turning towards you on the seat. “Come here.”

He shakes out the mylar safety blanket and you realize exactly what’s going to have to happen, here. It’s a thought you’ve had triaged as a last-resort solution while stripping semi-nude in the backseat of his car; now it turns out it’s your only solution. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat and you’re going to have to get on top of him. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat in nothing but wet cotton boxer briefs and you’re going to have to get on top of him in nothing but a wet bra and panties, and then he’s going to close you both in under the mylar blanket to trap heat like you’re a fucking turkey in a roasting pan.

Fuck.

You clench your jaw against your chattering teeth and don’t let yourself hesitate. There’s no can or can’t here – you’re both freezing, this is life or death. So you climb up over him in the limited space available, helping to pull the mylar blanket around you and tuck it in under your shins, under his head and shoulders, sealing you together into a lumpy, creased foil bubble.

It’s not pitch black like you'd hoped. The mylar filters the grey daylight into a dim, intimate dusk. You can still see Leon’s face clearly, on your hands and knees above him; you could count his eyelashes if you could bear to look him in the eyes. You keep your head down and focus on the uncontrollable chatter of your teeth, the way your whole body is shivering unpleasantly, and not the way his knees are framing your hips. He’s too tall for the backseat.

Your disloyal stomach flutters when you feel his hand brush your darkened side.

“How are your ribs?” He presses his thumb carefully against the darkest patch, low on your ribcage, where your elbow impacted. You hiss and jerk away.

“Tenderized, Leon. Ow."

“How bad?”

“I don’t… think anything’s broken.”

“Deep breath in.”

You oblige, slow and careful, your ribs expanding over your lungs. It stings horribly, your skin feels too tight, but nothing stabs you. His hand rides the motion of your ribs, feeling for telltale hitches or jerks. It’s nothing but clinical.

“Alright,” he says, quiet. He eases his touch but doesn’t drop it away. You’re staring at your hand in the crumpled landscape of the mylar blanket over Leon’s shoulder, because everything else is his naked skin.

His hand moves from your side to your arm, fingers close to the bend in your elbow like he means to fold it.

“You gotta get down on me."

You want to laugh but your side only lets you make a pained huff through your chattering teeth.

"Nice one, icebrain. Lemme loop HR in real quick."

“The air pocket only works if one of us is warm,” he says, steamrolling the comment. And he’s right.

Fuck.

"I don't know where you think my knees are going."

You have to play some strange and painful backseat Twister, the foil blanket complicating shit by clinging to your damp skin and hair, but then you’ve puzzled yourselves together so you can drop onto him with a put-upon huff.

He hisses and pushes you back up by the shoulders.

“Fuck, how much water is in that thing?”

You both look down at your high-impact bra. Squeezed between the two of you, it's now weeping drops of frigid water down your stomach. It's also left an imprint across Leon's chest, wet enough to bead up and roll towards his armpits.

“You can’t be wearing that.”

“Leon–“

"No, this isn't an argument. That's over your heart."

Yes, but. It's also over your breasts. Preventing them from being all over Leon. All over Leon's naked skin.

"Do you trust me?"

You don't even hesitate, because that's the easy question.

"Yes."

It's a zip-front bra. His fingers touch the zipper.

"Okay?" His gaze is holding yours, strong, a promise to keep his eyes up.

It’s taking all your energy to appear calm and unaffected right now.

“Yeah. Fine."

It’s a relief, actually, the compression easing as he pulls the zipper down, releasing entirely when the sides come apart. It’s easier to breathe. He pushes the straps from your shoulders, brushes them down your arms until you can drop the soaked bra into the footwell, tucking the foil blanket back in place. His chest, still cold, feels warm against your freezing breasts.

He rubs the damp, freezing skin of your back, paying special attention to the deep impressions left by the bra seams like he can smooth them out, putty under his fingers.

“Do you know you're doing that.”

He stops. You shift, shoulderblades rolling under his hands.

“I didn't tell you to stop,” you say.

“Yes ma'am.”

Your head is turned away from his, because otherwise your nose would be right against his cheek. You have to maintain at least one boundary in the smoking ruin of all the others. He keeps stroking your back; the gentle flats of his palms, the firm pads of his fingers. You’re starting to feel like putty.

Your eyelids are heavy.

“Is it bad to fall asleep?”

He pinches you hard and you jolt away from it, knocking against the seatback. Your injured side flares with pain.

“Fuck! You ass,” you gasp, poking him hard between the ribs. He jerks under you, cursing, and you brace for retaliation, but he’s gone still.

And you register why.

His face is right under yours, noses almost touching. You’re sharing breath.

And something else is different.

“…Where are your hands?”

You know where they are. He moves them from your hips up to your back again.

“Good boy.”

You don’t know what fucking possessed you. It sounded like a joke in your head, but released into the narrow space between your faces it’s far more charged than that, because of course it is. You’re hearing it now, where it’s too late to take it back. You still have a brain like a frozen chicken cutlet, fucking cold and smooth, he has to understand–

He’s breathing out hot against your mouth, pushing his hands down to the small of your back, pressing your body tighter against his, and it ignites something sharp and fervid in your belly.

“Shit,” you whisper, and kiss him.

He meets it. He kisses you back like he’s just been waiting, gathering the damp hair at your nape with one hand, blunt nails scraping the skin of your neck. His other hand goes lower, the heel of his palm digging in, fingers gripping your ass. You gasp and roll your hips, body lighting up.

“Fuck,” he says into your mouth. “Careful with your side.”

“You be careful with my side.”

“Damn.”

“Shut up.” You fist his hair and pull his head back, kissing the taut line of his neck under his ear, scraping your teeth against the skin. He’s got both hands on your ass now, sliding his fingers under the sides of your panties to gather the fabric into a thong, palming the cool skin of your bared cheeks. You hum, rolling your hips again.

“You’ve got a fixation.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, unashamed. He smooths his hands down your thighs where they’re framing his sides, his fingertips digging in. You’re sitting on his pelvis, grinding on nothing but the flat of his low abdomen, his thighs closed behind your ass, his knees pressed to the car door. You kiss his mouth, open and loose, and speak against it.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you that cold?”

“Don’t be rude.”

You stop moving, pushing up to stare down at him. “Are you serious?”

“No.” He opens his legs, shifting his hips, and you gasp when you feel him against your ass. You shift back, rubbing yourself against the hardening length of his dick, the lake-wet fabric of your underwear dragging together, no longer cold and clammy where you’re touching. His breath tumbles hot from his open mouth, hips rolling to meet you.

“Fuck, Leon.” If this is him with shrinkage, how the hell has he been packing all that into skinny jeans all these years?

He’s watching you, his eyes half-lidded, hands on your naked waist. You sit up more, tipping your head back, running your hands along his forearms as you drag your wet pussy along the firm heat of his cock.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he tells you, molten. You groan, arching.

“Jesus. Keep talking like that.”

“Yeah?” He tugs you by the arms to bring you lower, kissing your neck with an open mouth, his scruff lightly scratching your skin and making you shiver. His hands find your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and your breath hitches. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”

You laugh, just a teasing exhale against his lips. “What, cold and injured?”

He’s pulling the fabric of your panties to one side, holding it there, out of the way. You moan when he rubs his fingers through your drenched folds, slow.

“Naked and wet,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You whimper and thread your fingers into his hair, gripping, gasping when he circles your clit. Your hips jerk erratically; he’s mouthing kisses up the side of your neck, nipping lightly, then speaking against your skin, his voice subterranean.

“What do you want?”

Holy shit. You don’t remember what it feels like to be cold, anymore. Your body’s on fire. You’ve maybe never been this turned on in your life, and all this after a fucking ice bath.

“Take yourself out," you tell him. "I wanna feel you.”

The first drag of your wet cunt along the satin heat of his naked cock has him groaning, his hips rocking helplessly. You glide on him like that, wetting his dick, feeling it jump and throb between your pussy lips. You prop yourself up on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat, grinding your clit firm against the head of his cock with little gyrations of your hips. He’s gripping your waist, mouth open, just watching you.

“I’ve never seen you so speechless,” you tell him.

“I’ve – shit – never seen you riding me.”

“Mm. Lucky day.”

“I know.”

“Any last words?”

“What?”

You cant your hips back, reaching down to guide the glistening head of Leon’s cock to your entrance. His fingers tighten on your sides, breathing in sharp.

“Be careful,” he says.

“You’re sweet,” you tell him, bearing down with little adjustments, caging his dick in place with your fingers. The tip of him presses into your tight wet heat and Leon gasps, head thumping back against the seat. You stare at the display of his body below you; the taut stretch of his neck, the flush of his chest, the tight muscles of his stomach as he works to keep his hips still, letting you control this. You take him into you in increments, the burning stretch of him blurring into white-hot pleasure, the length of him making your thighs shake before you’re finally fully seated, the throbbing heat of him bottomed out inside of you, filling you deep. You drop forward, hands on his shoulders, panting.

“Are you okay?”

You manage a nod. “God, Leon.”

He moves his hips, just a small adjustment, experimental. You gasp, lifting to half-mast him, sliding back down. He’s so thick.

Your thighs are shaking too much and you don’t exactly have the room to adjust. You lean down, desperate.

“Fuck me.”

He doesn’t need telling twice. He grips your ass, pushing you down into every thrust of his hips, long and slow at first so you can feel every inch, grinding tight against you when he bottoms out. He uses your breath by his ear as a barometer, picking up the pace, the wet glide turning into a wet slap, and turns his head to catch your moans in his mouth.

“Think you can come like this?”

“Limited menu of options, garçon,” you pant. There’s no fucking space back here.

“Tip your hips down,” he says.

You do; he slams in deep, grinding, putting delicious pressure on your clit. You cry out.

“Fuck, like that Leon!”

He pulls your earlobe into his mouth, sucking lightly, resuming the faster slap of his hips.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, filthy, and jesus christ, he is going to get an orgasm out of you. Almost just did.

“Shit,” you gasp. “Are you close?”

“Do you want me to be?”

You clench around him and he groans, hips stuttering.

“Fuck. I am if you do that,” he gasps. You do it again and he buries deep to grind on you, like he’s warring you, fighting to set you off first.

“Fuck, I’m close, I’m close,” you whimper, bouncing on him, stalling for time. He’s got you right on the edge and you don’t wanna go over yet. “With me. Come with me.”

He curses, fucking into you hard and fast, thrusts starting to go erratic. You keep a litany of babble going in his ear, obscene, feeling him catching up, drawing tight; and then he’s bottoming out hard against you, groaning brokenly as he pulses deep inside of you, your walls convulsing as the final slap of his hips sends you tumbling over the edge with him.

When you come back down to earth, the foil blanket is askew, his leg sticking out in the passenger’s side footwell, your forearm dangling in the driver’s side footwell. You’re lying bonelessly on top of Leon, riding the heaving of his chest as you both catch your breath. He pulls the mylar down to the middle of your back and the cold air raises new goosebumps on your flushed skin.

"I think that did the trick,” he says.

You hum, your eyes closed, face pressed to the side of Leon’s neck. He runs his thumb lightly along the dewy column of your spine.

“How’s your side?”

“Stings.”

He’s still inside you, starting to slip free as he softens. He gently pulls out and your forehead creases, a grumpy noise escaping you.

“Hey,” he says, soft. You don’t lift your head, it feels like too much effort. He shifts under you and you grumble your displeasure, but he’s just resettling you so you’re not leaning your bruised side so heavily against the seatback. He cards his fingers through your hair, pulling it back from your sweaty temple.

“I’m going to sleep,” you murmur. “Try to pinch me again and see what happens.”

He laughs, just a short rumble low in his chest.

“Worked out fine the first time.”

You smile, eyes closed, and tuck your arm in under his body.

“Beginner’s luck.”

There’s a lot of shit to do. There’s kit to grab from the beach, samples to take from the hydra, clothes to dry, reports to fill out, bruises to heal, complex developments to talk through with your partner.

But right now, there’s just Leon’s heartbeat and steady breathing beneath you, his fingers combing lazily through your hair, and you’re pretty sure it’s all gonna work out okay.

On AO3

Guys quick tip don’t take survival advice from a gratuitous x reader they probably died lmao

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leon, now retired, spends his time building cool shit for the baby. a fancy crib from scratch and the changing table, and a book shelf. yes, he’d bought the wooden planks, and he already had the supplies in the garage. he had also researched furiously about cribs, so much so that he could recite the entire history of cribs at this point. when you had walked in on him writing something over a large paper on the dining table, you were confused. turns out, he’d drawn a blueprint of the crib.

for him, creating something so meaningful after watching destruction everywhere he went time and again, it was healing, to say the least.

leon was learning one baby-related skill every single day—how to install car seats, how to baby-proof the lower cabinets, infant cpr, how to swaddle, how to burp the baby, how to check if the temperature of the milk is right, and on and on. you were happy to see that he’d crossed the line from scared future father to hopelessly excited dad.

as your pregnancy progressed, he would accompany you to the routine checkups and would make sure all your files were meticulously arranged in order. people sitting in the waiting area would sometimes stare at leon, because he did not look young exactly, but he didn’t care. well, it did bother him at first, because, he said and you quote, “i’ll be seventy when our kid’s twenty. that’s sooo old...” and you comfort him again, saying that it’s alright because the kid won’t remember his age, they would only remember the man who taught them to ride a bike or embarrassed them at school events (which he’d taken an offence at, because he’d never embarrass the kid, he would be the epitome of cool dad!!), that they would only remember their dad. not his age.

leon ends up creating an emergency binder with all the emergency numbers and pediatrician contacts, allergy information, vaccination schedules, and hospital routes (and backup hospital routes) and it was giant. the tabs were colour coded too, your husband wasn’t playing around. “jesus, is that laminated too?” you ask. and leon looks up at you. “yep. laminated.”

and because leon was scared of his joints fucking up as he grew older, once the baby was here, and not being able to give the child an active father who would join them in adventure, he began working out every morning religiously. you’d watch him work out in your backyard through the kitchen window while making breakfast, and he would look so handsome like that, all hot and sweaty. once, you accidentally burned the pancakes a little, but leon was content eating those because it was proof you still found him attractive.

leon refused to let you do any physically taxing work at all, and decorated the nursery all by himself. he painted the nursery and put in the crib, changing table, and the bookshelf he’d made all by himself. you had to admit, those looked better than the ones you would’ve gotten in the market. to show your appreciation, you kiss leon on the cheek, and somehow that turns into an hour-long makeout session and showing your appreciation in other ways as well.

the nursery still was incomplete, so leon takes you shopping for rugs and curtains, soft toys and children’s books you would need for the nursery. you return home well past into the evening with a lot more stuff than you had anticipated. you had to hire a mover with how much stuff there was, because in no world would everything fit in the car.

now that the nursery and baby-proofing the house was done, leon mostly read books about pregnancy and tried different tasty and healthy recipes to feed you. you were well into your second trimester and the bump was more evident now.

when you decided that you wanted to grow a garden, he was more than happy about it. he helped you do everything, and would also help you water it every day in the morning. it didn’t take long for the garden to finally take shape and blossom. the flower beds looked professionally done, and leon was very proud of you.

weirdly enough, leon had also learned how to make sourdough bread. you couldn’t do that even after multiple tries! and this guy somehow made the perfect one on first try! long story short, no more sourdough from the market, your husband always made the fresh ones for you.

sometimes, when you were asleep during the night, he’d talk to your belly. and it wasn’t anything specific, too. like he’d be gently caressing your baby bump and talk about cars, the engines, the braking system, and whatnot. once, you had caught him talking to the baby when you weren’t fully asleep yet, and he was talking about naval history. it had made you snort so hard you almost choked on your own spit.

leon’s frequency of telling you a dad joke had increased too. it was so stupid yet it made you laugh till you were crying. he told you he was practicing those for the baby. he was already excited about pissing off your kid by telling them dad jokes.

you both discuss names. “lily if it’s a girl, and benjamin if it’s a boy,” he suggests. and you nod because lily was a beautiful name. benjamin though... definitely not. “benjamin? that’s such a founding father ass name. maybe james...?” and he nods at that, “james is good for a boy.” lily if it was a girl, and james if it was a boy.

baby’s first kick was a huge turning point for both of you. you were well into your third trimester when it happened, having a movie date night with your husband, where you two were watching some cheesy rom-com. his hand was up your shirt, resting on your bump, caressing it absentmindedly. and when the baby kicked, both of you looked at it each other to see if the other noticed it. it was the most amazing thing in the world, leon decided. “hey there, little one,” he said, talking to the baby again, a big smile on his face.

you also had extremely specific cravings sometimes. because you wanted those potato wedges from that place. and he was left wondering what place was that place. you said the place had a red sign, because that is all you remembered from the last time you went there. so leon would drive around the whole city for forty-five minutes before it clicked into his brain and he remembered what place he’d taken you to.

when you got emotional and tried to apologise for your food cravings and making him run around for snacks, he’d immediately shush you. “you’re literally growing an entire human. i’m pretty sure i can survive a trip to the grocery store twice a day.”

when the day of delivery came, leon kept repeating the breathing exercises and urged you to do the same. he’d stood beside you the entire time you were in labour, which was nine hours. and he also did as you asked. held your hand, brought you ice chips, or fruit juice, whatever you wanted.

when the baby was born, leon checked up on you first, tuning out the wails of the newborn. the baby already had doctors and nurses cleaning them up and doing the necessary medical checkups. you were more important. you had just pushed out another human.

before leon takes the healthy newborn in his arms, he presses a kiss on your forehead, thanking you for being so strong. and the baby was so tiny and delicate he was afraid he might crush her if he held her too hard.

it took leon exactly one second of holding lily to fall in love with the precious bundle and know with certainty that he would do anything to protect her. you watched it unfolding in real time through teary and tired eyes, a big and beautiful smile on your face. he looked so at peace, it made something in your chest tighten.

"Well then how the fuck did they know all that, eh?? This article has shit that only you would know."

You were backed into the counter, his arms of either side of you, gripping the ledge of the granite, in a way that would normally excite you, and well still not intimidated or scared, you weren't exactly feeling good about it. Your arms crossed tightly across your chest.

On Saturday morning, an article had been published about 10 things the public didn't know about retired football legend, Roy Kent. Small things, like he liked being the little spoon, how he was hoping and praying for a little girl of his own soon, how he was absolute enchanted by you, willing to cater to your every whim. It made him look so soft, which he was, but the whole fucking world didn't need to know that.

You'd fought all Saturday, then slept as far apart as possible in complete silence, before fighting again all day today, but it was worse, it was like he was trying to force a confession out of you.

"Yeah that's my fucking prerogative, I waited until we dated for five full years before I went and blabbed to a bunch of fucking reporters telling them about how you like to be the little fucking spoon."

"Fuck!!" He shouted, pushing off the counter and turning around, hands rubbing harshly across his own cheeks.

"I'm going to bed," you said, "I think you should sleep in one of the other rooms tonight. The way you're accusing me, and talking to me... I just don't want to sleep next to you."

Roy looked over your face, noting the way your lip quivered. He was torn, his instinct said to grab you and pull you close and apologize and beg to come to bed, but his rage, his frustration, told him that you'd done the one thing he hated most, crossed the boundary most precious to him.

"I'll do you one fucking better," he said, picking his jacket up from the back of a chair, and leaving the house, slamming the door behind him loudly.

When you heard his stupid car start, your shoulders dropped from their defensive position, and the tears rolled quickly down your cheeks. You hadn't done anything. You'd been in all Friday while Roy went to the pub with the team, drinking and celebrating freely for the beginning of the off season.

Usually this was a time of bliss for the two of you, Roy allowed himself two full weeks of time devoted to the relationship before carrying on with off season training. Normally at this point, the two of you would be shamelessly rolling around in bed, and when you were panting, sweaty and recovering, still wrapped up in his arms, you'd discuss where to spend a weeks vacation. Because you, being the ever supporting partner, took the same vacation time.

You phone beeped with a text from Roy.

Lock the fucking door before you go upstairs. Goodnight.

You sighed, wiping the tears off your cheeks before locking the door, and dragging yourself to your room. Stripping off your clothes from the day, you pulled on one of Roy's shirts, and sobbed into your pillow, chasing a nights sleep that would surely evade you.

"Let me sleep in your fucking house," Roy said, staring at a confused Jamie, who didn't say anything but let Roy in anyway. He could've gone to his sisters house, but she would've asked a million questions. And he didn't want Pheobe to see him at this level of mad. "Fuck," Roy mumbled, checking his phone again to see if you said goodnight back.

You didn't.

"Alright, Royo?"

"If I was fucking alright would I be in your fucking stupid house asking to sleep in your stupid fucking guest room and not- stop fucking looking at me with that stupid fucking face!"

"We can talk tomorrow," Jamie said, "you are not regular grandpa mad right now you are just beyond."

"Fuck off," Roy said, checking his phone again.

Did you see the text? Did you lock the door? Should he call and check?

"Unless you want to talk now? I can put on-" Jamie was cut off by a glare he'd never seen before, it made him want to cower away from it. In all their years training and hating each other and becoming friends, he'd never seen a glare quite like that before. "Okay, night."

As Jamie scurried off down the hall, door closing with a little more force than intended, Roy let his face drop.

Was he wrong? What the fuck was going on? He couldn't imagine a world where you called up the paps and told them how he can't sleep without hearing you say goodnight first. About how he can't truly get comfortable at hotels until he knows you're safe in bed from whatever you were doing that day. Not that you couldn't be out or like he had any say about that but just... he liked to know when you got home after. But no one else knows that shit, that's his personal shit, shit he only shared with you.

Roy wandered over to Jamie's couch, not caring enough to make it to the guest room, and kicked his trainers off, flopping onto the furniture without even taking his jacket off.

Still no text.

After debating calling you to make sure you had stayed in and gone to bed, and saw his text to lock the door, he decided not to. Not that it could, but he didn't want to risk things getting any worse. Was bad enough, really.

Instead, he scrolled back in your messages, looking for a video you'd sent him while he was at the last away game.

But he wasn't after any of the ... intimate ones. He needed a certain one. A specific one, and when he found it, he played it over and over until he could trick his brain into falling asleep.

A simple video, you holding your phone on your face, saying "Goodnight love, miss you. Can't wait to see you tomorrow, and I love you!!"

He played the video until his phone died.

In the morning, Roy woke up to Jamie tip toeing around his kitchen. Roy groaned, his knee fucking aching from the stiff position he'd slept in, for the few hours he even managed to sleep.

"Oh," Jamie froze, "sorry didn't meant to wake you but I'm starvin," he mumbled, "Hungry?"

"No," Roy grunted, stretching out his leg and trying to hold in his grunts of pain. Fuck this couch.

"You want to talk about it?"

"Why the fuck would I want to talk about it with you?"

"Jesus, relax geezer. I figured if ya girl couldn't make you feel better I could at least try. What happened? You guys fight?"

Roy grunted, nodding slightly. Roy weighed his options... go home and fight again, or see if Jamie could help.

"Was it about the article?"

Another grunt. Another nod.

"Awh, mate. Don't take it so hard, everyone makes mistakes. I know she's a private one, was she mad?"

Roy scrunched his eyebrows together. "Why would she be mad?"

Jamie looked confused, "Dunno, cos she hates attention like tha?"

"If that were true she wouldn't have fucking told everyone that shit," Roy mumbled. He realized choosing to talk to Jamie about this was stupid, what does Jamie know about privacy? What does Jamie know about fucking anything?

"Erh, Royo..."

"Fuck this," Roy grunted, standing up but grunting as his knee gave him trouble. He started jamming his feet into his trainers.

"Coach listen," Jamie started again, but Roy just grunted, ignoring him.

"She'll tell the truth today and say sorry, sure of it, hates sleepin' alone."

"Wait, listen to me, seriously." Jamie said, standing in Roy's way when he moved for the door. "Did you guys fight because you were mad at her?"

"No shit," Roy said. "She crossed a boundary that I'd made very fucking clear when we started."

"Erh, I dunno how to say this but..." Jamie took a breath, "wait let me uh," he took a few quick steps back, safely out of Roy's reach. He took another deep breath. "You told them reporters all tha'."

"Fuck off," Roy said, face covered in anger. "Like I would ever do that."

"No really," Jamie said, bouncing his weight between both feet as if warming up to flee Roy's rage at any given moment. "Me and Isaac tried to fuckin' corral ya'at the pub but you were drunk, talkin' about 'er all excited to anyone tha' would listen. An' when we tried tellin' ya that you were talkin' to a pap you told us to fuck off. An' we were drunk too so we did."

"No," Roy said, finally. "That's not what happened."

"Call Isaac if you're sure but like... that is what happened."

"No."

Jamie looked sad. "Were ya mean to 'er?"

Roy wasn't even sure if he believed Jamie. Yes, maybe he got drunk enough that Keeley and Colin had to drag him into the uber. And maybe it was the first time in a while that he'd woken up with that bad a hangover. And he wasn't sure how he even got from the car to the bed, but he was in pajamas and you'd made him a big breakfast. And his car had been back in the driveway even though he'd left it at the pub and... he could vaguely remember talking to random people that night. He remembers telling the boys it was ready to get the ring out, and that he was feeling particularly in love with you lately and...

Oh.

Oh no.

Roy sat back on the couch. Right on the very edge, and put his head in his hands.

"Please," he mumbled, with an air of vulnerability that made goosebumps shoot up Jamie's arm. "Tell me you're joking."

"Sorry," Jamie answered. "But 'm not."

"Oh fuck, I'm fucked." Roy didn't move an inch, sat like a stone statue and Jamie didn't know whether to leave him in it or move closer. Jamie stayed perfectly still, worried about making any move.

"I'm so fucking fucked, fuck!"

And suddenly Roy was on his feet. Checking his pockets for his keys, which obviously weren't there, and he cursed and swore and muttered frustrated nonsense as he searched the couch cushions for his keys. And where the fuck was his phone? Ah, forget the phone. Didn't need the phone, needed the fucking keys.

Where the fuck were his keys?????

"Coach?"

"What!?"

Jaime was pointing the leg of the couch, where the keys were poking out.

Roy grunted grabbing them and rushing towards the door. Jamie had to nearly jump out of his way. Before he left he glanced back at the living room, cushions and blankets severely out of place.

"Sorry."

"All good."

Roy moved to leave again but stopped. He looked over his shoulder at Jamie, shirtless and stupid, and Roy muttered, "thanks."

"Anytime, granddad."

When Roy got home, he parked like shit and raced into the house. He was frantic, calling out your name and looking for you. It was still pretty early, but if you had a shit night like he did you'd probably be up. He threw his coat on the floor and slammed the door behind him, harder than he meant to.

"Babe?" he called, taking the stairs two at a time and ignoring the pain in his knee.

But you weren't in the bedroom, or the kitchen, or the bathroom, or the back deck. You weren't here. Roy sat on the floor in the hallway, head buried in his elbow, and knees drawn up to his chest. The ache in his knee didn't even fucking compare to the one in his chest, the one fueled by guilt and regret and remorse, fuck he was such a fucking idiot.

Of course you didn't go blabbing to reporters. Why would you have done that? You've more than proven your loyalty to him, and your relationship. Not that you'd ever needed to prove anything to him. You'd always been there, supporting him when coaching made him nostalgic and sad. Always patient with him when he was being a dick because he was at a different stage in his life.

And you did it without ever making him feel like you were putting up with him. You made him feel like you were just feeling it with him, like you were loving him through it. And then at one sign of trouble he'd turned it at you, made it ugly, didn't let you explain anything, made it nasty.

He had been so, so awful.

And you hadn't deserved any of it.

He blamed you for him getting drunk and telling strangers how much he loved being the little spoon.

At the sound of the door unlocking, Roy's heart skipped a beat, and he was up on his feet quickly, rushing down the stairs to meet you. You were in casual athletic wear, sunglasses covering your face and hair in a ponytail that was sticking out the back of a baseball cap.

"Hi love," he mumbled, throat closing at the sight of you. You didn't smile when you saw him of course, but weren't frowning either. Your face gave away nothing. But when you took the hat and glasses off, he saw what he caused. He saw the red, puffy eyes from too much crying and too little sleep. Saw the cheeks rubbed raw from wiping those tears away.

And he felt sick. What kinda partner had he been?

A really shit one.

"Morning, Roy."

"You weren't here, fuck, got so scared you'd left."

And while yes, you had left the house, you knew what he meant. He meant thought you'd left him.

"After all this time you should know well enough I wouldn't just cut and run from you without trying first." You weren't trying to be mean, but you were just exhausted. You'd slept like shit. "I texted you that I was going for a walk in case you came home."

Roy didn't know what to say to that, he never did find his phone at Jamie's and just left without it. He was dying to pull you into a hug. Desperate to feel you in his arms, feel your heartbeat against his. But he had no right, not until he told you the truth.

"It was me," he said suddenly. "On Friday when I was drunk I was talking to some reporter. I didn't know I did that, and I was shit to you. I was so fucking shit to you and I'm so sorry. I'm so so fucking sorry, you didn't deserve me berating you for one fucking minute and I did it for a whole weekend. And I wasn't listening to you and I was a shit partner and I'm sorry, love, I'm so sorry. Couldn't fucking sleep proper after fighting and it just made my temper worse and Jamie kept looking at me with that stupid empathy face and..."

"Roy, you've gotta take a breath." you said, putting your hands on his arms, the first time he'd felt you touching his skin in days, made him shut up and frown, just looking down at you.

He took a few deep breaths. And instead of talking more he just grabbed your hips, pulling you into him. You let out an 'oof' as you were pushed into his chest. His lip trembled as he held you, trying not to let you see it, but you just knew he was close to crying, could feel his fingers trembling as his hands spread out over your back.

"We'll talk about it, love."

"No, don't please..." Roy sighed, "please don't be nice to me, be mad at me."

"I can be nice and mad at the same time."

Roy huffed, squeezing you tighter against him for a second before pulling away gently, just enough to look down at you again. The sight of you, light pout on your lips, eyes hurting from his actions, made his heart feel like it was imploding in on itself.

"I'm really sorry," he said, voice a soft and gentle whisper.

"We'll figure it out," you said, "We have two weeks together, I'm sure you'll pull together some grand gesture to make me feel better."

"The grandest. So grand you'll be embarrassed of it. They'll write a movie about it."

You laughed, softly and not your full, happy laugh. But enough to give Roy enough sense to know things will be okay.

"I'm going to shower," you said, "maybe when I get out we can have tea together and talk about it, okay? Maybe they're will be a chocolate croissant from that place I like..."

"Chocolate croissants, got it, yes, there will be." He grabbed you cheeks, kissing your forehead, then both temples, then both cheeks, then he splattered a barrage of kisses from the cheek to your ear, trying to convey all his love and apologies and affections with the sweets pecks.

You laughed again, a laugh closer to your real one, and pushed him off, slipping out of his arms and walking towards the stairs to shower.

Before you could get to far Roy called out to you again, and you looked at him. "We'll be okay, right? You and me?"

"Of course we will," you said, "If we broke up just because you were an idiot we wouldn't have made it one week."

Roy laughed.

“I saw a bird today.” You say from your vanity, finishing up your nightly routine. Roy grunts, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he continues to read the book in his hand, the worn out copy of A Wrinkle In Time that Ted gave him years ago.

“Babe? Did you hear me?” You mumble, crossing the room, attempting to mask the way your heart dropped. Roy looks up, his brow furrowed. “Sorry. I got fucking lost in this book again. I don't know what the fuck about it draws me in. What did ya say?” Smiling, you pull the comforter back. “I saw a bird today.”

Roy nods, placing his bookmark Phoebe made him in his spot before placing it on the table, along with his glasses. He opens his arms, waiting for you to close the distance. You lean against his bare chest, smiling. “What kind of bird?” You hum, chest fluttering at the question. “I'm in not sure. Never can tell the difference between them.”

He grunts again, squeezing your hip. “Well what fucking color was it?” You tilt your head up, holding back your laugh. “Green. With a red head.”

Without hesitation, Roy answers. “That's a Green Woodpecker.” Your eyes widen in surprise as you sit up, his warmth disappearing.

You made that up on the spot. How did he?

“How do you know that?” Roy shrugs, kissing the top of your head. “Phoebe’s class had a bird fucking watching assignment and I had to take her to the damn park. Guess I fucking learned something.” A soft giggle falls from your lips as you reach up, pulling Roy down into a heated kiss.

Of course Roy fucking Kent would pass bird theory.