GAYLEXULYTE

That statement alone fills him with immediate suspicion. He crouches beside the cabinet carefully, resting one forearm against his knee while peering into the darkness. All he can really see is your shoulder and one side of your face. And… Are those his tools?

“You used my wrench.”

“I’ll put it back.”

“That wasn’t the point.”

Another clink echoes from inside the cabinet before you finally slide back out onto the kitchen floor, hair slightly messy and shirt wrinkled from being folded beneath the sink for who knows how long.

“There!” you announce proudly. “Fixed.”

Leon stares at you for a long moment. Then at the sink. Then back at you again. “…You fixed the pipe?”

“Well, yeah? It’s happened before.”

“...Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?”

You grab a rag and wipe your hands, before leaning up and giving him a quick kiss. “Well, you’re not always home. I fix things while you’re gone.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Not because he’s upset. Honestly, it’s the opposite. That’s the problem. Watching you casually repair plumbing in his oversized shirt and fuzzy socks is doing something deeply unfortunate to him emotionally.

And, apparently, psychologically.

“You could’ve called me,” he mutters.

You blink at him once. “Why?”

The question catches him off guard enough that he actually pauses. Why? Because he wanted you to. Because somewhere deep in the ruined wiring of his brain, taking care of you feels dangerously close to breathing. Because he spent so many years unable to save people that now every tiny domestic inconvenience feels like something he wants to protect you from.

But saying all that out loud would probably sound insane.

So instead, he settles for, “I was literally in the living room.”

You snort softly, rinsing your hands off in the sink. “Leon, it was a leaky pipe. Not a biohazard.”

“You don’t know that. Could’ve evolved.”

That earns him a laugh. A real one. Warm and bright enough that he immediately decides the conversation was worth losing. You move around him easily afterward, opening cabinets to put his tools back exactly where they belong. He watches quietly while you work. Too quietly, apparently. Because after a moment, you glance over your shoulder.

“…What?”

Leon leans back against the counter slowly, arms crossing over his chest. “You do this a lot?”

“Do what?”

“Stuff.”

You stare at him. “That answered absolutely nothing.”

“The shelf in the bedroom,” he says carefully. “You built that yourself too, didn’t you?”

A beat. “…Yes?”

“Honey.”

“What? You were gone for a week.” You shrug.

“And the lightbulb in the hallway? Wasn’t it flickering a few days ago?”

“I changed it.”

He sighs, “You climbed on a chair for that, didn’t you?”

“That is between me and God.”

Leon closes his eyes briefly. Jesus Christ. When he opens them again, you’re smiling at him now. Small. Amused. Like you’re finally starting to understand where this is actually coming from.

“You know,” you say softly, “I can take care of myself.”

“I know.” The answer comes too fast. Too firm. Leon’s expression shifts almost immediately afterward, something quieter settling over his features now. “That’s not the issue.”

The teasing fades from your face bit by bit.

He looks tired suddenly. Not physically. Just… old in the way only Leon can look old. Like exhaustion settled somewhere permanent behind his eyes years ago and never fully left.

“I know you can handle things on your own,” he says quietly. “But you don’t have to when I’m here. You know that, right?”

Your chest tightens a little at that. Because he says it gently, not accusingly. Like he understands that kind of loneliness better than most people ever could. 

Leon looks down at his hands for a second before continuing. “I just…” He exhales softly through his nose. “I like doing things for you.”

The honesty in it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. There’s no pride in his words. No control. No ego. Just love. Simple as that.

You step closer before you really think about it, fingers slipping around his wrist gently. “You know,” you murmur, “There is a jar on that top shelf that gives me issues sometimes...”

Leon blinks. Then huffs out a quiet laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours.

“You looked very proud of yourself just now.”

“I am proud of myself.”

Another laugh escapes you then, softer this time. Leon’s arms settle carefully around your waist afterward, pulling you against his chest with the kind of familiarity that only comes after years of loving someone. And when he presses a tired kiss against your temple, his voice drops into something warm and quiet beside your ear.

“Next time the sink breaks,” he murmurs, “at least let me pretend to save the day first.”

“Local authorities confirmed Ashley Graham was seen somewhere in this region approximately five days ago.”

Leon rests his forearms against his knees, gaze fixed on the storm outside. His brows furrow, head tilting as he asks, “5 days? And you’re only sending me in now? You’d think the president’s daughter would be more high priority.”

Over the line, he can hear Hunnigan sigh, “About that…”

He almost wants to groan. There was always something that they didn’t tell him til it was too late.

“... You’re not the first agent we’re sending in.”

That gets Leon’s attention immediately. His gaze shifts away from the rain-streaked window, settling somewhere unfocused in the dim interior of the jeep. “What?”

One of the officers says something under his breath in Spanish as the vehicle lurches forward onto the muddy road. Leon barely registers it. His attention is torn between Hunnigan’s smooth voice, and the blurry image of Ashley Graham in-between his fingers. 

Hunnigan pauses for half a second too long before continuing. “She was inserted three days ago under covert reconnaissance orders. Confirm Ashley’s location, maintain surveillance, await extraction support.”

“And?” Silence crackles softly over the comms. Leon’s jaw tightens. “Hunnigan.”

“We lost contact with her approximately forty-eight hours ago.”

The jeep rattles violently over uneven ground. Outside, the woods blur past in dark streaks of rain and skeletal branches. Leon leans back slightly, expression flattening into something colder.

“Status?”

“Unknown.”

Of course it was unknown. Why wouldn’t it be? He wasn’t that lucky.

“She made contact several times after insertion,” Hunnigan continues. “Her reports confirmed Ashley was alive, though she was unable to locate her. She encountered resistance almost immediately after entering the region.”

“Resistance?”

“We don’t have details. Her final transmission was cut short.”

Leon drags a hand down the lower half of his face slowly, exhaustion already pressing heavily behind his eyes. “What kind of agent?”

“Covert ops background with an emphasis in medical support.”

He lets out a breath. At least they hadn’t sent in a rookie, though he wouldn’t have put it past them. At least whoever had arrived first hadn’t been sent in completely blind. With any luck, the medical background would have made them capable enough to have a chance of survival. 

“You said she confirmed Ashley was alive,” He murmurs, “How long ago?”

“Just before communications stopped.”

The rain intensifies against the jeep roof, sharp little impacts rattling overhead.

“Last known location?”

“A church north of the village.”

He almost chuckles. A church. He’s being sent into hell, and there’s a church. The irony is hilarious.

Leon closes his eyes briefly, mind conjuring up what the prior agent might have seen. What he’ll be seeing soon, no doubt. Every mission may feel the same, but the imagery is always different. 

But his past doesn’t matter right now. Somewhere out there in the endless dark woods, another government agent had vanished trying to keep the president’s daughter alive. And now he was being sent to clean up the aftermath.

“You got a name?” he asks.

Another pause. Then, Hunnigan sighs. He can imagine her straightening her cherry red glasses.

“Her file access is currently restricted pending recovery confirmation.”

He actually scoffs at that, eyes rolling. “Seriously?”

“You know how this works.”

Yeah. He does. All too well. Almost no one would know the other agent's name until they were found, or sent home in a body bag.

The officers in the front exchange another uneasy glance as the jeep rounds a sharp bend. One of them mutters something about the roads being emptier than normal.

Leon looks back out the window. The forest feels wrong. Like it’s watching him.

“She was good,” Hunnigan says quietly after a moment.

That catches him off guard slightly. Hunnigan rarely volunteered personal opinions during operations. 

The line drops for a moment before picking back up, “She said she was getting close to Baby Eagle. That’s when communications stopped. She made it pretty far before…”

She trails off for a moment. He knows what she means. 

He sighs, glancing ahead, eyes tracking the rainwater cascading down the windshield. “Any other information you’d like to offer?”

Hunnigan almost sounds sorry when she responds, “Not as of yet. I’ll update you as need be. Over and out.”

“Over and out.” He repeats hollowly.

In front of him, one of the officers turns, looking him up and down like he’s more of an annoyance than a job.

“So, tell me, Yanqui.” He smiles at him, but it doesn’t look kind, “Why did you come to this horrible place?”

.

.

.

The village smells of wet wool and rot, its houses dilapidated and sagging. There’s smoke in the air, the bonfire and the body in the center of town on display for all to see. It’s brutal and raw, the sound of the officer’s screams still ringing in Leon’s ears.

He has no time to try and help. The man was as good as dead the moment the bonfire started.

Now, Leon’s only priority is to survive long enough to get Ashley Graham home safe. 

His feet are heavy against the muddy ground, leaving behind deep bootprints as he sprints away from the hoards of people pursuing him. He’s capable, yes, but there’s too many of them. He’s going to be overtaken if he doesn’t find somewhere to get a moment of reprieve, and fast. 

When he turns a corner, narrowly dodging an axe being thrown at his face, he sees it. A window. Inside, the house looks empty. The only interior door that he can see has furniture pushed up against it. Barricading it to the rest of the village. 

He throws himself into the glass with no hesitation.

It only takes a moment for him to stand again, glass shards falling off of his thick jacket and clinking down to the floor. Strong hands are quick to grab a nearby bookshelf, pushing it in front of the window, sealing himself inside the house.

Leon heaves in a breath, eyes squinting to adjust to the sudden darkness inside. He can make out a few chairs and an old, iron kitchen stove, followed by a bedframe leaned up against the door. It’s odd, but not out of place here. But, something else catches his eye.

On the table is a medical kit.

It isn’t something that anyone in this village would have. The kit is clean, a bright white against the dirt on the table and the rust on the stove. Beside it are a few open blister packs of painkillers, and a half used roll of gauze. The cut on it is jagged and crooked. Whoever had used it was in a hurry. Next to it all is a scrap of black nylon, edges smeared with dried blood.

Someone else had been here before.

The other agent.

He doesn’t have time to focus on that. He can hear villagers screaming at him, infected bodies throwing themselves into the bookshelf and the door.

Hands wrapped around the pistol, he keeps moving.

.

.

.

His head hurts when he comes to.

For a moment, he’s confused, eyes squinting at the light above his head as he tries to remember what had happened.

It comes rushing back to him like a cold wave.

Mud. A basement. The man in the sack, his wavy hair marred with dirt and dust. Hands like concrete slamming him into stone-

Then darkness.

Pain lances through his shoulders as he drops his weight against the restraints.

“Oh, what the fuck?” His voice is rough, hands pulling down from where they were suspended in the air by heavy chains. 

From behind him, he hears a groan. Suddenly, he’s aware of the warmth against his back. It’s the man from earlier. The one in the basement. When Leon looks back, he can see that his dark hair is unruly, dust clinging to the strands. 

“Hey- Stop it!” The man’s accented words are more of a hiss, even as he stands up to look at Leon properly, “Yanqui, got a name?”

He’s up within moments, moving to observe the nature of their restraints. Steel cuffs bite into both their wrists, linked together by a single heavy chain bolted into the ceiling. If he can just find a way to get that bolt down…

“Leon.” The answer is plain and simple, his body already focusing on pulling all of his strength into his arms. 

The man seems unbothered by his unfriendly tone, lips curling into the faintest of smiles as he speaks. “Quiet type, eh? I’m Luis Serra. I guess, you, me, picked the wrong spot to vacation, eh?”

He’s about to say more, but he’s interrupted by Leon putting his full body weight into the chain, forcing him to stumble and almost fall. He barely manages to correct himself, giving a tug in response. 

“Hey, stop it! You move, I move. And I’m beat up enough as is…” He stops as he realizes what Leon is doing, eyes flitting between the blonde man and the bolt in the ceiling, “Ah. I can see your thinking.”

Leon is quiet, tugging on the chain again, feet planted firmly against the floor. Luis helps him this time, doing the same. He keeps talking, accented voice ringing out across the cluttered walls.

“I bet you’ve been in spots like this before. Let me guess… You’re looking for someone? A missing senorita, perhaps?”

Leon stops, turning back to him with an intensity that could kill. With ease, he drags the man forward by the chain, to where he has to stand on his tip toes to stay upright. He’s so close that he can feel hot breath fan against his face. 

“Talk. Now. Where is she?”

It’s less of a question and more of a command.

The Spaniard is quick to try and steady himself, but Leon won’t let him, eyes boring into his skull. He chuckles awkwardly, “Ah, alright.”  Leon lets him get a breath in, relieving tension on the chain. The man keeps speaking, “I heard some chatter. A young woman made it to the church, where they’re keeping a senorita.”

Leon’s eyes narrow, “A young woman?”

Luis nods, “Si, Yanqui. A thorn in their side, the cult said.”

The other agent. With any luck, she’s still alive.

With another tug, the bolt comes free.

.

.

.

Getting into the church had felt like a nightmare. 

Of course, that isn’t even counting the trip to the church itself. There had been dozens of cultists and infected, their bodies riddled with parasites, eyes burning with rage. He had somehow managed to fight his way through all of them, making his way to the church. 

The first villager had come out of nowhere, too fast, too wrong, its body already half-split open with something alive underneath. Then more followed. Voices turned into screaming. Movement turned into rushing shapes in the dark.

Leon had stopped thinking in anything but distance after that.

Bodies hit the ground and didn’t stay there. Cries of anger turned into gargled screams as people mutated into something foreign. Eyes burned in the dark when they shouldn’t have been able to see him at all. 

But somehow, against all odds, he’s standing outside the church, circular key in hand.

The door opens with a wet creak.

He’s going to find Ashley, as well as the other agent, if it kills him.

Shaking the rain water off of his skin, he steps inside. 

"Mmm, you smell so good.” Before you pulled back slightly resting your chin on his chest to look into his eyes. You studied his face with a theatrically confused look on your face. “Y’know, you look Like... like...Like my husband. Who I love. Did you know I have the hottest husband in the whole world?"

"You might've mentioned it," he said, trying to hide his smile as he kicked the door shut behind you. "About fifteen times on the drive home."

"Only fifteen?" You frowned, genuinely concerned. "That's not enough. You're so—" You poked his chest emphatically with each word. "Fucking. Hot. Leon."

He caught your hand before you could poke him again, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Let's get you some water, Okay?"

But you had other ideas. Your free hand slid down his torso, and you looked up at him through your lashes. "Or... we could skip the water and get wet in other ways."

"Water first," he said firmly ignoring your lewd suggestion, though his eyes had darkened slightly. He guided you toward the kitchen, keeping one arm around you because you kept veering off course and stumbling over nothing. When you rounded the corner and almost knocked your wedding pictures off the wall, he had enough and bent down, scooping you up to throw you over his shoulder, one hand coming down on your ass with a sharp smack that made you yelp.

"Leon!" you squealed, but you were grinning and laughing as he carried you toward the kitchen. Your hands immediately mischievously slid down his firm back to grab his ass in return, squeezing a handful shamelessly.

"Mrs. Kennedy," Leon said, his voice strained with barely contained laughter. "Please keep your hands to yourself."

"No," you said simply, squeezing again for emphasis. He shook his head before he reached back behind him to gather both of your wrists to hold them captive, he was still grinning as he carried you toward the kitchen. You pouted the whole way there, then immediately perked up when he deposited you onto the counter, standing in-between your legs. "Ooh, I like this." You said wrapping your legs around his waist before he could step away, pulling him close. "No! Stay." you immediately lunged forward, trying to steal a kiss.

"I need to get you water," he said, but he didn't move after that, his hands settling on your thighs.

"Don't care." You cupped his face in both hands, studying him. "Your eyes are so pretty and I love your face." You traced his bottom lip with your thumb. "Everything about you is pretty. How did I get so lucky?"

His expression softened, and he leaned in to kiss your forehead. "I'm the lucky one."

"Don't you know the saying that the wife is always right," you insisted, tightening your legs around him. "You're stuck with me now. Forever. You married me. No takebacks."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, reaching past you to grab a glass from the cabinet. You took advantage of his proximity to kiss his neck, your hands sliding under his shirt.

Leon caught you by the shoulders, holding you at arm's length. "Water first."

"Kiss first," you counter offered, trying to lean around his hands.

"Water," he repeated not coming down from his initial starting offer, he drove a hard bargain and you couldn't talk him down. You pouted dramatically as he stepped over to the sink, swinging your legs and watching him. Your eyes never left him as he filled the glass, tracking every movement like a cat watching a bird out the window. You made another grab for him wrapping around him like a koala, nipping at his neck as he tried to fill the glass.

"Baby," he said, his voice strained as he filled the glass with water. "You need to drink water."

"I need to drink you," you said, then dissolved into giggles at your own terrible line. "Get it? Because you're a tall glass of—"

"I got it," he said, laughing despite himself. He pressed the glass into your hand. "Drink."

"You're trying to waterboard me," you whined, but you took a sip anyway, never breaking eye contact. The moment you swallowed, you set the glass down and reached for him again. "There. Water. Now kiss."

"More water," he said, fighting back a smile as he pushed the glass back toward you. You took another exaggerated sip, then another, then drained half the glass in one go. "Happy?"

"With you? Always," he said sweetly and you almost melted into a puddle on the counter, he stepped between your legs letting you wrap them around his waist.

You immediately cupped his face, pulling him close. "I love you so much," you breathed, suddenly serious despite the alcohol buzzing through your system. " You're the best thing that ever happened to me, and you're so good to me. Even when I'm being silly."

His expression softened completely, and he leaned his forehead against yours. "You're always a little silly. That's why I love you." he said softly, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

"Don't be so sweet to me," you said, your voice wobbling, overwhelmed by the alcohol and emotions. "I'll cry."

"Can't help it," he said, kissing the tip of your nose. You pulled him into a messy and enthusiastic kiss, he could taste the sweetness of the coconut and milk and sour tang of pineapple from the Piña colada’s you'd been drinking. He kissed you back just as thoroughly, one hand tangling in your hair while the other gripped your hip.

When you finally broke apart, both of your chests were heaving, breathing hard. You grinned at him, feeling floaty and warm and so, so in love with the man Infront of you, taking such good care of you even though you were making it your mission to make it as difficult as possible. "Take me to bed?"

"To sleep," he clarified stubbornly, though his voice was a little rough after the kiss.

"Sure," you agreed easily, knowing you'd try to change his mind the second you got there. "Whatever you say, handsome."

He shook his head fondly and scooped you up, carrying you toward the bedroom while you peppered his jaw and neck with kisses, your hands never quite managing to stay to yourself. 

The mattress bounced as you flopped onto it, sprawling out like a starfish before you started making sheet angels in the dark navy bed sheets. Leon stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with an exasperated but completely smitten look, he couldn’t even try and hide it.

"Don't move," he said sternly pointing to you like you were a unruly dog, before heading to the bathroom.

"Can't promise anything," you called after him, already rolling onto your side and nearly tumbling off the bed. You caught yourself at the last second, giggling. Your dress was rucked up and bunched around your waist, your whole ass out as you rolled over and mashed your face directly into his pillow, letting a drawn-out moan at his scent. Breathing in the notes of the honey and vanilla of the new detergent you just bought, mixed with his own woodsy shampoo that was still lingering on the fabric. 

He returned with a makeup wipe, sitting on the edge of the mattress. His hand reached up and gently pulled your dress back into place where it had ridden up, his palm coming to rest on your hip, his thumb tracing along your curves.

"Come on, sit up for me," he said softly, his other hand sliding to your back to help you.

You pushed yourself upright with his help, swaying slightly, and when you saw the makeup wipe in his hand your whole face lit up.

"You remembered!" you said, your words slurring together in your excitement. "You're the best husband ever. I hate waking up with crusty makeup. It's so gross and my face feels all—" You made a disgusted noise, scrunching up your nose.

"I know," Leon said, his expression fond. "That's why I'm doing this."

"You're perfect," you sighed, crawling toward him on your hands and knees, aiming to look seductive and enticing but coming off more like Bambi as you overshoot and bumped into his chest. "Oops." You said laughing as you melted into his chest and he took all of your weight holding you up as he went to clean your face.

"Yeah, oops," he said, his arm coming around your waist to hold you up, while bringing the wipe to your face with the other.

The cool, damp cloth touched your cheek, and you immediately started complaining as he wiped your lips off. "Mmhhhnn!"

"Hold still," Leon said, his voice patient as he cupped the back of your head to keep you in place trying to be even more gentle then before. "You'll thank me in the morning."

"I won't," you insisted, even though you knew he was right, squirming as he wiped away your mascara and eyeshadow. "This is cruel and unusual punishment."

"Mm-hmm." He tilted your chin up, carefully cleaning around your eyes. "So cruel. Taking care of my drunk wife." You tried to protest again but he was already moving to your other eye, his touch gentle despite your fussing. When he finally pulled the wipe away, now thoroughly covered in foundation and mascara. Once he was done you puckered your lips expectantly, eyes still closed.

When nothing happened, you cracked one eye open to find him watching you with barely suppressed amusement. Then his hands came up to squish your cheeks together, making your lips pucker even more before he leaned in and gave you the tiniest quickest peck, releasing you.

"That's it?" you demanded sadly. "That's all I get?"

"That's all you get until you're in bed," he said, standing and moving to the dresser. He pulled out one of his old t-shirts, your favorite one to sleep in. You made grabby hands at it, but when he tried to help you out of your dress, you went completely limp. "Can't move. Too drunk. Guess I have to sleep like this."

"Nice try." He maneuvered your arms out of the sleeves despite your best efforts to be as unhelpful as possible, flopping around like a fish out of water. When he finally got the dress off and tried to put the shirt on you, you suddenly had the energy to twist away.

"Wait, I changed my mind. I want the blue one."

"This is the blue one."

"The other blue one."

"You're wearing this one," Leon said firmly, catching you around the waist and wrestling the shirt over your head. You emerged from the neck hole with your hair sticking up in every direction, and he smoothed it down with a fond shake of his head.

The second you were dressed; you threw yourself backward onto the mattress, like a Victorian lady with a fainting spell. You flung one arm over your eyes; the back of your other hand pressed to your forehead.

"My husband doesn't love me anymore. He's so mean. He forces me to drink water and wear shirts to bed. And he won't ravish me like I know he wants to."

Leon couldn't help but laugh, if there was one thing his wife was when she was drunk, it was honest.

"Sooo tragic," you continued, your voice dripping with drama. "Death from no Snu-Snu."

You peeked out from under your arm to watch as he pulled his own shirt off to get ready for bed, and the entire act you had put on crumbled instantly. Your eyes went wide, tracking the movement of fabric up his torso, over his shoulders. You attempted a whistle, what came out was more of a pathetic swoosh of air with no substance. You tried again, pursing your lips with intense concentration. This time nothing came out at all, you looked like you were trying to blow out candles on an invisible birthday cake, your cheeks puffing out uselessly.

"Are you done?" Leon asked in amusement as he watched your increasingly desperate attempts. You tried one final time, producing what one might call a raspberry, and that was apparently his limit. He grabbed the edge of the blanket and yanked, rolling you up in it like a burrito before you could even protest. You let out a muffled "Hey!" as he climbed in behind you and pulled you flush against his bare chest, wrapping both of you in the cocoon of blankets.

"Just go to sleep, baby." he murmured against your hair, his arm curled around your waist.

You wanted to say how much you loved him or how the joke was on him because this was exactly where you wanted to be, but the words were stuck in your throat as your eyelids grew heavy with sleep. The room was soft and fuzzy around the edges of your vision, and his heartbeat was lulling you to sleep, you were so comfortable, so safe, so...

A soft snore escaped you as you finally closed your eyes, tucked safely in Leon’s arms. Leon pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his own eyes drifting closed, a soft smile still on his lips.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹ reader:

Months ago, mornings used to feel sharp. Abrupt. Another mission briefing. Another flight. Another body being shoved back into motion before his mind could catch up. He used to wake up tense without realizing it, muscles already preparing for catastrophe before his eyes had even opened. Now?

Now he wakes up warm.

His eyes drift downward toward you. You’re still half asleep, face pressed into his shoulder, hair a mess against the pillow. One of your legs is tangled carefully between his, the healed one resting comfortably while the injured side stays stretched out straighter beneath the blankets. Even after all this time, you still move around it instinctively in your sleep.

The scar tissue doesn’t hurt as often anymore.

There are still bad days. Rainy days. Long days. Days where the muscles tighten too much and your limp becomes more noticeable by the evening. But the crutches are gone now, retired permanently to the back of the closet after months of physical therapy and stubborn determination. Leon couldn’t have been happier to put them there.

Your fingers twitch lightly against his shirt as you finally begin waking up. A sleepy little hum leaves you, muffled against his chest.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

One eye cracks open. You look at him for a second before lazily lifting your left hand. The silver ring catches the morning sunlight instantly. Even now, weeks later, the sight of it still makes something in Leon’s chest go painfully soft.

It hadn’t been some dramatic proposal. No fancy restaurant. No speech rehearsed in advance.

Just the two of you in the kitchen at two in the morning after a nightmare had dragged him awake, shaking hard enough that you noticed immediately. The apartment had been dark, barely lit by the moonlight streaming in through the windows. He remembers standing there, barefoot while you made tea, exhaustion heavy in both of your faces. He remembers looking at you and realizing there was no version of his future anymore that didn’t have you in it.

So he had asked.

Half awake. Terrified. Honest. There wasn’t a ring prepared. He didn’t even drop to one knee. No, it was just him, laid bare and raw, asking for you to be his forever. You had started crying before he even finished the sentence.

Now, you wiggle your fingers at him sleepily, silently demanding attention toward the shiny jewelry. Like you were just as proud to have it as he was to give it to you. 

Leon snorts softly. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Your grin widens immediately. God, he loves you.

The alarm clock finally goes off on the nightstand. Neither of you reacts for several seconds.

Then Leon groans dramatically into the pillow. “Think the DSO would notice if we just didn’t come in today?”

Your eyebrows raise.

He sighs. “Right. Dumb question.”

The desk job adjustment had been… strange at first. The DSO still feels vaguely surreal sometimes without a gun strapped to his thigh or blood drying on his hands. Most days are paperwork. Threat assessments. Training younger agents. Reviewing reports from the field instead of being the one sent into them. Oddly enough, he doesn’t miss it. Not really.

Sometimes he still catches himself watching the door too carefully. Sometimes loud noises still make his pulse jump. Sometimes he still wakes up reaching for a weapon that isn’t there anymore.

But then you’ll touch his hand beneath your shared desk at work. Or hand him coffee exactly how he likes it. Or smile at him from across the office while arguing with Sherry over printer issues.

And suddenly the world feels survivable again.

The transition hadn’t exactly been smooth. The DSO had fought him on it harder than he expected. Agents like him weren’t supposed to retire quietly into office chairs and briefing rooms. Men with his record got sent back into the field until they died, burned out, or became too broken to hold a weapon steady. The DSO had tried to compromise at first. Limited deployments. Advisory positions with occasional field work. Short assignments “only when necessary.” Leon had shut every single suggestion down. 

The final meeting had ended with him staring across a conference table and saying, with exhausted calm, that if they forced him back into active deployment, they could accept his resignation instead. And judging by the silence afterward, everyone in the room understood there were uglier alternatives he wasn’t saying out loud. Somehow, that had done it. Maybe it was his reputation. Maybe it was the fact that he’d spent years bleeding for them without complaint. Or maybe someone high enough up had finally looked at the medical files, the psych evaluations, the body count, and realized they couldn’t keep asking him for more.

Whatever the reason, the paperwork had eventually gone through. 

You sit up slowly, stretching carefully before reaching for the glass of water resting on the nightstand beside you. Leon watches you take a sip, before finally dragging himself upright too. His arm brushes yours automatically.

Domesticity still feels bizarre on him sometimes. Not unwanted. Just precious. Like something he spent years believing belonged to other people.

The kitchen is quiet while you both get ready. You make breakfast while he pours coffee into travel mugs. There’s a grocery list stuck to the fridge beneath a magnet shaped like a daisy flower. One of your physical therapy schedules still hangs nearby out of habit, though the appointments are less frequent now. Moreso a reevaluation of your mobility rather than a full appointment.

Leon catches sight of you limping slightly while reaching for something in the cabinet. Immediately, he’s moving. Your eyes lift just in time to watch him grab the plate from the higher shelf before you can strain your leg further.

“…You know I can do that myself, right?” he says automatically, mimicking your usual expression.

You stare at him flatly. Then you point at the cabinet, like something about either it or him offended you.

“Okay, rude,” he mutters.

Your laugh fills the apartment warmly. A few minutes later, the two of you stand near the front door gathering your things for work. Leon reaches for your coat while you scribble something quickly into your notebook. You hold it up toward him, pink paper drawing his eye with ease.

Did you remember your lunch this time?

He freezes. Slowly, he looks back toward the kitchen counter. “…Damnit.”

Your shoulders shake silently with laughter as he stalks back toward the kitchen, grumbling under his breath. Behind him, he hears you laugh again, soft, breathless, alive.

It’s still his favorite sound in the world. 

And as Leon grabs his forgotten lunch and turns back toward the woman waiting for him by the door, engagement ring glinting softly beneath the morning light, he realizes something simple.

For the first time since Raccoon City, he isn’t just surviving anymore.

He’s home.

Across the office, you’re adjusting your crutch against your arm, expression thoughtful as you read over your own copy. The fluorescent lights overhead catch against the metal support along your leg. Even now, even healed enough to walk again, there’s still a stiffness to some of your movements when you forget to hide it. He can see the way your leg twitches at night, like your muscles and nerves are still firing too hard despite the flesh being physically healed.

It twists something ugly in his chest, his jaw tightening. 

Truly, he’s been enjoying his time with you. The lazy mornings tangled up in bed. The slow drives to the office, with your coffee in the cup holder next to him. Leon has found himself increasingly comfortable with a domestic style life, in ways that he never thought he could be. Before you, he had never thought that a ‘home life’ would be possible. He’d get home from a case, sleep until the pains in his body faded a bit, rinse, and repeat. But now? With you next to him, holding his hand and making him homemade meals? He can’t believe it, but he’s enjoying being somewhat normal, for once.

Next to him, there’s two sharp taps of your nail against the desk. It’s accompanied by a curious hum.

You okay?

“Yeah,” he answers automatically.

The look you give him says you don’t buy it for a second. Your office chair wheels closer to him, your body leaning into his side. The warmth soothes him, untangling the knots of stress that are deep in his soul. 

He sighs. “... I don’t know how I feel about being sent out again.”

He feels your hand pat against his leg encouragingly. Telling him to let it out.

“You know…” His head lulls a little, resting atop yours, “I keep thinking about it all. That last mission, I mean.”

A low hum. Clearly, you’ve been thinking about it too.

He continues, “That was bad. We almost didn’t make it out.” Then, smaller, he mutters, “You almost didn’t make it out.”

Your hand leaves his side, scribbling out a note and placing it in his eyeline.

Trust me, I’m aware.

A hollow chuckle falls, before he’s speaking again.  “Guess we’re both officially back on the menu now.”

The joke lands weakly. Even he can hear it. Your shoulder nudges his own lightly in response. It’s gentler than before your injury. Careful, so that you don’t somehow jostle your leg. The leg you still limp on without thinking sometimes. The one that still has tiny hesitations in your balance whenever you stand too fast. He notices every single one of them. His eyes drift back toward the email.

CLEARED FOR ACTIVE FIELD DUTY.

Like it’s that simple. Like there isn’t scar tissue buried deep in your leg. Like he doesn’t still wake up some nights hearing you whimper in pain as your muscles twist in irritation. 

“You shouldn’t have been cleared yet,” he says quietly.

Your brows knit immediately. Leon already knows that expression. You hate when he gets protective in ways that border on unfair. Before you can grab your notebook, he keeps talking.

“I’m serious.” His voice stays calm, but there’s tension underneath it now. “You can’t even run yet. You’re still using crutches. You’re still in pain.”

Your eyes roll, fingers writing more.

Haven’t you been in pain for decades at this point?

You’re right, and he knows it. His shoulder, the one that got shot back in Raccoon City, still burns when a storm rolls in. His knees ache on days when he overworks himself.  Half the scars on his body pull tight in the cold. Pain stopped being temporary years ago.

That doesn’t mean he wants this life for you. Your body has already withstood years of torment. You don’t need more.

His hand drags down over his face slowly. “Yeah,” he admits eventually. “I have.”

You reach over after a moment, fingers slipping carefully through his. Easy. Familiar. Like it’s second nature now. It still catches him off guard sometimes, how naturally you fit into his life. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Like you’ve always belonged beside him.

His thumb rubs absently against your knuckles as he stares at the monitor again.

“You know what the worst part is?” he asks after a while.

You tilt your head.

“I should be happy.” His laugh is quiet and humorless. “A few years ago, this is all I wanted. Get back out there. Go back to work. Down time felt… Wrong.” His gaze lowers. “But now all I can think about is you getting hurt. Or me dying and leaving you behind.”

Your expression softens instantly, body leaning into his side a touch harder. It’s grounding, spreading a warmth through him that makes his body loosen. 

He keeps talking anyway. “I don’t want to go back to how things were back in that lab.”

You shift again, and the motion bumps one of your crutches, making it clatter to the floor. You have to carefully maneuver yourself to grab it and prop it back up, before leaning back into him. The motions are clumsy and human. Awkward in the most endearing of ways. You barely manage to steady yourself before settling back into his side, your lips finding his cheek in a chaste kiss.

It nearly destroys him.

His eyes close briefly. Christ. He loves you so much it scares him sometimes. His arm slips around your waist automatically, pulling you closer despite the cramped office chair arrangement. You let out a quiet laugh at the awkward angle of it, but don’t pull away.

“C’mere,” he murmurs anyway, voice softer now.

Your fingers curl lightly into the front of his shirt, just like how it does when you two are lying together in bed. 

If you were to go out on a mission and get killed, then he would never have that again. He would never get to see your serene face as you slept. Never get to taste test your cooking. He’d lose the only things that have made him feel normal. The only things that have reminded him that he’s human. 

“... I’m going to put in the paperwork for us to be permanently put on desk jobs.”

That finally makes you pull back enough to properly look at him. Your eyes search his face carefully, like you’re trying to figure out whether this is another moment of fear talking. Another fresh wave of panic before another mission.

It isn’t.

Leon has spent most of his adult life running himself into the ground for this job. Taking mission after mission because there was always another outbreak. Another biohazard. Another city to save. He’s bled for the government more times than he can count.

And until recently, he was fine with that.

Sure, he didn’t like it. But he was able to help people. That was enough for him to keep going. But now? 

Now he knows what it feels like to wake up beside someone who reaches for him half-asleep.

He knows what it feels like to come home to warm food and soft laughter.

He knows what it feels like to have someone waiting for him.

The thought of losing that makes something cold settle deep in his stomach.

You slowly reach for your notebook again, balancing it awkwardly against your knee.

Are you sure?

His answer comes immediately. “Yeah.”

No hesitation. No joking. Just the truth. Just like when he had first told you he loved you, while dying in that godforsaken freezing hellscape. The truth.

You pause, fingers twitching against your pencil.

What if they say no?

That earns a quiet huff from him, somewhere between amusement and exhaustion. His fingers tighten around yours.

“Then I keep pushing.”

There’s something stubborn in the way he says it. Something exhausted, too. Like he’s finally reached the point where he can’t keep sacrificing pieces of himself for a job that will always ask for more. You study him carefully.

He wonders if you can see how terrified he is underneath all of this. Not of death.  Not really. Leon made peace with his own death a long time ago. But yours? That’s different. The image still lives in his head whether he wants it to or not. Blood on concrete. Your scream, raw and real. Teeth sinking into your leg. The horrible certainty that he was about to lose you, your body going limp in his arms and face completely pale. Sometimes he still sees it when he closes his eyes.

His thumb brushes slowly over your knuckles again.

“I can’t do that again,” he admits quietly. “I can’t watch you almost die again and pretend this job is worth it.”

Your expression softens so completely it almost hurts to look at. For a moment, neither of you speaks. He just savors the way that one of your arms crosses his back, hand settling on his shoulder. Holding him casually. Lovingly. It makes his chest ache.

Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he’s selfish now. Or maybe loving you has finally made him realize he wants to live instead of just survive. But he’s made his decision. 

He’s choosing you.

Even if it means he can’t save people anymore.

He chooses you. 

The words don’t feel dramatic when he thinks them. They don’t feel like a sacrifice. Just… truth.

Your hand tightens around his like you’ve heard him anyway. Across the office, a printer starts up again, sharp, mechanical, indifferent. The world doesn’t stop for decisions like this. But for the first time in a long time, Leon doesn’t feel like he has to keep up with it.

He’s choosing a place to come home to.

He’s choosing safety, beyond just fleeting moments where he’s not about to get hurt.

He’s choosing you.