You are safe to yearn here, cherished thing

You, yourself, were a younger agent, but there was nothing enticing about going home. You sat cross-legged on top of your desk sorting through case files while Chris Redfield leaned back in a chair nearby, recounting some disaster from a mission in Eastern Europe.

“-and this idiot,” Chris said, pointing across the room, “thought he could outrun infected dogs on a motorcycle.”

Leon Kennedy, sprawled bonelessly in the chair beside your desk, didn’t even look up from the paperwork in his hands.

“I could outrun infected dogs on a motorcycle.”

“You crashed into a church.”

Leon finally glanced over.

“One time.”

Chris barked out a laugh.

“One time was enough, man.”

You smiled into your coffee.

Leon noticed immediately. That was the problem with him.

Leon Kennedy had spent years teaching himself how not to feel things too deeply. He kept right on the surface of every new relationship. Only coworkers from his first couple of years on the job made it under his hard exterior because if he let every death, every mission, every failure settle fully into his chest, it would have hollowed him out years ago.

So now he moved through life carefully, like a man forever trying not to disturb old ghosts.

Until you.

You had walked into the DSO three years ago with bright eyes and terrifying competence and had ruined his emotional restraint almost instantly.

Leon remembered the exact moment, actually.

When you'd first walked in, short heels, no-nonsense attire, thing, rectangular glasses on your nose, he didn't think much other than ‘pretty new rookie’.

And as you oriented yourself around, your curious eyes kept glancing up at everyone. You didn't seem to remember manners with how often you were taking in your surroundings, including everyone else in them.

Leon felt your gaze land heavily on him many times. But he was used to respect, professional admiration, and rookies being attracted to him.

He assumed it was one of these.

It wasn't.

He stayed late. Because he always stayed late.

He barely noticed as other employees filtered out of the building, the agency becoming quieter and quieter as the dark filled in the empty space.

What he did notice was that the new rookie, on your very first day, was still there. Still putting in the hours typing away on your computer, the harsh screen glinting your glasses, making it impossible for him to see your eyes.

Every few files, he would look up again at you. You would still be typing away.

Eventually, it got too late for even senior officer Leon S. Kennedy, and he fell asleep at his desk, posture still upright, looking almost like he was still working.

But you had known better. Had seen how much he put into this place. How much it had taken from him.

Most importantly, how sad his eyes had looked.

You tip-toed over to him, reaching out for him, then away several times. It was your first day after all, and you weren't sure if this behavior was acceptable.

But then you committed.

You walked over to his desk and filed his papers for him. You clicked his computer off, the bright screen instantly turning dark. You set a mug of fresh coffee on his desk for when he woke up. Turned off the florescent lights.

Then you went back to your desk. Pulled something out of your drawer. A little crocheted something-or-other and placed it on his desk.

Didn't need Agent Kennedy banging his head on hard wood if he fell forward. It would make the perfect pillow.

And that it did, when he woke up several hours later, the office completely empty, with criss-crossed lines etched into his face, the subtle scent of coconut all around him.

Leon could have figured it out. Wouldn't have been hard. But the mystery was solved when Chris Redfield came up to him the next day, smirk on his face, and replayed the footage for him.

You still didn't know he had seen the footage. That kind of thing doesn't come up on conversation, exactly. But one day he wordlessly returned his makeshift pillow.

And ever since then, it's been over for him. Leon had been doomed from that moment forward.

Chris knew it too.

Which was why he looked between the two of you now with the exhausted expression of a man watching a train wreck happen in slow motion.

“You know,” Chris said, “normal partners don’t spend this much time together off duty.”

Leon took a sip of beer. Chris held his own.

Not you. You still looked like you were working, but you hadn't flipped a file page in over an hour.

“We’re not off duty.”

Chris looked pointedly at the beers.

Leon looked at his own bottle like he’d forgotten it existed.

“Mm.”

You laughed softly again, offering a tiny smile.

Leon’s chest tightened painfully around it the way it always did.

God.

He ran a hand down his face, acting like it was the late hour that was affecting him, and it wasn't that he wanted you with an intensity that made him feel seventeen and stupid again.

Leon had accepted long ago that wanting you quietly was probably the closest thing to peace he deserved.

Chris stood eventually, stretching.

“Well,” he sighed. “I got a wife waiting for me at home. Let me get out of here before Kennedy starts acting like you hung the moon, again.”

Your eyebrows shot up.

“What?”

Leon dragged one hand slowly down his face.

“Chris.”

“I’m serious,” Chris continued mercilessly. “It’s getting embarrassing.”

Leon looked deeply unimpressed, but you saw through it because the tips of his ears had gone faintly pink.

“Good night,” he muttered pointedly.

Chris grinned.

“Night, sweetheart.”

“Mm.”

Then Chris was gone, leaving the bullpen quieter than before.

Rain against windows. Distant humming electronics. The soft warmth of Leon beside you.

You looked back over the files, eyes unseeing.

“Agent Kennedy?” you asked. “What was he talking about?”

Leon leaned back in his chair slowly. Older now. Sharper around the edges than he used to be. Time had turned him dangerous instead of merely handsome.

Silver threaded faintly at his temples beneath the dim office lighting. His tie hung loosened from earlier meetings, sleeves rolled to his forearms. There was something unfair about how good exhaustion looked on him.

His blue eyes settled on you heavily.

“You ask a lotta dangerous questions.”

You covered a blush by finally flipping that damned page even though you weren't done reading it.

Leon watched your face over the rim of his beer bottle. His tongue shot out and licked against his bottom lip.

“You’re off tonight.”

You blinked.

“In what way?”

“You’ve been picking at that same file for over an hour.”

You glanced down.

He was right, and damn him for it. That was the thing about being friends with federal agents - they noticed everything.

And Agent Kennedy seemed to be the best. He noticed everything. Specifically, about you.

You tried for casual.

“Just distracted.”

“Hm.”

That quiet hum of his was lethal. Somehow more intimate than most people touching you.

He set his beer down.

“Why?”

Simple question. No pressure, which somehow made it harder to avoid.

You stared down at the papers in your lap for a long moment.

“My ex is getting married.”

Leon went completely still beside you.

You laughed softly at yourself.

“It’s dumb.”

“How long?”

You looked over.

“What?”

“You were together how long?”

“Since high school.”

Something flickered behind Leon’s eyes. Then it was gone just as quickly.

“Our families were really close,” you continued quietly. “Everybody thought we’d end up together eventually.”

Leon looked away first. Toward the rain-soaked windows. His jaw was tight.

You kept talking because you trusted him. Because Leon had become the safest place in your life so gradually you never noticed it happening.

“He invited me to the wedding.”

That got his attention back instantly.

Your laugh this time sounded smaller.

“And I sort of have to go.”

Leon’s gaze narrowed faintly.

“Why?”

“Our families are still close. His whole family’s gonna be there. Mine too.”

You shrugged one shoulder helplessly.

“And I’m going to walk in alone while he’s standing there marrying somebody else.”

The words settled heavily between you.

Leon looked at you for a very long moment after that.

God, you had no idea what you did to him.

No idea what it felt like sitting beside you every day pretending he didn’t think about your laugh, your safety, your happiness, your future, your hands, your mouth…

What it would feel like to be chosen by you

Meanwhile you were worried about showing up somewhere without a date, as though someone had not already been half in love with you for years.

Leon exhaled slowly through his nose.

“He’s an idiot.”

You looked upward. Your glasses glinted and concealed your expression.

“What?”

“Your ex.”

The bluntness startled a laugh out of you. Leon’s eyes softened instantly at the sound.

“You don’t even know him.”

“Don’t need to.”

“Leon-”

“No,” he interrupted calmly. “Guy had you and lost you anyway.”

Your breath caught slightly because he said it so simply like it was objective fact. It almost made you believe him.

Leon leaned back again afterward, one arm draped loosely behind your chair. He was careful to avoid touching you, because if Leon started touching you the way he wanted to, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d survive it.

And he certainly wouldn't be able to stop.

“You showing up alone doesn’t make you less impressive,” he continued quietly. “Just means he was too stupid to keep up.”

You stared at him, at the exhaustion in his face. You saw the impossible gentleness hidden inside a man who carried the weight of entire outbreaks on his shoulders.

And suddenly your chest hurt a little, because nobody had ever spoken about you like that before.

Leon noticed your expression immediately. His eyes flicked over your face carefully. Protectively.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“Hm?”

“You don’t owe anybody proof that you’re wanted.”

The room went very quiet after that. Rain caressed windows and the florescent lights hummed.

Beside you, Leon looked like a man trying very hard not to say something crazy.

And, boy oh boy, did he fail catastrophically.

Leon stared out at the rain for so long you wondered if maybe he wasn’t going to say anything at all.

The first sound is small. Too small to mean anything on its own. A soft scrape somewhere in the house that makes you pause mid-scrub, dish still in your hand, suddenly very aware of how quiet everything else is.

Then it happens again. Closer this time.

Your stomach drops before your mind catches up. You don’t think. You just move. You pull your phone out of your back pocket as you back up to the kitchen counter, sinking into a squat against it.

While you're whispering to yourself that it’s probably nothing, the house settling, a branch, anything normal, your fingers are already dialing.

You don't know why you're calling your neighbor. Even though he's a big, buff, federal agent, you two aren't that close. But your body recognizes where safety is in a moment of crisis.

Leon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah.”

It’s all he says at first.

And somehow that steadiness is what breaks you out of your paralysis.

“I think someone’s in my house,” you say, voice too tight, too fast. “I heard something. I don’t–I don’t know.”

His tone instantly shifts.

“Lock yourself in a room. Now.”

You’re already moving.

“Bedroom,” he adds. “Door locked. Stay on the line.”

You do as you’re told without question, because there’s something about the way he speaks that doesn’t leave space for hesitation. The line stays open while you sit on the edge of your bed, listening to your own breathing and the faint, distant sound of your house feeling wrong.

“Leon,” you whisper after a moment. “I’m sorry, I just, I didn’t know who else to call.”

“You did the right thing,” he says immediately.

Nothing extra, just certainty.

Minutes later, you hear another sound outside. Not inside your house this time. A car door shutting too firmly. Footsteps on gravel.

Your phone crackles slightly as he says, “I’m here.”

You hear the front door open.

“Hey,” his voice calls out, lower now, closer in real space than the phone. “It’s me.”

His boots make their way to your bedroom. A soft knock follows.

“You in there?”

“Yeah,” you shout back, fiddling with the lock.

When the door opens, Leon steps in like he belongs there. His eyes are scanning, posture already assessing every corner of the room before they land on you.

Nothing about him is rushed. That’s the first thing your body registers. Like the world can be falling apart, but he’s already decided how to stand between you and it.

“It’s okay,” he says again, quieter this time.

You shake your head.

“I thought…I thought someone was–”

“I know.”

He doesn’t let you finish the spiral. Just closes the distance carefully, stopping close enough that you can feel his presence without him crowding you.

“I checked the house,” he adds. “Front, back, windows. Nothing’s broken. Nobody’s inside.”

Your breath catches like your body doesn’t quite believe it yet.

Leon watches you for a second longer, then says, “You’re safe.”

You force out a short breath, a sheepish smile crawling onto your face. You scratch your cheek with trembling fingers.

A nervous habit.

“Well that's embarrassing,” you say softly.

“Hey.”

You look up.

“If you hear something again,” he says, “you call me sooner.”

You can feel it once the adrenaline fades. Embarrassment rushes in to take its place.

Your hands twist together in your lap. “God, I’m sorry. I probably freaked out over nothing.”

Leon doesn’t accept the premise. He just leans against the doorframe, still half in assessment mode, like he’s making sure your fear doesn’t come back the second he leaves.

“It wasn’t nothing to you,” he says.

You huff out a small, awkward laugh. “Still. I made you come over here for basically… paranoia.”

“You didn’t make me do anything.”

There’s no annoyance in it.

You're still embarrassed.

You glance at him, then away again, heat creeping up your neck.

“I feel like I should make it up to you.”

That gets a faint shift in his expression. Subtle curiosity.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But I want to.”

He studies you for a second like he’s deciding whether to argue further. Then he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says simply. “How.”

You blink, thrown.

“Uh.”

The seriousness of him makes your brain scramble for something equally serious. Something appropriate. Something adult and neighborly.

And then, because your brain betrays you in moments like this, you say, “Do you like pie?”

That earns the slightest pause.

Leon’s mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly.

“Pie.”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” he says finally, like he’s confirming a detail in a report.

Relief loosens your shoulders immediately.

“Good. Okay. I can do pie. I can definitely do pie. It’s like the least weird thank-you food.”

“I wouldn’t call it weird.”

“That sounded like you almost did.”

“I was considering it.”

You laugh, properly this time. It surprises you how easy it is around him, even after something like tonight.

Leon pushes off the doorframe a little.

“You don’t have to pay me in pie for checking your house.”

“I’m not paying you,” you insist. “I’m… expressing gratitude. With baked goods. Very normal human behavior.”

He nods once. “Understood.”

That makes you smile again, softer now. Less frantic.

“Okay,” you say. “Then it’s settled. Pie.”

Leon hesitates like he’s about to refuse out of principle, then doesn’t.

“Alright,” he says. Then, quieter, almost like an afterthought: “What kind.”

You blink. Almost smile.

“Apple,” you say. “Is that okay?”

Leon considers it with the same seriousness he gave your broken locks and your fear.

“Yeah.” He nods his head. “I like apple.”

Something about the way he says it, simple and unguarded, makes the whole moment feel different.

Not just a rescue or neighborly obligation. More like the beginning of something. Something unspoken but shared.

You nod, smiling a little to yourself.

“Okay. Then I’ll make you apple pie.”

Leon straightens slightly, like the conversation has officially concluded in his head, but he doesn’t leave immediately. Instead, he glances at you once more.

“You’re okay now?” he asks.

You think about it. Then nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

He holds your gaze for a second longer than necessary.

“Good,” he says.

And this time, when he finally turns to go back outside into the night, it doesn’t feel like he’s just your neighbor anymore.

"Leon."

His eyes squeezed shut. Jesus Christ. Your voice.

It felt like the infection had reached into his skull and turned every sound you made into something impossible to ignore.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Talk."

You stared at him.

Despite yourself, you laughed. A short, disbelieving sound.

Leon looked down to your mouth. Parted, smiling, and kiss-swollen.

He captured you again, pressing so hard against your mouth that you were forced backward.

When your back was pressed against the wall, Leon lunged away from you.

He looked genuinely pained.

"Not helping."

"I'm trying to help."

His laugh came out strained. "You are the problem."

“I'll stop talking, just help me get your pants off.”

Leon's hands worked at the buckle, whining at every gesture.

They fell around his ankles.

His boxers were tented.

You stared for a second too long.

“Fuck, can smell–” he started.

“Sorry, sorry,” you rushed.

You stopped toward him and his body locked.

“Don't have to move, I'll do it,” you told him.

Your hands come to the hem of his boxers.

His hands grab yours forcefully.

He's so strong, you nearly wince.

You try to control it.

He sees anyway.

He lets go immediately.

“Can't control, sorry–”

You shut him up by pressing closer, your lips meeting his.

His control slips immediately.

It's tongues and teeth and flesh.

His hands are in your hair, down your chest, ripping up your shirt.

Then his hands are on your bare skin.

Warm.

You moan.

He bites on your lip harshly.

His hands grip you rough enough to bruise.

“You can't–” he starts.

“Have to,” you respond. “when it feels good.”

Your hands come to his skin again, slowly.

Your fingers carefully inch down his abdomen until they’re at the hem of his underwear.

They slip under.

He hisses.

You grab him fully and pump once.

His frantic kissing immediately stops.

His hands go rigid and his forehead falls against your shoulder.

“If I move,” he warns.

You shake your head.

“Just sit.”

You guide him to the floor slowly.

He watches you the entire way, eyes glued to you like his life depended on your instructions.

“Don't need to move anymore. I’ll take care of it.”.

Your hand pumps him again while your other starts tugging his boxers down his legs.

His precum is oozing into your hand.

“So much,” you mutter.

Your finger comes to the tip and spreads it around.

His pretty red tip twitches.

“Sorry,” he grunts.

“Stop being sorry. About any of it.”

You pump him again.

His head falls back.

He tries to speak but can't find the words.

You speak instead.

“You can smell it, can't you? That I want to be here. That I'm enjoying it.”

He drags his head forward.

Focuses his eyes on her.

His hands are clenched so tight at his sides that his knuckles are white.

“You coul-”

“Answer me.”

He licks his lips.

His hands almost move.

They stay put.

“Yeah, I can smell it,” he said strained.

He takes in a long inhale. His eyelids flutter at the scent.

And that does it.

With a rough, raw grunt, his cock twitches in your fist until sticky ropes of cum shoot out.

Enough to drench your hand.

When he opens his eyes again, they're half-lidded and he looks drunk.

“God,” he panted. “The way you smell, it's incredible. I need to know–” he said, trying to push himself forward, to claim you.

You push him back so that he's still sitting.

“Stay still, Leon,” you say.

He tries to move again.

You don't think he can control himself.

You grab his cock firmly, right on the border of hard.

He hisses but he doesn't pull away.

Doesn't chastise you.

“Fuck–.”

“You need many orgasms,” you remind him.

You begin pumping again, using both hands.

“Enough to satiate you.”

“Never be satiated with you. Want more and more and more. Want it all.”

He was just talking, head half-cocked back, eyes unfocused.

You're not even sure he knew what he was saying, but it made you wetter and spurred you on.

You pulled one hand away, fiddling with your own pants until the button popped open.

He heard the sound and his eyes popped open.

“Leave those on or I won't be able to stop.”

You pull them down your legs.

“Not only are we past the point of stopping, but I don't want to. Can I keep touching this pretty cock?”

His eyes stare at your mouth.

“Please?” you ask.

He nods.

Can't manage any more, not if he's supposed to stay in control of himself.

“I've been dying to get you in my mouth pretty much since I met you,” you were interrupted by his choked groan, “but this is an emergency.”

You step over him, looping a leg over his waist to straddle him.

His hands immediately come to the soft parts of your thighs and squeeze hard enough to bruise.

“Really thought about that?” he asked, barely holding on.

“Still think about it,” you said, pulling your panties to the side. “Think about it all the time.”

You sink down on him so that the tip disappears.

He snaps his gaze to it so that he doesn't miss it.

His grip becomes even tighter.

“Every time we train, I think about how salty it would be. How good it would taste. How you'd smell.”

You sink down fully, flesh flush against flesh.

You feel him twitch at your cervix.

You're panting hard, adjusting internally, trying to stay in control of yourself.

“Oh fuck,” you whine. “Havta make you cum over and over so this isn't the time to get cock-drunk, but yours is perfect. Don't we fit just right?”

To emphasize your point, you rotate your hips while he's stuffed inside you.

Just to give him a sense of how you fit together.

His head drops back, his arms locking.

“Don't–do–” he breathes.

He pulls himself together.

“You don't know what it's like. Gonna cum if you do that.”

“That's the point,” you tell him and roll your hips again.

His hips snap up into you involuntarily.

“Don’t – if you move…gonna cum–”

You moved, swirling your hips around him again.

His mouth shuts so quickly his teeth clack together.

His hands come to your hipbones and shove you down into his cock harder.

You're filled with warmth as he cums into you.

It feels so good you have to bite back moans as you coax him through his orgasm, petting his hair, whispering in his ear what a good job he was doing.

When he seemed calm, you rotated your hips again.

He groaned.

“More?” you asked.

He nodded frantically.

When you weren't going fast enough, his hands on your hips guided you.

“Hoped to enjoy…when this happened. Don't want it to end so soon.”

You rolled your hips again. And again. And again.

“Oh, you knew this would happen?” you asked.

He tried to pay attention.

Tried to focus.

Couldn't.

“Hoped,” he gasped, his voice raw.

You captured his face in your hands.

Leaned down.

Pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

His kiss immediately became frantic.

His hips snapped up into yours mercilessly.

His hands pinned your hips down so you could do nothing but take it, even as you gasped and panted and whined.

Leon spilled expletives as he continued fucking up into you.

His face was buried between your breasts.

“Why isn't your shirt off? Wanna see ‘em. I know they're gorgeous. Been dying to get my hands on them,” he admitted like a madman, not even knowing what he was saying.

“Didn't have time,” you responded, each word said on a different thrust.

He felt you stiffen.

You went rigid in his arms.

Your walls tightened around him in pulses.

“Good?” he asked.

“Gonna…gonna–fuck, Leon, gonna–”

You didn't need to tell him.

He could feel your orgasm on his cock.

It milked him of his own.

His pace was brutal and unrelenting through your orgasm as he spilled more inside you.

When you finally came down, he was still snapping his hips at an ungodly pace.

“Fuck, Leon…sensitive.”

“Close…please–can I?” he asked, but it was too late.

He was spilling into you again, a broken groan ripping through the air.

You panted heavily, feeling what would certainly be bruises tomorrow.

He was still.

Eyes closed, face flushed, chest rising and falling heavily with every breath.

You pressed a hand to his forehead.

Warm from exertion but no longer fevering.

“You ok?”

He nodded weakly.

“More?” you asked.

He shook his head.

“Feelin more like myself,” he said weakly.

“Can you walk?”

He sighed.

“Maybe in a minute,” he said.

When you tried to pull off of him, his hands came to your hips again and pushed you back down.

“Just…stay.”

You hesitated.

Then relaxed.

You cuddled down onto him, his cock still inside you, and laid your head on his chest.

Whatever came after could wait.

What you had right now – Leon safe, satiated, and on the mend – was enough.

The bullpen was loud.

Phones ringing. Keyboards clattering. Agents arguing over reports they should have finished three days ago.

For everyone else, it blended into background noise. For Leon, it was a thousand separate conversations fighting for space inside his skull.

He'd learned to manage it.

Mostly.

Your voice helped.

"So we're all agreeing this suspect is an idiot, right?" you asked.

Across the table, Chris looked up from the case file.

"Professionally speaking?"

"Obviously."

"Yes."

You nodded. "Good."

Chris pointed at a photograph. "The guy stole a truck."

"Right."

"Drove it directly to his own residence."

"Did he?."

"And parked it in his assigned spot."

You stared at the picture. Then at Chris. Then at Leon.

You shrugged.

"Maybe he wanted to get caught."

Chris rubbed his forehead.

"That's the only explanation that lets me sleep at night."

Leon listened to both of you talk. The rhythm of your speech. The little pauses before a joke. The slight change in your voice when you were trying not to laugh.

Months later, the infection still hadn't released its grip.

Doctors called it stable. Manageable.

Permanent was the word nobody wanted to use.

A phone rang somewhere across the room. Leon ignored it.

Someone dropped a stack of folders. Ignored.

A supervisor started yelling about paperwork. Ignored.

You laughed while standing up from your desk.

Every other sound disappeared.

Chris caught him looking.

Again.

The older man sighed.

"Jesus Christ."

Leon didn't look away.

"What?"

Chris pointed directly at him. "That."

"What?"

"That thing you do."

Leon finally glanced over.

Chris looked exhausted.

"You know she's walking to the coffee machine, right?"

You hadn't moved yet, but you were gathering papers. Preparing to stand.

Leon sighed.

"...Yeah, I know."

Chris groaned. Before he could continue, your phone buzzed.

You checked the screen.

"Damn."

"What?" Chris asked.

"I've got to go upstairs."

"You abandoning us?"

"Apparently."

You grabbed your folder.

Leon felt the shift immediately. His senses tracked your movement automatically.

The scrape of your chair.

The sound of your footsteps.

The faint scent of your shampoo as you passed behind him.

Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

And impossible to stop.

"I'll be back," you said.

Chris waved you off. "Don't get promoted while you're gone."

"No promises."

Then you disappeared into the sea of cubicles.

Leon watched until he couldn't see you anymore. A familiar tension settled under his skin, like a radio station fading slightly out of range.

Chris saw it happen.

"You need therapy."

“I need a cure.”

"Nah, what you've got, you've got it bad."

"Chris."

"I'm serious."

Leon was about to reply when another conversation caught his attention.

Not because he wanted to hear it, but because he couldn't help hearing it.

Two agents. Three rows over.

Speaking quietly.

Or so they thought.

The infection made "quiet" a meaningless concept.

"That's them."

"Kennedy and her?"

"Yeah."

A laugh. The ugly kind. The kind that immediately changed the air in Leon's lungs.

"I heard the rumors."

"What rumors?"

"Come on."

More laughter.

"They say if she stops paying attention to him he goes feral."

"Seriously?"

"Apparently she has to keep him happy."

Another laugh. Crueler this time.

"Must be exhausting."

The second man smirked. Leon could hear it in his voice.

"I heard she just gives him whatever he wants. Gotta drop her pants whenever he asks or he loses his super powers, and the DSO can't have that."

The first agent barked out a laugh.

"Occupational requirement?"

"Guess so."

The world became very quiet. Every sound suddenly narrowed into a single point.

Chris noticed immediately because he'd seen that expression before.

In combat. On missions. Right before something very unfortunate happened to whoever was on the receiving end.

"Leon."

No response.

The agents kept talking, oblivious.

"Honestly, I'd take the assignment if it meant I got free access."

More laughter.

Chris stood.

"Leon."

Still nothing.

The chair creaked as Leon rose to his feet.

The agents noticed him approaching.

One of them smiled. Then saw his face.

The smile vanished.

Leon stopped in front of their desks.

The nearest agent swallowed.

Agent Kennedy was famous. The stories about his infection were everywhere. Everyone knew he was stronger now. Faster. More dangerous.

Nobody expected to be standing three feet away when he looked genuinely angry.

"You got something to say?"

The room seemed to pause.

The agent shifted uncomfortably.

"It was a joke."

"No."

Leon's voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm.

"It wasn't."

Neither man answered.

Leon leaned one hand onto the edge of the desk. The metal frame groaned.

Chris arrived a second later, positioning himself nearby.

Since Leon came back, Chris hasn't been able to read him right. He wasn't entirely sure Leon could control himself.

The infection had changed a lot of things, but one fact remained constant. Nobody in the building mattered to Leon the way you did.

And hearing people reduce you to office gossip had struck a nerve.

A deep one.

Leon's gaze remained fixed on the two agents.

"You talk about her again," he said, then he stopped.

He took a deep breath.

“Don't talk about her again.”

The first man looked ready to disappear into the floor.

The second couldn't meet his eyes.

"Keep her name out of your conversations."

The words weren't loud, which made them worse.

Then Leon straightened.

The desk remained slightly bent beneath his hand.

A visible reminder. A warning.

For a long moment nobody moved.

Then Leon turned away.

Across the bullpen, through several walls and dozens of conversations, he could hear your footsteps returning.

The tension immediately eased from his shoulders.

Chris watched it happen.

Watched the transformation. Watched Leon's attention shift toward the sound of you approaching.

And muttered to himself, "Yeah, definitely needs therapy.”

“I can hear you,” Leon said as he turned away, headed back where you'd be waiting.

“You hear everything, you freak.”

Leon flipped him off and sat back down.

The two agents Leon had confronted were suddenly very interested in their paperwork.

Chris was pretending nothing had happened.

Everything appeared normal.

Until you say down and looked at him. The moment you sat down and a gust of air that smelled like you hit him, he went rigid.

"What's wrong?" you asked.

Chris glanced up. "What?"

You were already staring at Leon.

His jaw tightened.

"Nothing."

"Liar."

Chris looked between the two of you.

Your attention remained fixed on Leon. Something was off, subtle, but there.

The color had drained slightly from his face. A sheen of sweat had appeared along his hairline. And there was a familiar tension in his shoulders.

The kind that had become second nature to recognize over the last few months.

"Leon."

"I'm fine."

"You are sweating."

"It's warm."

Chris barked out a laugh.

The bullpen was aggressively air-conditioned. Everyone knew it.

You leaned forward.

His eyes immediately flicked toward you, then away.

Too fast. Too sharp.

Your stomach dropped. "Oh no."

Chris looked between you. "What?"

Neither answered.

The infection had settled into something manageable most days. Predictable.

Then occasionally it would flare.

And it was happening now.

Leon could feel it. The first warning sign was always sensory. The room seemed louder. Brighter.

He stared at the case file in front of him. Tried focusing on the words.

Failed completely.

Because suddenly he could smell your shampoo again.

Not just smell it. Every note of it. Every trace, like somebody had turned the volume up on a single signal and left everything else untouched.

Damn it.

He closed his eyes briefly. Not now.

Across the table, you noticed immediately.

"Leon."

His fingers tightened around a pen. The plastic snapped.

Chris looked down. Then back up.

Then slowly pushed his chair away from the table.

"Ah."

"Chris."

"I'm just gonna leave."

"Sit down."

"Nope."

Chris pointed at Leon. "You're doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look like you're about to either pass out or kill somebody."

"Am not."

"You absolutely are."

You ignored both of them. Your focus remained entirely on Leon.

The sweat was worse now. A bead rolled down his temple.

"How bad?"

His expression darkened. That answer told you enough.

Bad. Very bad.

You lowered your voice. "Do we need medical?"

"No."

You leaned closer.

Leon immediately regretted existing.

The scent hit him like a physical force.

Not perfume. Not anything artificial. Just you. Close.

Far too close.

Every instinct sharpened. Every sense narrowed.

The bullpen faded. The conversations disappeared. The phones vanished.

There was only you.

Jesus Christ.

"Okay," you said slowly. "That bad."

Leon laughed once. A strained sound.

"Yeah."

Your expression softened. The concern in your face somehow made everything worse.

His breathing slowed deliberately, the same way he'd controlled pain.

You watched him do it. Watched him fight for composure. Watched the effort it took.

And something in your chest tightened because nobody else would have noticed.

Nobody else would have realized that Agent Leon Kennedy, legend, super soldier, walking nightmare to bioweapons everywhere, was hanging on by sheer discipline.

But you did.

His eyes opened again. Found yours immediately, like they always did.

The tension eased slightly, enough that the color returned to his face. Enough that his shoulders lowered a fraction.

Chris, still hovering nearby, looked between the two of you then sighed.

"I hate this."

Neither of you looked away from each other.

"What?" you asked.

Chris threw both hands into the air.

"Nothing."

He hesitated.

"Just once I'd like to be someone's weird biological emotional support animal."

For the first time all afternoon, a genuine smile pulled at the corner of Leon's mouth. The pressure in his head eased just a little.

You, however, frowned.

“Well, you're not. So why don't you just fuck off for a minute,” you said.

He raised his hands in surrender.

“Don't want to be around you guys when you're like this anyway.”

When he was gone, you leaned in to Leon.

His posture went rigid and his face went blank.

It took a lot of effort to look like that. Like you weren't pulling him apart by not being in his lap. Not having your taste on his tongue.

“Leon,” you said, then paused.

He heard your heart accelerate.

He watched the blood climb onto your cheeks. The tips of your ears. Your lips.

He stared for a long time at your lips.

“Do you need…”

You knew what you wanted to ask. Didn't know how to phrase it.

“Is it time?” you ended up asking instead.

Leon took the time to heave in a long inhale.

“No.”

You squinted at him suspiciously.

“Liar,” you said. “You're sweating and looking at me like you hate me. That means it's time.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. When you became certain he wouldn't respond, you sighed.

"I miss you."

Leon went completely still.

For a moment neither of you moved. Rain ticked steadily against the roof. The dashboard cast faint blue light across Leon’s face, catching the sharp line of his jaw and the exhaustion settled beneath his eyes. 

He looked older in low lighting. Worn in the way only years of surviving impossible things could make someone.

“You ready?” you asked quietly.

Leon checked his sidearm one final time.

“Never,” he answered.

Then he looked at you. He seemed to get more rigid. 

“C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s go ruin another corporation.”

You snorted softly under your breath as you pulled your hood up.

The two of you moved through the forest without speaking after that. You didn’t need to anymore. Years as partners had carved communication into instinct between you both. 

Small gestures and glances. Shifts in posture that told a whole story. Leon could read your intentions before you fully acted on them, and you had long since learned the meaning behind every quiet look he gave you.

The rain soaked through your clothes within minutes.

Cold branches dragged against tactical gear as you descended the ridge toward the hidden entrance built into the mountainside. Moss crawled over thick reinforced doors nearly invisible beneath the rock face.

Umbrella always did love dramatic architecture.

You crouched beside the security panel while Leon positioned himself behind you automatically, broad frame partially shielding you from the rain while he scanned the tree line.

“You’re hovering,” you murmured while pulling wires free from the access port.

“You’re slow.”

“You’re old.”

“That one actually hurt.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Behind you, Leon’s hand rested loosely near the small of your back, protective in the unconscious way he always became during missions.

The keypad flickered green beneath your fingers.

“There we go.”

The heavy doors unlocked with a deep mechanical groan that echoed into darkness below.

Cold air rolled upward from the underground corridor carrying the faint smell of antiseptic, rust, and something worse underneath it all.

Decay.

Leon stepped slightly in front of you on instinct.

“You smell that?” you asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

His voice lowered.

“Stay sharp.”

The facility interior was dimly lit with emergency power only. Long concrete corridors stretched endlessly beneath flickering lights. Water dripped steadily somewhere deeper underground. Old Umbrella logos still marked sections of the walls despite years of abandonment.

Or supposed abandonment.

Your boots echoed softly beside Leon’s as you advanced deeper into the structure.

“You ever think maybe we deserve normal jobs?” you whispered.

Leon glanced sideways at you.

“What, and give up all this?” he asked dryly.

“You know. Office jobs. Retirement plans. Emotional stability.”

“Hm.”

He adjusted the rifle hanging against his chest before nodding toward a rusted blood smear dragged across the hallway floor.

“Little late for emotional stability.”

You followed the trail with your flashlight. The blood disappeared beneath a security door partially ajar at the far end of the corridor.

Leon moved first automatically. You covered him without discussion. Years of this.

Years of knowing exactly where the other person would stand before either of you consciously decided it.

The lab beyond had been torn apart. Research terminals smashed. Glass containment chambers shattered inward. Black stains climbed the walls in strange branching patterns that looked almost organic.

Your stomach tightened.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Leon’s expression hardened immediately.

“Recent,” he said.

One gloved hand brushed lightly against your elbow as he passed you to inspect one of the overturned workstations.

You crouched near a terminal still flickering weakly with power.

“Got something,” you murmured.

Leon appeared beside you almost instantly, warm despite the cold underground air.

Your shoulder brushed his briefly as you pulled up corrupted files across the cracked monitor screen.

Human experimentation. Bioweapon integration.

Neural conditioning.

The usual Umbrella nightmare fuel.

Then, a file marked ACTIVE SUBJECTS.

Leon went still beside you. “Open it.”

You clicked and began reading something out loud. 

Leon barely heard it. He was lost in sudden thought.

The mission had gone too smoothly.

This place felt…prepared. There had been almost no resistance.

You stopped reading and looked at him.

“You’re brooding again,” you murmured quietly.

Leon scanned the room one more time.

“Something’s off.”

You glanced back toward him over your shoulder then.

“Can’t you just be thankful,” you said. “No alarms. No B.O.W.s. No psychotic monologue. Honestly, this is kinda refreshing.”

Leon’s jaw tightened.

“No,” he said quietly. “This is worse.”

Leon stepped toward the main terminal slowly, eyes narrowing. He peeked around the corner.

You don't know what he saw, because at that moment, the computer screen glitched and drew your attention. 

“Move,” he snapped instantly.

You reacted immediately because you trusted his instincts more than your own.

A loud metallic slam echoed somewhere deep within the facility.

Both of you turned immediately.

There was another sound.

Footsteps. Too many.

Leon grabbed your arm instantly and pulled you behind overturned lab equipment just as tactical lights flooded the corridor outside.

It wasn't a swarm of infected.

It was a unit of soldiers, organized and armed.

“Thought this place was abandoned,” you breathed.

Leon’s jaw tightened.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Me too.”

Voices crackled through radios outside the lab. 

You counted at least eight. Maybe more.

Leon leaned close enough that his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, speaking low near your ear.

“East hallway. Service elevator. We move fast.”

You nodded once.

He looked at you for one extra second afterward.

Then both of you moved simultaneously.

Leon burst from cover first with terrifying precision, dropping the nearest guard before the others fully reacted. Gunfire exploded through the corridor. You covered the opposite flank automatically while Leon advanced ahead of you.

Years of missions together turned combat into choreography.

One moved. The other compensated.

Perfect.

You almost reached the elevator corridor cleanly, but the second you were about to cross the threshold, steel shutters detonated downward from the ceiling with a deafening crash that sealed every exit simultaneously.

Red emergency lighting flooded the corridor.

And then came the voice, broadcast overhead through the facility speakers.

“Good evening, Agent Kennedy.”

You froze.

Leon didn’t.

His weapon was already raised, eyes tracking every possible angle.

“Observation confirms previous reports were accurate,” the voice continued conversationally. “Your response times remain exceptional.”

Your stomach dropped.

Leon’s expression darkened instantly.

They knew exactly who he was.

“Unfortunately,” the voice continued, “your psychological profile also remains consistent.”

Gas hissed violently from vents overhead.

Leon’s head snapped upward instantly. “Gas!”

White vapor flooded downward from hidden vents across the ceiling.

Your lungs burned immediately, vision blurring.

Leon grabbed your arm hard enough to steady you as your knees nearly buckled.

“Don’t breathe it,” he ordered roughly.

You tried. God, you tried, but the world tilted violently anyways. 

You pulled your gas mask free from where it hung in your utility belt, but it was too late for you. With your last remaining dexterity, you tugged it over Leon's face.

He almost pushed you away, but one hand was holding you and the other was aiming his gun.

Gunfire echoed distantly now. Boots thundered closer.

He could have kept going. Leon Kennedy absolutely could have kept going. He would have found a way to escape.

Extraction had still been possible for him. Mission survival was still possible.

But he wouldn't go alone.

He dropped beside you instantly while gunfire closed in around both of you.

“You hit?” he demanded through the mask.

You tried standing. Your leg buckled immediately.

“Leon, go,” you said, your words slurring.

“Yeah,” he said breathlessly, aiming down sights again. “Not happening.”

“Leon–”

“Save it.”

Leon shoved himself between you and the advancing soldiers. You could see the fight still burning through him stubbornly as he fired down the corridor one-handed while holding you upright with the other.

Then even Leon staggered, and somehow, that scared you more than the guns.

His breathing turned ragged. Heavy.

One knee hit the ground hard.

“Leon–”

“I got you,” he rasped.

Dark figures surrounded both of you through the haze.

Leon tried to stand again and failed.

A hand grabbed the back of his tactical vest and forced him downward. Another reached for you.

Leon reacted instantly despite barely remaining conscious, like a feral animal’s last stand.

His hand caught someone by the throat hard enough to slam them against the wall before another blow struck the back of his head.

Everything blurred.

The last thing you saw clearly was Leon turning toward you through the gas, fighting against hands dragging him backward.

Still trying to reach you.

Then darkness swallowed both of you whole.

This had been engineered perfectly.

Not to stop any agent. It was specifically to trap Leon Kennedy.

Umbrella understood something most people didn’t: Leon’s greatest vulnerability had never been recklessness.

It was love.

Umbrella was building a weapon, and they wanted to test it on DSO’s greatest agent. But to do it, they needed one very specific element. 

The thing Leon Kennedy loved. 

You.

Consciousness returned slowly.

The first sensation was pain.

A brutal throbbing at the back of your skull pulsed in time with your heartbeat while nausea rolled heavily through your stomach. Your wrists burned next. Metal restraints bit sharply into skin already rubbed raw from movement you didn’t remember making.

Then came the cold.

Concrete beneath your boots.

Stale underground air.

The faint chemical smell of antiseptic and blood.

Your eyes opened carefully.

Dim industrial lights buzzed overhead, casting pale fluorescence across a large containment room stripped nearly bare except for drains built into the floor and heavy equipment lining the walls.

And directly across from you was Leon.

Relief hit so fast it almost hurt.

He was tied to a steel chair several feet away facing you, wrists restrained behind the backrest, shoulders tense beneath torn tactical gear. Blood streaked one side of his face. 

His blond hair hung damply across his forehead, shadowing eyes already fixed entirely on you.

The instant he saw your eyes open fully, something in his expression eased.

“You with me?” he asked quietly.

His voice sounded rougher than usual.

You swallowed against the dryness in your throat.

“Unfortunately.”

One corner of his mouth twitched faintly.

Thank God.

Even drugged, restrained, and bleeding, Leon still managed to look like a man other people should be afraid of.

The sound of approaching footsteps cut through the room.

Leon’s attention sharpened instantly.

The heavy steel door opened moments later and three armed figures entered alongside a fourth man dressed not like security, but research staff.

Unlike the guards, he looked almost excited.

Thin man. Wire-frame glasses. White coat too pristine for a facility like this. He carried a tablet beneath one arm and a secured metal case in the other hand.

Leon noticed the case instantly. His expression hardened.

The researcher approached slowly, studying Leon with visible fascination.

“It’s remarkable finally meeting you in person,” he said conversationally. “You’ve disrupted years of research, Agent Kennedy.”

Leon said nothing.

The researcher smiled slightly.

“Yes. That aligns with your profile.”

He set the metal case carefully atop a nearby table before glancing down at the tablet in his hand.

“Former RPD officer. Federal agent. Counter-bioterrorism specialist.” His eyes lifted again. “Repeated exposure to enhanced viral strains without psychological collapse.”

Leon gave him the ol’ Kennedy-interrogation special: firm eye-contact and silence.

The researcher tilted his head thoughtfully.

“And most importantly, extreme attachment inhibition.”

Your brow furrowed slightly.

“You playing therapist or torturing us?” you ask, still groggy.

The researcher smiled in your direction.

“I suppose she is charming. In the way men like you might like.”

You ignored him to look at the guards. They had begun moving, approaching either side of Leon while the researcher paced slowly between your chairs.

“For years,” he continued, “Umbrella’s successors have struggled with a central problem regarding adaptive bioweapons.”

He sounded like a professor giving a lecture.

“The more emotionally advanced the host remains, the more unstable the mutation becomes. Human attachment creates competing neurological priorities.” He smiled faintly. “Love, as it turns out, is chemically inconvenient.”

You glanced toward Leon.

His jaw had tightened slightly.

The researcher noticed immediately.

“However,” he continued smoothly, “our recent work produced an interesting discovery.”

He tapped something across the tablet.

A monitor flickered alive nearby displaying medical scans and neural activity maps.

“The parasite strain responds aggressively to oxytocin, dopamine fixation, cortisol spikes associated with emotional attachment…” His eyes gleamed now. “In simple terms, proximity to a deeply bonded subject accelerates mutation dramatically.”

Your stomach tightened.

The researcher turned fully toward Leon now.

“We needed subjects capable of profound attachment while also possessing sufficient combat survivability to withstand transformation.”

Still Leon said nothing.

But you saw it.

The faint shift in his breathing. The increasing stillness.

He understood where this was going before you did.

“You were selected because psychologically, you appeared ideal,” the researcher said. “A highly disciplined subject with years of suppressed emotional conditioning.”

Leon finally spoke, low and flat.

“You built a virus around love?”

The researcher smiled.

“A gross oversimplification. But essentially, yes.”

One of the guards stepped closer toward you.

Leon’s attention twitched there instantly.

The movement was microscopic, but everyone in the room noticed.

The researcher’s smile widened.

“Ah,” he murmured softly.

You felt your pulse begin climbing. 

This wasn’t interrogation. This was observation. They weren’t trying to learn about the mission. 

They were studying Leon.

The researcher crouched slightly in front of him.

“Our issue,” he explained gently, “is confirmation. Emotional attachment is notoriously difficult to verify in psychologically compartmentalized subjects.”

Leon stared at him coldly. “So you kidnapped us to find out.”

“You came to us, actually.”

The researcher nodded once toward the guards.

One of them grabbed your jaw hard enough to bruise.

Leon moved instantly. The steel chair shrieked violently against the floor as he lunged forward hard enough to strain the restraints.

“Don’t,” he said.

The word cracked through the room sharp enough to make even the guards pause.

The researcher watched Leon carefully now, fascinated.

“There,” he whispered. “Again.”

Your stomach dropped.

Oh God.

Leon realized it too. He immediately went still, like he was trying to physically bury every emotion back beneath concrete.

The researcher sighed softly.

“You understand our position. We cannot proceed with inoculation until emotional reciprocity is confirmed.”

You frowned. “Inoculation?”

The metal case clicked open. Inside rested several vials filled with dark iridescent fluid.

The researcher removed one carefully. The liquid inside shifted strangely beneath the lights, almost moving toward warmth.

Your blood ran cold.

“The strain amplifies attachment-based neural pathways until they override higher behavioral inhibition,” the researcher explained calmly. “Affection becomes fixation. Fixation becomes dependency. Dependency becomes obedience.”

One of the guards suddenly forced your head backward by your hair.

The syringe appeared in the researcher’s hand.

Leon’s face changed instantly. It was raw protective terror that ripped violently through every layer of restraint he possessed.

“Stop,” he said immediately.

The researcher’s eyes lit with excitement.

“There it is.”

The needle hovered near your throat.

You tried jerking away but the guard held you firmly in place.

“Please,” the researcher said almost kindly to Leon. “This becomes much simpler if you cooperate.”

Leon’s chest rose sharply once, then again. His eyes never left the syringe.

“What do you want?” he asked tightly.

“Confirmation.”

The researcher smiled faintly.

“You love her, don’t you?”

Leon gave them nothing.

The syringe moved closer.

Leon’s restraints creaked audibly beneath the force of his grip.

“Agent Kennedy,” the researcher continued softly, “if attachment exists, the virus will bond aggressively through proximity. If it does not…” He shrugged lightly. “Well. Then she dies.”

Your heart slammed hard against your ribs.

“Leon,” you said immediately. “Don’t.”

His eyes finally found yours.

Whatever you intended to say next died instantly in your throat, because Leon looked devastated.

The researcher pressed the needle lightly against your skin.

“Leon,” you said, forcing your voice into softness. “It's ok. I'll be ok,” you try to convince him but he knows better.

“Don't give them what they want,” you continued. 

“No?” the researcher asked, the needle pressing against your skin just so, threatening to pierce through.

Leon broke.

He closed his eyes briefly like something inside him finally gave way. Then looked at the researcher again, exhausted and completely honest.

“If she gets hurt,” Leon said quietly, “there won’t be enough left of this place to study.”

Silence swallowed the room.

The guards exchanged uneasy glances immediately.

Even the researcher stared at him differently now.

Because that wasn’t denial.

That wasn’t even really an admission.

What it was, was devotion so complete that Leon could no longer imagine a version of the world that continued existing without you alive inside it.

The researcher smiled slowly.

“Excellent.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Wait–”

The guards released you abruptly, and before either of you fully understood, they moved toward Leon instead.

His eyes narrowed instantly.

The researcher approached him with the syringe.

“You were always the intended subject.”

Leon surged against the restraints as the needle plunged into his neck.

Leon’s body arched hard enough to nearly overturn the chair completely. A strangled sound tore from him as the dark fluid disappeared into his bloodstream.

Then suddenly, his breathing stopped. Leon simply froze. Every muscle locked rigid beneath his skin.

Then his head lifted slowly.

And his eyes found you.

Instantly.

Like something biological had just rewritten the entire architecture of his DNA around your existence.

The researcher whispered in awe behind him.

“Oh… it worked.”

Nobody was watching you anymore. That was their first mistake.

Every eye in the room had shifted toward Leon the moment the virus entered his bloodstream. The guards stepped closer, weapons raised as his body strained against the steel chair. 

Even the researcher had forgotten himself enough to move nearer, utterly captivated by what was happening to Leon in real time.

You used the distraction immediately. Slowly, carefully, you flexed your right wrist against the restraint again.

Pain flared sharply where metal had already scraped skin raw, but you ignored it. Earlier, while they had been occupied threatening you, you’d managed to shift the angle of the cuff just slightly against the chair frame. Not enough to free yourself then.

Enough now.

Leon made another strangled sound across the room.

Your eyes snapped toward him involuntarily.

God.

His breathing had become uneven to the point of violence. Every muscle in his body stood taut beneath torn black fabric, veins visible along his forearms where the restraints cut into him. But worst of all were his eyes.

They kept finding you.

Constantly.

Like something inside him had been rewired toward your existence so completely that even pain couldn’t interrupt it.

The researcher stepped directly in front of him now, speaking rapidly into a recorder.

“Elevated adrenal response. Severe fixation onset. Ocular tracking locked exclusively onto bonded subject—”

Click.

Your left hand slipped free. You went still instantly.

No reaction from the guards.

Good.

Very slowly, you lowered your freed hand behind the chair, masking the movement beneath the angle of your body while you worked the second restraint loose.

Across the room, Leon suddenly jerked hard enough to drag the entire steel chair several inches across concrete.

One of the guards swore under his breath.

“Hold him down.”

Leon’s head lifted sharply at that.

You saw exactly why people feared him. When Leon Kennedy truly lost control, he became terrifyingly focused.

The guard nearest him reached toward your side of the room.

Leon reacted immediately.

“No.”

The word cracked through the chamber low and wrecked and lethal all at once.

The guard froze.

So did you.

Because underneath the distortion in his voice, underneath the infection and pain and rage, there was fear at the thought of losing you.

The researcher turned back toward Leon with visible fascination.

“Incredible,” he whispered.

Nobody noticed your second restraint fall silently open.

You stayed perfectly still for another heartbeat anyway, wrists free now but hidden carefully behind the chair. 

Measuring distance. Counting weapons. Watching positioning.

Three guards.

Researcher unarmed.

Leon unstable.

And then, Leon looked at you again.

Directly at you.

His pupils widened instantly the moment he realized your hands were free.

Something fierce and relieved crossed his face so quickly it almost hurt to look at, but he said nothing.

He just held your gaze while another tremor tore visibly through his body.

Trusting you completely, like he already knew exactly what you were about to do.

You moved.

The freed restraint whipped around the nearest guard’s throat before he fully reacted. His weapon clattered uselessly to the floor as you drove your elbow backward into his ribs hard enough to hear something crack.

Another guard shouted.

You kicked his knee sideways and grabbed the dropped firearm before he hit the ground.

Gunfire erupted deafeningly through the containment room.

The researcher screamed and ducked.

The guard stumbled backward.

You dropped another man with two shots center mass before spinning toward the researcher.

“Don’t–”

You slammed him unconscious with the butt of the pistol before he finished speaking.

Silence crashed suddenly over the room afterward except for ragged breathing.

You turned instantly toward Leon.

He was still restrained partially to the chair, head lowered, breathing hard enough that his entire chest strained beneath torn tactical gear.

“Leon.”

No response.

You hurried toward him immediately, kicking weapons aside as you crossed the room.

The second you got close, he recoiled.

Violently.

The chair legs screeched backward across concrete as Leon shoved himself away from you hard enough to nearly tip over entirely.

Your stomach dropped.

“Leon?”

His head lifted sharply.

Something deep inside you went cold when you saw that his pupils were blown wide.

Unfocused.

His breathing had become uneven, every inhale visibly forced through clenched teeth. Sweat dampened strands of blond hair against his forehead now despite the freezing room.

And his eyes, God. The way he was looking at you, like he was starving. Like being near you physically hurt him somehow.

“Don’t,” he rasped immediately when you reached for him again.

You ignored him and crouched beside the restraints anyway.

“Gonna get you out,” you rushed, hands fiddling with the locks.

“Don’t.”

His voice sounded shredded now. Every word dragged out through visible effort.

You looked up at him, surprised. 

He looked wrecked. He looked wild. 

He looked sick. Slick with sweat, skin pale. 

“Shut up, Leon. Don't care what you're sick with. Gonna get you free, get you home, and get you fixed up.”

You couldn't pick the lock.

Stepped back, picked up the gun again, and shot through the chain. 

Then you bent to help him up while studying him with growing alarm.

Skin flushed.

Elevated pulse.

Dilated pupils.

Muscle tension severe enough to tremble intermittently beneath the surface.

Drugged, definitely, but not in any way you recognized.

Leon stood immediately, then staggered hard enough to catch himself against the wall.

You reached instinctively toward him.

Big mistake.

The second your hand touched his arm, Leon made a sound you had never heard from him before.

Low. Almost painful.

His eyes squeezed shut hard enough to crease his entire expression while one shaking hand gripped your wrist.

Not pushing you away. He was holding himself back.

“Leon,” you said carefully.

He released you instantly like your skin burned him.

“Need you to back up,” he said roughly.

You stared at him. “What?”

His breathing worsened. Every second near you seemed to be affecting him more.

“You’re symptomatic,” you said immediately, switching automatically into mission mode. “Tell me exactly what you’re feeling.”

Leon laughed once. A terrible sound.

“Not gonna like the answer.”

You stepped closer again despite him. “Leon.”

His eyes snapped toward you instantly, hopelessly. Like he couldn’t stop looking.

You understood something horrifying.

Not because of what he said. Because of how hard he was trying not to say it.

The infection wasn’t making him violent. It was making him desperate.

For you.

Leon dragged one trembling hand down across his face like he physically could not keep himself together anymore.

“We need to move,” he said tightly.

You studied him harder now. Every symptom escalated in your presence.

Heart rate. Respiration. Physical agitation. And underneath all of it, restraint.

Leon was fighting himself harder than he had fought the guards.

“You’re resisting it,” you realized quietly.

His jaw flexed. “Trying.”

Another wave hit him visibly then.

His shoulders tightened sharply, breathing faltered.

And for one terrifying second, his eyes dropped to your mouth with naked hunger so intense it almost didn’t look human.

Then immediately filled with shame afterward.

He turned away hard enough to brace both hands against the wall.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered hoarsely to himself.

Your chest tightened painfully, because Leon Kennedy – older, exhausted, painfully disciplined Leon Kennedy – looked genuinely horrified by whatever this thing was making him feel.

And somehow, that frightened you more than if he’d lost control completely.

“You're not lookin so great,” you tell Leon. 

He exhales a shaky breath.

“Not feelin so great.”

You try to help him up. He pushes you away. 

You step closer. He steps further. 

Leon staggered against the wall.

The sound made your pulse jump.

Every breath he took sounded wrong now, like his lungs had forgotten how to function normally.

“Fuck, Leon, you need to get your shit together so I can help you get your shit together.”

Leon braced against the wall, pressing his forehead against him. 

“God, I need you to leave.” 

He dropped his forehead against the wall again, like the pain was grounding him. 

“Can't control myself.”

You watched him, lips parted, pulse erratic, uncertain. 

Then you decided what to do. 

“If you're not going to help me, I'll find someone who can,” you said and walked over to the researcher. 

His forehead had a nasty gash from where you split it open. 

You fisted the front of his shirt and hoisted him up, slapping him repeatedly on the cheek until his eyes fluttered. 

“Hello?” you called harshly. “Get your ass up.”

The researcher’s head wobbled until he could hold up his own neck. 

“Fix him,” you snapped.

The researcher laughed weakly.

“You don’t understand what you’re seeing.”

You slapped him hard enough to snap his head sideways.

“Fix. Him.”

Across the room, Leon made another low sound beneath his breath.

Your attention snapped toward him instantly. Mistake.

The second your eyes landed on him, something visibly changed inside his body.

His pupils dilated and his posture tightened. He looked back at you with unbearable intensity.

The researcher watched the interaction with horrible fascination.

“There,” he whispered breathlessly. “You see it?”

You turned back toward him furiously. “See what?”

“The mutation.”

Leon braced one hand hard against the wall beside him. The steel dented slightly beneath his grip.

Your stomach dropped. That had not been human strength.

The researcher pushed onward quickly now, intoxicated by his own work.

“The strain was designed to amplify attachment-based neurological pathways through adrenal adaptation. Emotional fixation that triggers biological enhancement.”

Leon’s breathing worsened.

You looked over at him, your brow furrowing in worry. 

“Stay with me, Leon.”

At the sound of your voice, Leon let out a low whine and stepped back.

The researcher laughed again when Leon physically recoiled from the sound of your voice.

“Remarkable,” he breathed. “The proximity effect is escalating faster than projected.”

You grabbed the front of his coat again. “What did you do to him?”

The researcher smiled through bloodied teeth.

“The bonded subject becomes biologically euphoric and behaviorally dependent. Heightened dopamine response. Heightened oxytocin fixation. Sensory enhancement linked directly to emotional stimulus.”

You stared at him blankly.

He nodded toward Leon.

“He can smell you from across the room now.”

Your pulse skipped.

The researcher continued almost eagerly.

“Pheromones. Skin temperature changes. Heartbeat fluctuations.” He tilted his head toward Leon with scientific awe. “You are chemically overwhelming to him.”

Leon looked genuinely miserable hearing it spoken aloud.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

But the researcher only smiled wider.

“The closer he remains to the object of attachment, the more aggressive the mutation becomes. Enhanced reflexes. Enhanced strength. Enhanced healing. Elevated aggression responses toward perceived threats to the bond.”

You swallowed hard. “And if we separate?”

The researcher’s expression brightened. “Oh.”

He laughed softly.

“He won’t tolerate separation for long.”

Your stomach turned. 

“What does that mean?”

The researcher leaned back slowly despite your grip on him.

“It means his nervous system now interprets distance from you as biological distress.”

You stared.

“He’ll become stronger near you,” the researcher continued. “Faster. More adaptive. More lethal.”

Another tremor visibly moved through Leon’s body behind you.

The researcher smiled.

“But it will also become unbearable.”

You slapped him again. Harder this time.

“How do we stop it?”

The researcher spat blood onto the concrete floor.

“You don’t.”

You hit him again.

He laughed anyway.

“There is no cure.”

The room fell silent except for Leon’s ragged breathing.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“No,” you said immediately. “No, there has to be something.”

The researcher finally relented slightly beneath another violent shove.

“It can be stabilized.”

You froze. “How?”

He glanced toward Leon knowingly first. Then back toward you.

“The neurotransmitter cascade must remain continuously flooded,” he explained. “If proximity escalates the bond response, then elevated intimacy can temporarily satiate it.”

You frowned. “What?”

The researcher smiled slowly.

Leon looked away immediately. You suddenly realized he understood perfectly.

Heat crawled up your neck. You stared between them both.

“Translate.”

Leon rubbed one shaking hand down across his face. “Don’t.”

“Leon.”

His jaw flexed hard.

The researcher answered for him with visible satisfaction.

“Sex.”

Silence detonated through the room.

You blinked once.

The researcher’s smile widened cruelly.

“Orgasms, specifically,” he clarified. “Many.”

Leon closed his eyes briefly like he wanted the floor to open beneath him. Meanwhile your entire brain had simply stopped functioning.

The researcher continued conversationally despite the absolute psychological devastation unfolding around him.

“The biochemical release temporarily suppresses the escalation cycle. Oxytocin stabilization. Dopamine saturation. Cortisol reduction.” He shrugged lightly. “Primitive solution, really.”

You slowly turned toward Leon. He still wouldn’t look at you.

Leon Kennedy suddenly looked more horrified by having this conversation in front of you than by the actual experimental virus mutating his body.

And underneath the embarrassment, underneath the strain and shame and biological desperation, you could still see it.

The same thing that had always been there. Devotion, absolute and unrelenting.

Leon still wouldn't let you help him. When you tried to get him to follow you out of the building, he wouldn't. 

Kept saying he wasn't safe to be around. 

But you damn sure weren't going to leave him.

Leon sat on the floor beside the far wall now with his head tipped back against concrete, breathing slow and uneven through parted lips. 

His tactical jacket had long since been discarded somewhere behind you both. Sweat dampened the black fabric clinging to his shirt, outlining the sharp lines of muscle beneath it every time his chest rose.

He looked sick. His body seemed to be burning itself alive into something stronger.

You crouched carefully in front of him again, reaching for his face.

“Leon.”

His eyes closed instantly the second your hand touched him.

A rough sound escaped him beneath his breath.

Your stomach tightened.

He was fevering badly now. Heat radiated off him hard enough that you could feel it against your palms as you pressed your hand to his throat, then his forehead. His pulse hammered beneath damp skin.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Leon laughed once weakly. “Yeah.”

But his eyes had already drifted downward again.

Back to your mouth.

The look on his face nearly unraveled you.

Not lust, not exactly. Hunger, maybe. A need so overwhelming it had become painful to contain.

And underneath it, terror.

Leon Kennedy was a man built entirely out of self-control, and you could feel him losing pieces of it every second you stayed this close.

You pulled your hand back carefully. Immediately his breathing worsened.

His fingers flexed once against the floor beside him like his body wanted to reach for you automatically.

He stopped himself.

“You need satiation,” you said quietly, pointing to the now-dead researcher on the other side of a closed door, as if he would back you up.

Leon looked away. “We don’t know that.”

“Yes we do.”

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead.

You forced yourself to continue.

“We get you stable enough to move,” you said carefully, “then we get back to HQ. They’ll figure out a cure.”

Leon stared at the floor between you both.

“And when it stops working?”

Your throat tightened. “What?”

“The satiation.” His voice sounded rough now. Exhausted. “What happens when the virus isn’t satisfied anymore?”

Satisfied.

God.

You swallowed hard.

“Then…” You forced yourself onward despite the heat crawling into your face. “Then I’ll help again.”

Leon’s eyes lifted slowly toward yours.

You held his gaze.

“As many times as necessary,” you said quietly. “Again and again if we have to. Until they fix you.”

Something shattered across his expression.

He stood abruptly and moved away from you so fast it startled you. One hand slammed hard against the opposite wall while he bowed his head sharply like he physically couldn’t withstand being close to you anymore.

“No.”

“Leon–”

“No.”

His voice cracked harshly through the room.

You stared at him.

His shoulders rose and fell heavily beneath the thin black fabric stretched across his back.

“I’m not doing that to you.”

“You’re not doing anything to me.”

He laughed again, but there was nothing amused in it this time.

“You think I can tell the difference right now?”

The words hit hard because maybe he was right.

Maybe this thing inside him had twisted every instinct he possessed into something unbearable and biological and desperate.

But even now, even like this, Leon was still trying to protect you from himself.

He dragged one hand down across his face slowly before finally looking back toward you again.

His pupils were enormous now.

“You deserve better than being cornered into something because of me. I'm not going to make my survival dependent on your body.”

“You’re not cornering me.”

“I can smell you.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes shuttered closed. 

“God, you smell so–” then he remembered himself.

Leon swallowed hard afterward like he regretted saying it aloud immediately.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he admitted quietly. “I know every time you move. Every time you breathe.” His jaw tightened painfully. “You walk closer and my body reacts before I can stop it. I can’t distinguish between what I genuinely feel for you and what this virus is…chemically forcing on me.”

You stood slowly. “Leon.”

He shook his head immediately. “No. Don’t.”

But you moved toward him anyway, carefully.

His entire body visibly tensed in response. You could practically watch the restraint tearing through him in real time.

His breath was ragged against the space between you while he fought for control with visible effort. 

“I don’t know what’s mine anymore,” he admitted quietly.

The confession sounded scraped raw from somewhere deep inside him.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Leon–”

“I knew before this.”

His voice cracked slightly on the words.

“I knew before they touched me.” He swallowed hard. “Before the virus. Before this place.”

Your breath caught.

Leon laughed once under his breath, exhausted and ruined by it.

“You walk into a room and I can breathe easier,” he admitted. “You smile at me and my whole day changes.” His jaw flexed sharply. “You get hurt and I stop thinking straight.”

His eyes opened then.

God. The look in them nearly undid you completely.

Not just hunger.

Worship.

Yearning so old and carefully buried it had probably been living inside him for years.

“I wanted you long before this happened,” he whispered.

The words settled heavily between you both.

“And now…” His breathing hitched unevenly. “Now I can smell your skin and hear your heartbeat and every part of me is screaming to touch you.” Shame flickered across his face immediately afterward. “I can’t tell how much of that is me anymore.”

You moved closer instinctively.

Leon’s entire body reacted.

A sharp inhale. His head falling briefly forward. One large hand bracing hard against the wall beside yours hard enough that the metal groaned faintly beneath his grip.

“I want you so bad right now,” he admitted roughly, voice dropping lower. “And that scares the hell out of me.”

You lifted your hand carefully to his face again.

He leaned into it immediately before catching himself, like instinct had overridden thought entirely.

“I don’t want this to be the reason you say yes,” he said quietly. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t want survival.” His eyes searched yours desperately now. “What I want from you–”

He stopped.

Struggled.

Started again quieter this time.

“I need it to be real.”

The room felt unbearably small suddenly.

“I can survive wanting you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Been doing that for a long time.” A broken sort of smile crossed his mouth briefly. “But if I touch you like this…” His gaze dropped again, visibly drawn to your lips before he forced it back upward. “I need to know it’s love. Not obligation. Not guilt. Not because you’re trying to save me.”

You stared at him for one aching moment longer before stepping fully into his space.

And Leon made that same wrecked sound again, quiet and helpless and starving, like he already knew he was about to lose the fight to hold himself back from you completely.

“It's love,” you said softly.

Leon closed his eyes briefly. “That kind of love doesn’t count.”

Your chest ached. “What kind?”

“The kind where you feel obligated to save me.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

“It counts.”

His eyes opened again.

“It counts,” you repeated. “I love you.”

Leon looked wrecked by the words instantly.

Not triumphant or relieved.

Ruined.

Like hearing it aloud had finally broken the last barrier keeping him upright.

You stepped closer again while speaking, unable to stop yourself now.

“I love you,” you whispered. “And I’m not saying it because of the virus. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

His breathing turned uneven immediately.

You reached for him carefully.

And that, that was his breaking point.

Leon caught your wrist so fast you barely saw him move. The strength behind it startled you instantly.

Enhanced.

His eyes locked onto yours with naked desperation now, every ounce of control visibly fraying apart.

“Don’t,” he warned hoarsely.

But he hadn’t let go.

You could feel the tremor running through his hand where it held your wrist.

You stepped closer anyway.

And Leon made a low, wrecked sound beneath his breath that nearly shattered your resolve entirely.

“I can’t control this,” he admitted. “I’m stronger now. Faster.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before dragging themselves back upward through obvious effort. “I don’t know what I’m capable of.”

But his grip loosened slightly despite himself.

Because even now, even starving for you, Leon was still trying to give you a choice.

You lifted your free hand slowly toward his face.

And when your fingers brushed his jaw, he finally broke.

Leon leaned into your touch with a devastated sound like he’d been dying of thirst for years and had only just realized it.

“You won't hurt me,” you said with certainty. 

You touched his face like something precious. Both of your hands rose to cradle his jaw, your thumbs brushing lightly along the roughness there while you stepped fully into his space at last.

And Leon, he came apart quietly in tiny, devastating fractures you could feel beneath your fingertips.

His breath left him hard.

His eyes shut immediately.

You felt the exact moment the virus reacted.

His entire body tightened around it.

Around you.

Every altered nerve ending inside him suddenly lit alive at once.

A tremor moved visibly through him while your hands remained against his face, and for one aching second Leon simply leaned there breathing you in like a dying man finally reaching air again.

Because to him now, you were everywhere.

Your warmth. Your pulse. The faint smell of soap and sweat and skin. The soft drag of your thumb beneath his eye. The shaky breath you took before kissing him.

The virus sharpened all of it into something catastrophic.

He could feel every tiny movement of your hands against him with unbearable clarity. Could hear the hitch in your heartbeat. Could smell the heat of your skin where your neck met your shoulder.

His body recognized you, biologically.

You had become structurally necessary to him.

His nervous system had rewritten itself around your existence like it had finally found the thing it was meant to orbit.

“God,” he whispered brokenly.

Then you kissed him.

Leon made a sound against your mouth that nearly ruined you.

It was relieved, like this was the first good thing that had happened to him in years.

He kissed you back instantly, fast and desperate, then immediately forced himself to slow down with visible effort, one shaking hand bracing beside your head against the wall instead of touching you directly.

Even starving for you, he was still trying to be gentle.

But the virus made gentleness feel enormous.

Every soft press of your lips sent another violent wave through him. His enhanced senses flooded mercilessly with you – your breath mingling with his, the softness of your mouth, the tiny sound you made when he kissed you deeper.

“Knew you'd be gentle,” you whispered.

Leon’s forehead pressed against yours, breathing ragged and uneven.

“Whole lot of effort,” he said, voice raw.

And then he kissed you again.

Like he couldn’t help it.

Like some desperate, aching part of him had waited too long already.

This one lingered.

His restraint cracked open inside it.

One hand finally found your waist with visible hesitation before tightening there almost painfully once he touched you at all. His entire body reacted instantly to the contact, another tremor moving through him hard enough that you felt it.

You kissed him softer in response and Leon practically melted.

Actually melted.

His head lowered further until he was breathing you in between kisses, visibly overwhelmed by the closeness of you.

“You have no idea,” he whispered shakily against your mouth.

Your fingers slipped gently into his damp blond hair.

Leon shut his eyes hard.

The reaction was immediate and devastating.

His knees nearly gave.

You felt him lose the rhythm of his breathing entirely while the hand at your waist flexed hard enough to pull you instinctively closer against him.

The virus might have amplified this feeling into something consuming, but it had not created it.

Leon kissed you like a man who had already loved you for a very long time, like every restrained glance and protective touch and swallowed feeling had finally been given permission to surface all at once.

When you finally pulled back, you looked at him. 

God. The expression on his face.

Reverent and starving. 

You opened your mouth to speak, but he closed the distance desperately, mouth on yours again. 

It became sloppier, his teeth hitting yours, his tongue licking against your tongue, his teeth biting your lips like he was actually trying to consume you. 

“Please don't stop,” he begged, right against your mouth. “Can't stop now. Please.”

“Won't stop,” you assured him, hands lacing around the back of his neck, tugging at the nape of his shirt so that it started rising against his torso. 

He helped you pull it up, stripping his gear noisily on the floor, pulling his shirt up, breaking apart only enough to pull it off. 

“Holy shit,” you breathed taking in the sight of him shirtless for only one second before he's pressing his lips back on hours. 

All taut skin and thick muscles and white scars.

“Pretty,” you breathe against his desperate kisses. 

He whines low in the back of his throat. 

“Can smell you,” he rasps, as if he's not aware of anything outside his senses. “Wet.” 

You nod against him. 

He holds your head in between his big hands to keep you where he can kiss you. 

“For you,” you pant. 

Suddenly, you're cold as he takes ground-eating steps away from you. 

His back presses into the wall hard enough to crack it. 

You stare at him in shock.

His eyes rove over you. 

“Lips swollen,” he said half-mad, “from where I kissed you.”

“Leon?” you asked, taking a step toward him.

“Messed up your hair,” he continued, still not making sense. 

“You alright?”

“Smell how wet you are. Smells so sweet,” he said, taking a mindless step forward before forcing himself back. 

“Leon,” you say sharply, bringing him partially back to himself. 

His eyes focus. 

“Lost myself,” he said breathlessly. “I swear, it's not normally like this with me,” he teased like it didn't cost him something to do it. 

“Tell me what's going on, Leon,” you demand. 

He looks at you, the blacks of his eyes dilating. He looks away. 

“Thought I could control myself,” he says through strain. “Can't. Almost did something real rough with you.”

You step forward.

“You can be rough.”

He almost lost control. 

“Don't…fuck–” he moaned. “If I move, I'm gonna be too rough.”

You stared at him for a long time. 

He was still fevering, still sweating, still out of control.

But he was also still Leon, your partner, still the man you loved. 

“Then don't move, Leon. I'll do it.”

You approached him slowly. 

He let you, staring at you reverently.